CHAPTER III
Following the departure of the Customs tug, Gaston of the Beard had sat below in earnest converse with Tamea. The Triton had wept a little at first, albeit his tears were not for himself but for Tamea; and after her initial gust of despair and grief, the girl had remembered that strength and not weakness was what her father expected of her. Accordingly she had rallied to the task of comforting him.
“And you knew I had contracted this disease, my daughter?” old Gaston queried amazedly.
“Oui, mon père.I saw the puffy places on your cheeks and knuckles before we sailed from Riva, but I was not certain until I saw you one day in swimming. There is a white patch on your right shoulder.”
“But you have touched me, Tamea. You have caressed me——”
“And shall again, dear one. The disease has but recently made its appearance. There are no active lesions and I am not fearful, father Larrieau.”
“In this country, Tamea, when one is afflicted so, he is restrained of his liberty. He is confined in a hospital called the pesthouse. There are no men or women there with whom I should care to associate—and I am old enough to die, anyhow. I would be free from this tainted body and dwell with your mother in Paliuli”—the Polynesian equivalent of heaven.
Tamea had no answer for this. All too thoroughly she divined the hidden meaning in his speech, but because she was what she was—a glorious pagan—the knowledge of the course which Gaston of the Beard contemplated aroused in her neither apprehension nor grief. To Tamea the mystery of death was no greater than the mystery of birth. Men and women lived their appointed time and passed on to Paliuli, if they were worthy like her father; or to Po, the world of darkness, if they were unworthy. The departure for Paliuli was not one to cause a grief greater than that experienced when one’s nearest and dearest departed for a neighboring island, to be absent for an indefinite period. Of course she would weep, for were not her people the most affectionate and tender-hearted race in the world?
And was not she, the last of her line, a descendant of kings and expected to meet with complacency whatever of good or of evil life might have in store for her? So she tugged the great bush of a beard affectionately, from time to time, as her father talked, telling her of his plans for her, his ambitions and desires, impressing upon her, above all things, the necessity for absolute obedience to the man whom he would name her guardian.
With a full heart Tamea gave him the promise he desired, and when she noticed how much the assurance comforted him her triumphant youth routed for the nonce consideration of everything save the necessity for cheering her father. So she went to her stateroom and returned with—an accordion! It was a splendid instrument belonging to old Larrieau, and Tamea had learned to play it very well by ear. She lay back in her chair and commenced to play very, very softly a ballad that was old a decade before Tamea was born, to wit, “Down Went McGinty!”
But—it had a lilt to it, and presently her father was beating time and humming the song. And Tamea, like her father, like so many of her mother’s race, had a gift for clowning; now, as she played, she swayed her body a trifle, raised her shoulders on the long drawn out “D-o-w-n” and made funny faces; somehow the instrument seemed to wail and sob as McGinty sank to the bottom of the sea. It was ridiculous, wholly amusing, and old Gaston’s mellow bellow of laughter reached the ears of Dan Pritchard while yet his launch was a cable’s length from the Moorea. And then Tamea swung her instrument and broke into “La Marseillaise” while her father sang it as only a Frenchman can.
Dan Pritchard came overside and stuck his head down through the ventilator over the deck-house. “Gaston,” he remarked, when the singer ceased, “I came because I heard you were very ill.”
“Ill,mon petit, ill? I am worse than ill. I am a dead man and I sing at my own wake. Come down, rascal! By my beard, my old heart sings to see you, Dan Pritchard. Come down, I tell you.”
“Coming,” Dan answered laughingly—and came.
“I could embrace you, my boy,” the old sailor informed him, “but during Lent one must do something to mortify the flesh. Besides, I have had the devilish luck to acquire leprosy.”
Dan Pritchard made no sign that this news was disturbing, albeit he was hearing it for the first time.
“Well, if I may not shake your hand, give me a tug at your beard, Gaston. Upon my word, there is no blight on those whiskers, old shipmate.” And before Larrieau could prevent him he had grasped a handful of whiskers and given the huge head a vigorous shaking. The Triton, tremendously pleased, roared out an oath to hide a sob.
“Dan, this is my well beloved daughter, Tamea. Tamea, my dear child, this is Monsieur Dan Pritchard, the gentleman of whom we were speaking.”
