He often spoke of Waylao in sorrow, and of the sins and the passions of the dusky Southern race. Through his hospitality I met Pauline more than once. She loved to hear me play the violin. The world took on a different atmosphere as she sang old English songs her father had taught her. The beauty of those songs was intense, and I became home-sick as I listened to her voice, accompanied by the monotone of the breaking seas below and the wild oaths of sunburnt seafaring men in the grog shanty hard by. None but exiles know how an English song touches the heart and awakens dreams in a man. I had led a wild life and done many strange things, and had been influenced by many a chimera, but that white girl singing a song of England seemed something deeper than I understood, and took me back home across the seas. I spoke to Pauline in a sacred way of my mother. I said: “Pauline, I never knew how beautiful my dear mother was till I met you.” Then I spoke of my father. I told her how even when I was a little, toddling boy he had a long white beard. I think that Pauline learnt to love that dear parent of mine. She spoke so gently as I described to her the various constellations of stars that shone in our English skies. In the spontaneous utterance of youth I made her see my old father’s gnarled walking-stick as it trembled, wavered a moment, then pointed out to me the Great Bear, the Pleiades, Lyra, Alpha Centauri and remote nebulÆ, constellations shining in the heavens as I walked by his side. I explained to her how I had looked up at that grand old father of mine as his sombre voice told me those magical names, and how I thought that he was the first to name the stars.

Nor did I exaggerate in saying this to her. His grey beard had a look of infinity about it as I walked by his side in those Kentish woods when I was a boy. Ah! beautiful when.

I’ve often felt like jumping over my shoulders and racing back to my childhood. As I dreamed by those coral seas I came to love the memory of that child more than life itself. I was young then, so to speak. It was only a very few years since I had laid that boy in the grave, disillusioned, dead, with a bruised, cut lip and a black eye. I buried him in the solitudes of an unknown country, buried him deep, too. Under his head I pillowed all his childhood dreams. What dreams they’d been! Ah me! Even now, after so many years, I go back to that grave in the dead of night, lift the stone slab and gaze on the dead face. He’s as white as marble. I don’t think he’ll dissolve into dust till I’m dead. He often creeps out of the forests and shadows into my room by night, sits at my feet and sings to me. We were twins once; now I stand ashamed in his divine presence.

I could write a big book about that boy and I, what we thought to do together when we grew big, when we had crossed the ocean—such wondrous deeds of chivalry to fair women and comradeship to brave men. He was plucky, that little pal of mine; would run by my side on the ships’ decks and cheer me in the wild, stormy nights up aloft. It was he who led me through the vast, tropical forests, telling me to seek Waylao. The world’s too rotten and cynical to hear all that he wished to do or all the songs he sang.

That little pal still runs by my side. No wonder I love boys. I often give a hungry-looking kid a penny and smile grimly to myself as he looks at the coin, stares at the little ghostly pal at my side and runs away in fright.

Whilst staying with the kind priest I got pally with his dusky converts. Often I went into the forest villages about half-a-mile from his mission-room. Never have I played to a more appreciative audience than to those shaggy native mothers who crept from their huts to hear me. Some, for all their sins, had handsome faces and eyes. Their little children would romp about me and mimic the swaying of my violin bow and the melodies that I played. One old ex-cannibal chief became a most estimable companion of mine, and though he incidentally confessed that he liked human flesh on toast, I found him a reliable pal, trustworthy and deeply religious. He was a close observer of the beauties of nature, and I cannot recall any civilised white man whose conversation took my thoughts to a higher plane.

This particular old native, Maro Le Mu, had several bonny sons and daughters. He invited me to his home, which was situated in a beautiful spot not far from the lagoons near the shore port of entry near Tai-o-hae. His wife was a stalwart, deep-bosomed Tahitian, and a most hospitable woman. I stayed with them for a week and had fine times. The children of Maro and his relatives (he had four discarded wives of old standing) were delighted with me, and as I roamed the slopes and forests, they followed me like a flock of gambolling puppies. They looked upon me as some mighty white god or witchman. When I played the violin they would creep up to me and try and peep into the instrument to find where the music came from. I would run my fingers up the E string, and as the bow wailed forth the high harmonics they would scream with fright and spring away from me, regarding me with awe. Had it not been for Chief Maro and those kiddies, I think I should have got a ship and cleared before I did.

