The Strange Adventure Of James Shervinton. Becke Louis
her I knew that she had but a very slight strain of native blood in her veins, and when she spoke her voice sounded very sweet and refined.
“Will you not come inside and rest, sir?” she said in English. “My husband is away, and will not be back until about sunset; he will be very disappointed to have missed you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Krause,” I replied; “I think I must accept your invitation, as I feel a bit shaky, and it has been so very hot crossing the lagoon.” “Very, very hot, indeed, Mr. Sherry,” she said, as she motioned me to enter the front room; “and I know what malarial fever is; for I once lived at Agana, in Guam, and have seen many people who have come there from the Philippine Islands to recruit. Now, lie down there on that cane lounge, beside the open window, and let me bring you something to drink—something cool. What would you like? There is làger beer, there is very cold water from a canvas water-bag, and there is some hock.”
I gratefully took a long drink of the cold water, and then, instead of lying down, seated myself in a wide cane chair, and began to talk to my hostess, who sat on the lounge a few feet away, and now that I had an opportunity of closer observation, I saw that she was—despite her pallor and worn appearance—a woman of the very greatest beauty and grace.
It was so long since I had even talked to a white woman, even of the commonest class, that I could not but be insensibly attracted to her, and when in a few minutes she smiled at something I said about my longing to get away to Samoa, even if I had to sail there alone in my whaleboat, the faint flush that tinged her cheek seemed to so transfigure her that she looked like a girl of nineteen or twenty. She talked to me for nearly an hour, and I noticed that although we conversed principally about the Line Islands, and the natives, and of our few white neighbours scattered throughout the group, and their idiosyncrasies—humorous and otherwise—she hardly ever mentioned her husband’s name, except when I asked her some direct question concerning him, such as the number of his outlying stations, was he fond of fishing or shooting, etc.
In some way I came to the conclusion that she was an unhappy woman as far as her relations with her husband went; and without the slightest reason whatever to guide me to such an inference, felt that he, and not she, was to blame; and even as we talked, there was unconsciously taking possession of me a dislike to a man from whom I had experienced nothing but civility and kindness. Just as she was leaving the room to attend to her household duties, the man Tematau came to the door, carrying a string of freshly-husked young drinking coco-nuts. At a sign from his mistress, he opened one and brought it to me, and then leaving a few beside my chair, took the remainder down to my boat’s crew.
“That is Tematau, my husband’s head boatman,” said my hostess in her soft tones, as she watched him walking down to the beach; “he is so different from these noisy, quarrelsome Tarawa people, that I am always glad to have him about the house when he is not wanted in the boats. He is so quick, and yet so quiet.”
“I thought he did not look like a Tarawa native,” I said, “and I saw that he is tattooed like a Samoan.”
“He has lived in Samoa for a great many years, and is very proud of that tattooing, I am sure. He is a native of Danger Island, a long way to the south-east of this group, and came here about a year ago with a girl named Niàbon.” She hesitated a little. “I suppose you have not heard of her?”
“No, I have not. Who is she?”
“They—that is, the natives generally, and some of the whites as well—call her ‘the Danger Island witch woman.’”
“Oh, yes,” I exclaimed, “I have heard of the ‘witch woman,’ but that was when I was trading at Gallic Harbour on Admiralty Island. There was a poor fellow there, Hairy Willard, who was dying of poison given him by some chief, and I remember quite well his wife, who was a Tahitian, telling me that if the witch woman of Danger Island was near she would quickly render the poison innocuous.”
Mrs. Krause’s dark eyes lit up with undoubted pleasure—“I must tell her that—”
“Is she living on Tarawa, then?”
“Yes, in this village, and she is in the house at this moment. She would like to speak to you. Do you mind her coming in?” “Indeed, I shall be very pleased.” My hostess stood at the table for a few moments, with her face averted from me. Then she turned and spoke to me, and to my astonishment I saw that she was struggling hard to suppress her tears. I rose and led her to a seat.
“You are not well, Mrs. Krause,” I said. “Sit down, and let me call one of your servants.”
“No, please do not do that, Mr. Sherry. But I will sit down, and—and I should like to ask you a question.”
She was trembling as she spoke, but suddenly whipped out her handkerchief, dried her tears, and sat up erect.
“Mr. Sherry, you are an Englishman, or an American—I do not know which—but I am sure that you are a gentleman and will truthfully answer the question I ask. Will you not?”
“I will, indeed, if it is in my power to do so,” I replied earnestly.
She placed her hand on mine and looked at me steadily.
“Mr. Sherry, you and I have been talking on various matters for more than an hour. Have I, in your opinion, given you the impression that I am mentally deranged? Look at me. Tell me—for I am an unhappy, heartbroken woman, whose life for two years has been a daily torture and misery—what you do think. Sometimes I imagine that what my husband says may be true—and then I collapse and wish I were dead.”
“What does he say, Mrs. Krause?”
“He says that I am mad, and he says it so persistently that—oh, Mr. Sherry, I feel that before long I shall go mad in reality. It is only this woman Niàbon who sustains me. But for her I should have run out along the reef and drowned myself a year ago. Now, tell me, Mr. Sherry, do you think it possible that owing to the continuous strain upon me mentally and physically—for I am really very weak, and had a long illness two years ago when my baby was born—that my mind has become unhinged in any way?”
“I think, Mrs. Krause,” I said slowly and very emphatically, “that your husband himself must be mad.”
She wept silently, and then, again averting her face, looked away from me towards the wide expanse of the lagoon, gleaming hot and silvery under a blazing sun.
“I wish that what you say were true, Mr. Sherry,” she said presently, trying bravely to suppress her tears, “and that my husband were indeed mad.”
She rose, extended her hand to me, and tried to smile.
“You will think that I am a very silly woman, Mr. Sherry. But I am not at all strong, and you must forgive me. Now I must leave you.”
“But am I not to see the famous witch woman, Mrs. Krause?” I said half jestingly.
“Oh, yes. She shall come to you presently. And you will like her, Mr. Sherry, I am sure. To me she been been the kindest, kindest friend.” Then she paused awhile, but resumed in a nervous, hesitating manner, “Niaban is sometimes a little strange in her manner, so—so you most not mind all that she may say or do.”
I assured her that I should be most careful to avoid giving any offence to the woman. She thanked me earnestly, and then said she would find Niàbon and bring or send her to me.
Just as she went out I heard some one tapping at the latticed window near which I was sitting. Looking out, I saw the face of the man Tematau, who was standing outside.
“May I come in and speak with thee, gentleman?” he said in Samoan.
“Enter, and welcome.”
He stepped round to the front door, and as he entered I saw that he had stripped to the waist; his hair was dressed in the Samoan fashion, and in his hand he carried a small, finely-plaited mat. In an instant I recognised that he was paying me a visit of ceremony, according to Samoan custom, so instead of rising and shaking hands with him, I kept my seat and waited for him to approach.
Stepping slowly across the matted floor, with head and shoulders