Tamea’s wondrous smoky eyes glowed with a welcoming light. “He who twitches my father’s beard—when heknows,” she said very distinctly, “shall never lack the love and respect of my father’s daughter. Monsieur Dan Pritchard, my father would he might embrace you. Behold! I embrace you—once for old Gaston of the Beard and once for myself.” And she set her accordion on the cabin table, walked calmly to Dan Pritchard, drew him to her heart and kissed him, in friendly fashion, on each cheek.
Embarrassed, Dan took her hand in his and patted it. “You are a sweet child,” he said simply. Then, turning to the old man: “Gaston, it’s great to see you again. But explain yourself, wretch. How dare you foul up the Moorea with your frightful indisposition?”
“I was ever a disciple of the devil, Dan. It’s all through the islands. The Chinese brought it. Dan, I am to be taken from Tamea—forever—and I go as soon as my business has been arranged. Here is the book containing my accounts as master to date. There is a balance of four thousand eight hundred and nine dollars and eight cents due me. Give this to Tamea for her personal needs. The vouchers are in this envelope. What is a fair price for my one-quarter interest in the Moorea?”
“She is an old vessel but sound, and she pays her way like a lady, Gaston. She’s worth twenty-five thousand dollars. I will buy your interest on that basis.”
“Sold. Invest the money for Tamea. Here are drafts on the Bank of California for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. I have indorsed them to you. Buy bonds with them for Tamea. And here”—he burrowed in the base of his beard and brought forth a small tobacco bag he had hidden in that hirsute forest—“are the crown jewels of my little Tamea. They are the black pearls I have come by, from time to time. It was known that I had some of great value and I have had to conceal them carefully.” He laughed his bellowing laugh. “Pay the duty on them, Dan, if you are more honest than I; then sell them and buy more bonds for Tamea.”
Dan Pritchard took an old envelope from his pocket, Larrieau dropped the bag into it, and Dan sealed the envelope.
“I desire that Tamea be educated and affianced to some decent fellow. Tamea, hear your father. You are not to marry any man Monsieur Dan Pritchard does not approve of.”
Dan looked at her. “I promise,” she replied simply.
“You are to be her guardian, Dan.”
“Very well, Gaston,” said Dan instantly, “since you desire it. I shall try to discharge the office in a commendable manner.”
“That, my boy, is why the office is yours. For your trouble you shall have my gratitude while I live and the gratitude of Tamea after I am dead. Also, you shall be the executor of my estate, which will bring you a nice fee, and in addition the largest and most beautiful pearl in that lot is yours. It will make a magnificent setting for a ring for the woman you may marry—if you have not married.”
“I still revel in single blessedness, Gaston.”
The sailor nodded approvingly. “Time enough to settle down after you are forty,” he agreed. “You will select the pearl, however. It is yours now. It is magnificent. Its equal is not to be found in the world, I do believe. The heart of it has a warm glow, like my old heart when I think of my friendship for your good father and for you—when I think of Tamea and Tamea’s wonderful mother. Damnation! I have lived! I have known love; my great carcass has quivered to the thrill of life as a schooner quivers in the grip of awilli-waw!” He smiled wistfully at Dan. Then: “Well, bring down your lawyer, Dan. I would make my will, leaving all I possess to Tamea.”
At a summons from Dan, Henderson came down into the cabin and was introduced to Gaston of the Beard and his daughter. The last will and testament of the Triton was as simple as the man who signed it, and Dan and the lawyer appended their signatures as witnesses.
“Now then, Gaston,” said Dan, “of what does your estate consist?”
“These pearls, the money due me for disbursements made for account of the Moorea and her owners, my interest in the Moorea and these drafts on San Francisco. I have no real estate, and I owe nobody. Neither does anybody owe me.”
“Then,” said Dan smilingly, “why make a will, with its fees and taxes? Why not make a gift of all you possess to Tamea now? Gifts are not taxable, nor do they have to be probated—expensively.”
Gaston of the Beard smiled and winked at the lawyer. “I knew I should make no mistake in entrusting my little Tamea to this good friend,” he declared. “Dan, the drafts are already indorsed to her. Take them. The pearls you already have. Go ashore, my good friend, and return with a bill of sale and a check for my interest in the Moorea, which I sell to you, and your firm’s check for the amount due me on the final adjustment of the ship’s accounts. I will then indorse both checks to Tamea and the troublesome business of dying will have been simplified a thousand-fold.”