One of the sons’ children was a little girl about six years of age, a very pretty child, a mixture of Marquesan and Tahitian blood. She was beautifully tattooed on the shoulder curves and on the wrists. I think that O Maro Le Mu was high born and that the child was marked with the special insignia of the armorial bearings of the Maro Le Mu family’s blood royal. However, I practically hired little Winga, for so I pronounced her gimcrack Marquesan name. She would run behind me through the forest like a little dusky ghost, and when I entered a village she marched ahead as my advance-guard, so proud was she of being my servant. It was a sight worth seeing as she lifted her chin, while the forest flowers fastened in her folds of coral-dyed hair tossed as she marched disdainfully across some rara (village green), refusing to consort with or look at the flocks of native kiddies who rushed up to us as we passed along. They stared with awestruck eyes at that little comrade of mine, as we saluted the tribal king and his retinue of dusky wives and then passed away into the forest. She was an affectionate mite, and reminded me of the Fijian kiddie of the same age whom a pal and I had taken with us when we went troubadouring for hundreds of miles in the various isles of Polynesia.

It was at this time that I met a strange old man, who turned out to be an artist. He lived all alone on an islet just off the coast, not far from Chief Maro Le Mu’s home, and he invited me to go and see him. I accepted the invitation with alacrity, and hired a native canoe to take me across the three or four hundred yards of deep sea that divided his islet from the wooded mainland. Winga, her grandfather, and about twenty native youths and girls swam beside my outrigger canoe as I was paddled across to the isle. I felt like some dusky potentate as I saw those handsome savage children and old-time chiefs of royal blood swimming behind me, their dark heads drifting the still water into wavelets, their bright eyes gleaming with delight. They were all shouting forth in the musical Marquesan tongue their bright salutations: “Aloah! Awaie! Tangi me o le solea!”

So well do I know those happy, innocent people, who are true heathens and supposed to be savage animals, that I must confess that I have long ago discarded all conventional ideas. Indeed, so far as the normal outlook on conventional life is concerned, my mind has become completely reversed. I sometimes think that God’s most sacred agent—he who gains the most converts for immortality—is the devil himself. It is probable that some mighty mistake was made somewhere, and I would not be surprised to find, when I die, that the angels of heaven yearn to inherit mortality.

When I arrived at that old artist’s bungalow, I was surprised to find so snug a dwelling-place in that heathen-land. It was like an ideal bit of paradise, and consisted of two rooms, one a sleeping compartment, the other a living-room. As that solemn old man welcomed me into his little parlour, I stared in wonder. On the table lay a quantity of books and an old-fashioned telescope, native goblets made from coco-nut shells, and a large calabash. In the corner was his easel and palette, where he still followed the course of his profession. The walls of that cabin were ornamented with roughly framed paintings. These paintings represented a variety of subjects—ships fading away into the sunsets of mystical seas; faery outlines of beautiful women afloat on clouds in wondrous skies, allegorical faces peeping through mists, with stars shining through their hair; symbolical pictures portraying human aspirations with a wonderfully sure touch. One painting was so extensive that it took up one whole side of the cabin wall. It represented God: a vast white beard seemed to float on the sky-line of a dark infinity, the Face was a dim, wonderful outline, only the deep eyes of Creation were visible in the mystical hollows, mysteriously sprinkled with stars shining from their infinite depths, as the ages hung heavily on the vast, craggy brows. “You are a true artist,” said I, as I looked at that masterpiece.

The old man saw that I was greatly impressed. His wrinkled face lit up with pride as he observed my silent admiration.