Dan returned to the office of Casson and Pritchard, found a printed bill of sale form such as is used in shipping offices, filled it in, unlocked the safe, drew Casson and Pritchard’s check and his own for the amount due Larrieau and returned to the Moorea. Three scratches of a pen and Dan’s word passed, and the estate of Gaston of the Beard had been probated and distributed.
Meanwhile Tamea had opened the boxes of flowers Dan had brought aboard in compliance with her father’s request. Deftly she wove aleiof sweet peas, and when the business with Dan and the lawyer was done she hung theleiaround old Gaston’s burly neck and garlanded his shaggy head with roses.
Presently, at his suggestion, Tamea called the steward, who brought glasses and a dusty bottle of old French Malaga. When the glasses had been filled and passed by Tamea, Gaston of the Beard raised his on high.
“I drink to my loves, living and dead; to you, friend Dan Pritchard, and to you, Monsieur l’Avocat!Morituri te salutamus!I wish you good luck, good health, happiness and a life just long enough not to become a burden. May you live as joyously as I have lived and love life as I have loved it; may you die as contented as I shall die, and without repining. And may we embrace, like true friends and clean, in Paliuli!”
They drank.
“I have six quarts of that Malaga left. It is very old and of a rare vintage. Monsieur l’Avocat, will you have money for your fee or would you prefer the six live soldiers?. . . Ah, I thought so! The steward will deliver them to you at your home, provided the prohibition agents are not encountered first. Let us go on deck.”
At the head of the companion Tamea kissed a rose and passed it to her father.
And that was their farewell.
“The tide has turned. It is at the ebb. It will bear me far to the sea that I have loved and upon whose bosom my days have been spent,” said Gaston of the Beard casually. “Thank you, dear Dan, for all that you have been to me in life, for all that you will be to me in death. I go, finding it hurts to leave those I love. Farewell, Dan Pritchard, and you also, my good Monsieur l’Avocat. . . Tamea, dear child, I depart, loving you.”
He pressed to his red lips the rose she had given him and then, with a look of unutterable love for Tamea and a blithe kiss tossed to sea and sky, he ran swiftly to the rail, stepped over it, and disappeared with a very small splash for so huge a man. . . .
“He has gone to join my mother in Paliuli,” said Tamea bravely. “He goes to her, flower-laden, like a bridegroom. It is the custom in Riva with those for whom life has lost its taste to have their loved ones adorn them with flowers; then they walk out into the sea until they are seen no more.”
Presently, to Dan Pritchard, watching over the taffrail of the Moorea, something floated up from the dark depths and drifted astern. It was the emblem of love, the crown of roses and theleiwith which Tamea had decked the great pagan e’er he left her for Paliuli. . . . Afterward Dan remembered that Gaston had worn his marvelous going-ashore clothes and that his tremendous trousers had bagged somewhat more than usual. So Dan suspected he had taken the precaution to fill his pockets with pig lead or iron bolts, and with the tide at the ebb he was drifting in those dark depths out through the Golden Gate at the rate of four miles an hour. . . . Well, they would not seehimagain.
The sun had sunk behind Telegraph Hill, and dusk was creeping over the waters of the bay of St. Francis. Dan saw the flag at Fort Mason come fluttering down, and across the waters came the sound of the garrison band; from the church of St. Francis de Sales over in North Beach the Angelus was ringing.
“Well, Mr. Henderson,” said Dan presently, “the day’s work is done. The launch is still alongside, so I suggest that you go ashore first and send the launch back for me. Your family doubtless expects you home to dinner. I shall remain here, I think, and go ashore later, when Tamea has packed her belongings. I don’t suppose I ought to leave the child here all night alone.”
Mr. Henderson inclined his head, for he was profoundly affected; as the launch coughed away in the gathering gloom to land him at Meiggs Wharf, Dan descended to the cabin, whither Tamea had gone.
As he entered the main cabin she came out of her stateroom. Her glorious black hair had been loosely braided and hung over her left breast; in the braid a scarlet sweet pea-blossom nestled. She still wore the cheap white cotton skirt Dan had observed on her when he first came aboard and she was still hatless, but buttoned tightly around her lithe young body she now wore an old navy pea-jacket; under her arm she carried her father’s very expensive accordion.
“I am your Tamea now, Monsieur Dan Pritchard,” she announced tremulously. “In this new land I know no one but you. I go with you where you will. I will obey you always, for you are my father and my mother.”
The pathos of that simple speech stabbed him. Poor, lonely little alien! Poor wanderer, in a white man’s world—a world which, Dan sensed, she would never quite understand. How wondrously simple and sweet and unspoiled she was! How transcendently lovely! He wished he might paint her thus—he had a yearning to stretch forth his hand and touch her hair. . . and presently he yielded to this desire. At his gentle, paternal touch all the stark, suppressed agony in the heart of the Queen of Riva rose in her throat and choked her. . . .
Dan Pritchard took the outcast in his arms and soothed and petted her while she emptied her full heart. And to him the experience did not seem an unusual one, for as Maisie had often assured him he had been born to bear the burdens of other people. He was one of those great-hearted men who seem destined to daddy the world. . . .
He wiped her tears away with his handkerchief and when the launch bumped alongside again they said good-by to the Moorea. Kahanaha, the Kanaka, wept, for he had sailed ten years with Gaston of the Beard. As they disappeared into the darkness headed for Meiggs Wharf, his mellow baritone voice followed them.
He was singing “Aloha!”
CHAPTER IV
Throughout the ten minute journey from the Moorea to Meiggs Wharf, Tamea sat beside Dan Pritchard in the stern sheets of the launch, holding his hand tightly and, in silence, gazing ahead toward the lights of the city. She seemed afraid to let go his hand, nor did she relinquish it when they paused beside Dan’s limousine, waiting for them at the head of the dock. Graves, his chauffeur, with the license of an old and favored employee, was sound asleep inside the car when Dan opened the door and prodded him; at sight of his employer standing hand in hand with Tamea, Graves’s eyes fairly popped with excitement and interest.
Tamea’s lashes still held a few recalcitrant tears and she looked very childish and forlorn. Dan was carrying her accordion, and observing this, Graves instantly concluded that his master had casually attached himself to some wandering gipsy troubadour. He stared and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle; his eyebrows went up perceptibly.
Tamea’s moist eyes blazed. Rage superseded her grief.
“Monsieur Dan Pritchard,” she demanded, “is this man your servant?”
Dan nodded.
“If we were in Riva I should have him beaten with my father’s razor belt to teach him humility.”
Dan reflected, sadly humorous, that it would be like Gaston of the Beard to utilize a razor strop for any purpose save the one for which it had been intended. But the girl’s complaint annoyed him.
“Oh, don’t bother about Graves!” he urged. “He isn’t awake yet. He thinks he’s seeing things at night.”
“The man stares at me,” Tamea complained. “He is saying to himself: ‘What right has this girl with my master?’ I know. Yes, you bet.”
“Graves,” said Dan wearily, “you are, I fear, permitting yourself a liberty. Wake up, get out of here and in behind the wheel. And by the way, Graves, hereafter you will be subject to the orders of Miss Larrieau. In her own country Miss Larrieau is a queen and accustomed to the most perfect service from everybody with whom she comes in contact. I expect, therefore, that you will remember your manners. Driving for a bachelor is very apt, I quite realize, to make any chauffeur careless, but from now on, Graves, whenever Queen Tamea of Riva craves snappy service, see that she gets it. I should regret very much the necessity for flaying you with a razor strop.”
“Lay forward, you,” Tamea commanded. “What business have you aft? Your place is in the fo’castle, not the cabin.”
Fortunately, Graves was blessed with a sufficient sense of humor to respond humbly: “Beg pardon, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to get fresh. As the boss says, wakin’ me up sudden like that scared me sorter.”
He carefully drew the curtains in the rear, on both sides and in front, for, notwithstanding his cavalier manner in the presence of royalty, Graves was more than passing fond of his employer and desired to spare the latter the humiliation of being seen with a lady of uncertain lineage and doubtful social standing riding in public with him in his limousine. Graves was fully convinced that his master suddenly had gone insane, and as a result it behooved him now, more than ever before, to render faultless service. He wondered where the Queen was taking the boss or where the boss was taking the Queen; already he was resolved to drive them through streets rarely frequented by the people who dwelt in Dan Pritchard’s world.
Tamea’s haughty voice disturbed his benevolent thoughts.