After taking refreshments we sat together in the shade of that snug cabin of art, and the conversation drifted to the homeland. I soon discovered that his memories of the civilised cities were not pleasant dreams. I ventured the opinion that if our countrymen afar could see his paintings his efforts would be greatly appreciated and his fortune secured. A half-humorous curve flicked across his lips in a sarcastic smile. Then he coughed, and with a look of deep commiseration in his clear grey eyes he glanced steadily at me and said:

“Ah, my boy, I too once thought such things, ere I was drastically disillusioned. You seem not to understand that our countrymen know nothing of art, that they can rob artists with impunity and drive them, crushed, broken up and penniless, abroad or into the grave. They are even applauded for doing these things.”

“Dear me,” quoth I, as the old fellow’s white beard shook through the emotion that he felt. Then I added: “Why are they applauded?”

“Why, say you?” responded he. “Simply because the laws of our country are made by the elected of forty million fools, fools that make laws that allow the enemies of art to rob the children of art. We artists toil for many years endeavouring to express the truth in art. With what result? Lo! he whom Nature has mentally equipped so that he might paint our boots makes some monstrous imitation in vulgar perspective and colour of our sublimest conceptions. These quacks rush forth and sell their daubs as works of art.”

“Why, that which you say applies to all the arts: men rob——”

Ere I could proceed further the old man gave such a stern look at this interruption of his pet theme that I at once stifled my assertive voice and, shrinking up ashamed into my shell, once more listened as he continued:

“What is the result of this robbery of our inherited dreams? Why, we come forward, and though we offer true art, no one wants it, nor will they pay according to its merits or in proportion to the labour that we have expended. The walls of the homesteads in our country are covered with these spurious works that have been painted by the hands that should not have aspired higher than to paint the boots of Art.”

At saying this, and a good deal more, the sad old artist looked up over the giant bread-fruit trees, as a flock of parrots swept across the sky, stroked his massive beard, and went on in this wise:

“Ah! young friend, I could no longer stand being robbed by liars and hypocrites and fools, so I bade farewell to my brother artists. Yes, I gazed for the last time into their sunken eyes and on their hollow cheeks and sailed away for the isles of these Southern Seas. Indeed the clamouring of my creditors, the fingers of Scorn pointing at my shabby garments, left nothing else for me to do. Here in these kindly isles I hope to prolong my days by getting regular nourishment.”

So saying, the strange old fellow took from his capacious pocket half a ripe coco-nut, bit off a large piece of the white substance and chewed for a moment in silence. Swallowing the nutritious morsel, he proceeded, to my delight—for the satire of his delivery was truly exquisite—

“I know of two other artists who, like myself, have emigrated to these parts.”

“Do you?” quoth I eagerly, intensely interested in so strange, so wise an old man.

“Yes; one is an author and the other a musician. They live happily together on a lonely islet of the Paumotus Group. A late cannibal chief, who is a native of these isles, is their beloved attendant; and with him they commune in reverent dreams when the nights are long. There, on their solitary islet, they discuss their experiences among the slaves in civilised lands and the haunting memories of their childhood’s days. Dressed in the native costume of these parts, a loin-cloth only, they have long since resigned themselves to the inevitable. They now see the pompous boast of civilisation and its brazen virtue as a monstrous, hypocritical curse, a malignant fungus growth on the soul of truth, of beauty and true happiness.”

“No!” quoth I in my intense interest, quite forgetting the stern gleam of those grey eyes of art over my first interruption. I almost trembled at my foolish assertion. For a moment he ceased speaking, pulled his beard half viciously, and gazed at me like some towering schoolmaster as I humbly stood there. Like all men who have lived long in exile, one syllable of another’s voice was a tremendous interval of rude interruption. Once more he continued: “These two men whom I spoke of ere you interrupted still follow their professions. One plays on the violin to the winds, and the other writes down his aspirations on the sea sands and thoughtfully watches the tides wash the words away. They chop wood, grow pine-apples, bananas, sago, taro, tobacco, and lead an ideal existence.”

Delighted with my obvious interest, he meandered on:

“I know of another exile who lives near Guadalcanar, in the Solomon Isles. Clothed in rags that covered an emaciated body, he escaped from his own country by stowing away on a sailing-ship. He was a poet.