“Are you ashamed to ride with me, Dan Pritchard?”
“Certainly not, my dear girl. Graves, how dare you draw those curtains without permission? I’ll skin you alive for this!”
“Beg pardon, sir,” mumbled the bewildered Graves.
He raised the curtains, vacated the car immediately and stood at a stiff salute while Dan handed Tamea into the luxurious interior. As he followed her in he turned to Graves and growled, “Scoundrel! You shall pay dearly for this.” A lightning wink took the sting out of his words, however, and caused Graves to bow his head in simulated humiliation; nevertheless the faithful fellow could not forbear one final effort. Just before he closed the door upon them he switched off the dome light. As he did so he saw Tamea’s hand slip into Dan Pritchard’s.
“All I ask,” Graves murmured a moment later to the oil gage, “is that Miss Morrison don’t get her lamps on them two. She don’t seem to have no success gettin’ him to fall for her, but along comes this Portugee or gipsy or somethin’ with an accordion on her arm, and the jig is up. She’s dressed like a North Beach wop woman that’s married a fisherman, but she tells him she’s a queen and wants to step out with him in his automobile. Right away he falls for her. Bing! Bang! And they’re off in a cloud of dust. Ain’t it the truth? When these quiet birds do step out they go some!”
There was a buzzing close to his left ear.
“Sailing directions,” murmured Graves and inclined his ear toward the annunciator.
“Home, Graves!” said the voice of Daniel Pritchard.
Graves quivered as if mortally stung, but out of the chaos of his emotions the habit of years asserted itself. He nodded to indicate that he had received his orders and understood them, and the car rolled away down the Embarcadero.
“Now,” murmured the hapless Graves, addressing the speedometer, “Iknowhe’s crazy! Of course I can stand it, Sooey Wan won’t give a hoot and Julia probably won’t let on she’s saw anything out of the way, but Mrs. Pippy’ll give notice p. d. q. and quit quicker’n that. . . . Well, I should worry and grow a lot of gray hairs.”
He tooled the car carefully through rough cobbled streets which ordinarily he would have avoided, and by a circuitous route reached Dan Pritchard’s house in Pacific Avenue. “I’ll be shot if I’ll pull up in front to unload them,” he resolved, and darted in the automobile driveway, nor paused until the car was in the garage! As he reached for the hand brake the annunciator buzzed again; again Graves inclined a rebellious ear.
“While appreciating tremendously the sentiments that actuate you, Graves,” came Dan Pritchard’s calm voice, “the fact is that my garage is scarcely a fitting place in which to unload a lady. Back out into the street and so maneuver the car that we will be enabled to alight at the curb in front of the house.”
Again the habit of years conquered. Graves nodded. But to the button on the motor horn he said dazedly:
“He’s got the gall of a burglar! Here I go out of my way to help him and he throws a monkey wrench into the machinery. Very well, boss! If you can stand it I guess I can. I ain’t got no proud flesh!”
With a sinking heart he obeyed and stood beside the car watching Dan Pritchard steer Tamea up the steps; saw the incomprehensible man open the street door with his latchkey; saw him propel Tamea gently through the portal and follow; saw the door close on the incipient scandal!
Then he looked carefully up and down the street and satisfied himself that he had been the only witness to the amazing incident; whereupon he put the car up and hastened into the servants’ dining room to ascertain what, if any, impression had been created upon Mrs. Pippy, the housekeeper, Julia, the maid, and Sooey Wan, the Chinese cook, who, with Graves, constituted the Pritchardménage.
As Graves took his seat at the servants’ table and gazed inquisitively through the door into the kitchen where Sooey Wan, squatted on his heels, was glowering at something in the oven, Pritchard entered the kitchen. Sooey Wan looked up at him but did not deem it necessary to stand up.
“Boss,” he demanded, “wha’ for you allee time come home late for dinner?”
“I don’t come home late for dinner all the time. Confound your Oriental hide, Sooey Wan, are you never going to quit complaining?”
The imperturbable Sooey Wan glanced at the alarm clock on an adjacent shelf.
“You klazy, boss,” he retorted. “You fi’, ten, fi’teen, twenty-fi’ minutes late. Dinner all spoil, ever’thing go lotten boss don’ come home on time.”
“Go to thunder, you old raven! Quit your croaking,” Dan admonished the heathen.
Sooey Wan flew—or rather pretended to fly—into a rage. “Helluva note,” he cried, and shied a butcher knife into the sink. “Twenty year I cook for you papa, but he never late. Papa allee time in heap hurry. Son, allee time go slow, takum easy. Well, you likee lotten dinner I ketchum, boss. You likee A-numba-one dinner no can do—gee, Missa Dan, wha’s mallah? You no look happy.”
“I’m a bit distressed tonight, Sooey Wan.”
Sooey Wan stood up and laid a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You tell Sooey Wan,” he urged, and in his faded old eyes, in his manner and in the intonation of his voice, no longer shrill with pretended rage, there was evidenced the tremendous affection which the old San Francisco Chinese servant class always accords to a kindly and generous employer and particularly to that employer’s children.
“A good friend has died, Sooey Wan.”
“That’s hell,” said Sooey Wan sympathetically. “Me know him, boss?”
“Yes, he was a friend of yours, too, Sooey, Captain Larrieau, the Frenchman with the big beard.”
“Sure, I remember him. When he come Sooey Wan have sole for dinner. He teachee me how makum sauce Margie Lee.”
“Yes, poor Gaston was very fond of tenderloin of sole with sauce Margery, as it is made in Marseilles. Well, he’s dead, Sooey Wan, and tonight I brought his daughter home with me. I am her guardian.”
“Allee same papa, eh?”
Dan nodded, and Sooey Wan thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “All li’, Missa Dan,” he replied. “I have A-numba-one dinner! Too bad captain die. Him one really nice man—him likee Missa Dan velly much. Too bad!”
He patted his employer on the shoulder in a manner that meant volumes.
“The lady has to dress, Sooey Wan, so we cannot have dinner for half an hour yet.”
“You leavee dinner to Sooey Wan,” the old Chinaman assured him. “Missa Dan, you likee cocktail now?”
“Never mind, thank you.”
“Sure, boss, you likee cocktail now. You no talkee Sooey Wan. Sooey Wan fixee nice Gibson cocktail. My boy ketchum cold heart, Sooey Wan makum heart warm again. . . . Shut up, shut up! Boss, you allee time talkee too damn much.”
Realizing the uselessness of protest, Dan stood by while Sooey Wan manufactured the heart-warmer. And when the drink was ready the old Chinaman produced two glasses and filled one for himself. “I dlink good luck to spirit Captain Larrieau. Hoping devil no catchum,” he said. “Tonight me go joss-house and burn devil paper.”
He set down his empty glass and with paternal gentleness thrust Dan out of the kitchen; as the door swung to behind the latter, Sooey Wan began audibly to discharge a cargo of oaths, both Chinese and English. This appeared to relieve his feelings considerably, for presently he commenced to sing softly, which emboldened Graves to address him.
“Say, Sooey,” he suggested, “I wouldn’t mind bein’ wrapped around one of those cocktails of the boss’s myself.”
Sooey Wan looked at him—once. Once was sufficient. Ah, these new servants—these fresh American boys! How little did they know their place! What a febrile conception of their duty toward the author of the payroll was theirs!
“Bum!” hissed Sooey Wan. “Big Amelican bum!” Seizing the poker he commenced stirring the fire vigorously, from time to time favoring Graves with a tigerish glance which said all too plainly, “I stir the fire with this, but if I hear any more of your impudence I’ll knock your brains out with it.”
Graves subsided. He knew who was the head of that house!
CHAPTER V
From the moment that he and Tamea left the schooner Dan’s thoughts had been occupied with the weightiest problem that had ever been presented to him for solution. What was he to do with Tamea and where was he to take her? For a while he was comforted by the thought that he could not possibly do better than bring her to Maisie Morrison, explain the circumstances and ask Maisie to take the orphan in for the night, lend her some clothing and tell her a few things about life in a civilized community which it was apparent she should know at the earliest opportunity. Then he reflected that Maisie might not be at all obliged to him for thrusting such a task upon her; clearly it was none of her business what happened to this half-caste Polynesian girl. Always practical, Maisie would, doubtless, suggest that the girl be taken to a hotel; even if she did not suggest it, that pompous old ass, Casson, would.
Dan remembered that Gaston of the Beard had never liked Casson and that Casson had never liked Gaston of the Beard. Nothing save Gaston’s record for efficiency and shrewd trading, plus Dan’s influence, had conduced to keep the pagan in the employ of Casson and Pritchard.