“After years of adventurous wandering he has settled in a wild, lonely spot near a tribal village where not so long since the folk were ferocious cannibals and addicted to the horrors of sacrificial heathen ceremonies. I saw this poet myself, for I happened to go that way two years agone.

“He had learnt the native tongue, and so makes a good living by engraving his rhymes and improvisations on the brains of the islanders. He dresses as the natives dress, in the scantiest of attire, and lives and eats as they do. The last I saw of him was when he dwelt in a comfortable parvanue near the mountain villages. He has reached the zenith of his ambitions: he wears long hair, and, standing on his lecture-stump in the native villages, he retells, in emotional, eloquent verse, their old legends and glorious tales of far-off barbarian battles, and thanks God that at last he has found a tribe of men who understand his special gift, and who wildly applaud his efforts.”

“Well now!” was all that I could utter as he ceased.

He gave a little cough as he finished his discourse, a cough that almost musically expressed the contemptuous exasperation that embittered his mind.

I would not assert that the foregoing is an exact verbal account of all that the old artist said to me, but I vouch that it is a faithful reproduction of his central ideas and all that my memory retains and which seems worth the recording. And I give it here as an illustration of the strange characters that are to be found living an isolated life in the wide spaces, the far-scattered isles of the North and South Pacific.

I stayed with that strange man for several hours. He was delighted when I played my violin to him. To my astonishment he commenced to sing some old song—Scenes that are Brightest, if my memory does not fail me. He had a fine voice, and looked annoyed when the dusky kiddies of my retinue shrieked with laughter as he sang.

When I left him he was packing up his few essential requirements for a trip to Papeete, where he would often go when the trader streamer called into the harbour from Hivaoa. My last remembrance of him is when he stood at his hut door by the banyans, waving his hand to me as I went down the little shore by the pauroe-trees and met my dusky comrades. The memory of it all stands out like some experience that I had in another world beyond the stars, some little islet by an immortal mainland, as I paddled my own outrigger canoe and went back to the bread-fruit groves of the opposite shores with a group of singing, dusky cherubims swimming behind me.

The stars were crowding the sky in their millions when the unexpected occurred. I was sitting near the mission-room at the time. It so happened that there was a great commotion in the grog shanty, for a schooner had just arrived in the port of Tai-o-hae. Also, I was feeling a bit out of sorts. John L—— had just been buried in the cemetery by Calaboose Hill. He had succumbed to gout and the best rum—at least that was what they said in the shanty.

I had been comforting Pauline—she was weeping, and I thought things were as bad as they could be.

Though I’d travelled far, lived with the world’s worst men, sought fortunes on gold-fields, been down with fever, lived on bananas and orange peel, buried old pals, I never got such a sorrowful surprise as came to me on this particular night.

Suddenly Father O’Leary poked his face out of the cloistered shadows and said: “My son, my son, come!”

I at once responded. When I arrived in the little room wherein he dwelt, I found he had a companion with him. At first I thought it was some native girl who had come to confess.

The light from his hanging oil-lamp was burning very dimly.

“My son, look!” he cried. I noticed that his voice trembled.

I could hardly believe my eyes as I looked again and saw that outcast by his side. Notwithstanding the wasted form and the terrible look on the face, I recognised Waylao.

The Father closed the door as I entered.

We never slept a wink that night. The old priest ran his fingers through his beads and went on his knees as Waylao wept and told us all that had happened to her since I had lost sight of her in Samoa, and her experiences seemed incredible. I do not mind confessing that I was a bit overcome as I heard that tale of sorrow. It was something that outrivalled everything I’d read—Louis Beck, Robert Louis Stevenson and all the romances of the South Seas. The surprise of the Father was even greater than my own, for I knew much about the girl’s doings till the time she had arrived at the Matafas’ in Apia.

As I would like to tell the facts of the case, I will revert to the period when Waylao disappeared from the Matafas’.

I can only hope to give the faintest outline of all that really happened, and this I will attempt in the following narrative.