So Dan resigned that plan, but not before he had broached it to Tamea.
“Who is the woman, Maisie?” Tamea queried without interest.
Dan informed her.
“I do not like her,” Tamea decided. “I will not go to the home of a woman I do not know.”
It was then that Dan considered the plan of taking the girl to a hotel. But the prospect horrified him. He could not abandon her to her own resources in a metropolitan hotel. He had no definite idea how far Riva had progressed in civilization, but he assumed it was still, to all intents and purposes, in the Neolithic Age, and consequently Tamea would find plumbing, hot and cold water, electric lights, telephones, strange maids and perky little bellhops much too much to assimilate alone on this, her first night in her new environment. Moreover, Dan shrank from the task of entering the Palace or the St. Francis hotels with Tamea, registering her as Queen Tamea of Riva, and having the room clerk, for the sake of publicity for the hotel, give the ever watchful hotel reporters a tip on an interesting story of a foreign potentate, clothed in white cotton and a pea-jacket, who had just arrived tearful and bareheaded, with no baggage other than a huge accordion, and accompanied by a wealthy shipping man.
Decidedly he could not risk that. He must avoid publicity. Remained, therefore, no alternative save taking her to his own home, in San Francisco’s most exclusive residence section on Pacific Heights.
Thank God, he had in his employ as housekeeper a prim and proper person, a Mrs. Pippy. In her fiftieth year Mrs. Pippy’s husband, a bank cashier, had absconded to parts unknown with a lady somewhat younger and handsomer than Mrs. Pippy, who thereupon had been forced to earn her living in almost the only way possible for a woman of her advanced age. Knowing her to be a woman of taste, culture and refinement, Maisie had induced Dan to engage her at his housekeeper, which he was very loath to do, owing to serious objection on the part of Sooey Wan. Maisie had run this oriental tyrant quickly to earth, however. Sooey Wan could cook a dinner, but he couldn’t order one and he couldn’t see that it was served properly; wherefore, since Dan liked to entertain his friends at dinner very frequently, Mrs. Pippy could be depended upon to manage his household affairs efficiently and delightfully.
At Maisie’s suggestion, Mrs. Pippy had engaged as waitress and housemaid an exile from Erin who answered to the name of Julia. Julia was an amiable creature who daily entrusted Sooey Wan with the sum of twenty-five cents to be bet for her in a Chinese lottery in Washington Alley. Dan remembered now that Julia was about the same size as Tamea, and only the Sunday afternoon previous he had seen Julia leaving the house clad in a tailored suit that gave her what Graves termed a “snappy” look.
“I’ll buy that suit from Julia and pay her a fine price for it,” Dan soliloquized. “Tamea has just naturally got to have something decent to wear downtown when the horrible job of shopping begins. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Julia could sell me a pair of shoes, some stockings and a shirtwaist, and do Tamea’s hair up in an orderly manner. Mrs. Pippy will take her in hand and do the needful. If she doesn’t,” he added fiercely, “I’ll dismiss her immediately.”
Fortunately, Tamea’s mournful thoughts claimed her attention; she was content to sit perfectly quiet and hold Dan’s hand, as if from the contact she drew strength to face the unknown. When Dan broached the subject of turning her over to Maisie she had been distinctly alarmed, and when he sang Maisie’s praises so generously, she decided that he was very fond of Maisie, and, for a reason which she did not consider necessary to analyze, Tamea made up her mind instantly that she was not going to like Maisie; which decision, in view of the fact that she had never seen Maisie, must be regarded as only another example of the extraordinary instinct or intuition of the feminine sex, wheresoever situated and with regard to age, color, creed, or previous condition of servitude.
She was relieved when Dan abandoned the subject without comment or urging; she had a hazy impression that he had been rather nice about it and that her father had selected, to take his place, a singularly kindly and comfortable person, indeed. She gave his hand a little squeeze, which he didn’t even notice.
Mrs. Pippy was just ascending the stairs from the entrance hall when Dan let Tamea and himself into the house. The good lady paused in her ascent with much the same abruptness which, we imagine, characterized the termination of the flight of Lot’s wife when that lady was metamorphosed into a pillar of salt.
“Good heavens, Mr. Pritchard!” she exclaimed—and assumed a regal attitude.
“Good evening, Mrs. Pippy,” Dan saluted her cheerfully. “May I have your attendance here for a moment, dear Mrs. Pippy?. . . Thank you so much. Mrs. Pippy, this young lady is Miss Tamea Larrieau, and in her own land, which is the island of Riva, in eastern Polynesia, she is quite the most important person of her sex. In fact, Miss Tamea is the hereditary ruler of the Rivas, or Rivets, or whatever one might term them. Tamea, this lady is Mrs. Pippy, who is kind enough to manage my household, Mrs. Pippy is a kind lady who will take good care of you, won’t you, Mrs. Pippy?”
Mrs. Pippy favored Tamea with a wintry nod and an equally wintry and fleeting smile. She still stood on the stairs in her regal attitude; apparently, in the presence of royalty, she was not impressed.
Immediately Tamea gave her guardian additional evidence of an alert mentality and extreme sensitiveness to the slightest atmosphere of disapproval or hostility. She favored Mrs. Pippy with a long, cool, impersonal glance, before she turned to Dan and said, naïvely:
“She looks like Columbia, the gem of the ocean!”
Decidedly, Dan Pritchard was not in humorous mood; nevertheless he burbled and churned inwardly for several seconds before conquering an impulse to burst into maniac laughter. He realized in time, fortunately, that he could not possibly afford to laugh at his housekeeper. The good soul was arrayed in a black crêpe de Chine gown, trimmed with lace—a voluminous and extremely frippery garment; standing there, her cold countenance handsome with a classic handsomeness beneath a pile of silvery hair, she did indeed offer a splendid comparison with the popular conception of Columbia.
“Pardon me, Mr. Pritchard,” said Mrs. Pippy frigidly, “did I understand you to say that Miss Larrieau comes from eastern Polynesia?”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Pippy. She arrived from there today.”
“For a moment I was inclined to think you had been misinformed and that the young lady hails from the region known as ‘south of Market Street.’”
“That one went over Tamea’s head,” Dan thought. “It was meant for me. Well, it landed.”
He smiled upon his housekeeper.
“We will, if you please, Mrs. Pippy, call that round a draw. Miss Larrieau is my ward. I acquired her about two hours ago and it is my firm intention to do as well by her as possible. To that end I crave your indulgence and hearty coöperation, Mrs. Pippy.”
The housekeeper thawed perceptibly. “I shall be most happy to aid you in making Miss Larrieau as comfortable and happy as possible.”
“That’s perfectly splendid of you, Mrs. Pippy. Tamea, my dear, will you step into the living room and play your accordion, or do something to amuse yourself, while Mrs. Pippy and I hold a conference?”
“You will not go away—far?” Tamea pleaded.
“This is my house, Tamea, and it is your home for the present at least. You are very welcome. Whenever your dear father came to San Francisco it was his pleasure to visit me here, to dine with me and sit up half the night talking with me. He always felt that this was his San Francisco home, and you must feel likewise.”
“Very well,” Tamea replied and entered the room. A wood fire was crackling in the large fireplace, and Tamea sat down on her heels before this fire and held her hands out to the cheerful flames.
“This is a cold country,” she complained. “Cold winds and cold hearts.”
Dan rejoined Mrs. Pippy and drew her into the dining room, where, in brief sentences, he explained Tamea and his hopes and desires concerning her. Mrs. Pippy gave a respectful ear to his recital; that was all.
“I have a feeling, Mr. Pritchard, that you are going to have your hands full with that young woman,” she declared. “I have always heard that half-castes of any kind partake of the worst characteristics of both parents. Eurasians are—well, scarcely desirable.”
“Tamea is not a Eurasian. She is a pure-bred Caucasian, but in many respects she is a child of nature. It is evident that her father saw to it that she received all the educational advantages possible in her little world, but I must impress upon you, Mrs. Pippy, that when dealing with her you are not dealing with a modern girl. Her outlook on life, her thoughts, impulses—and, I dare say, her moral viewpoint—antedate the Christian era.”
“Is she a—Christian, Mr. Pritchard?”
“I think not. Her father was not. Neither was he an atheist. He was a pagan. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Tamea’s religious beliefs, if she has any, are idolatrous.”
“Horrible!”
Dan smiled. “I dare say Tamea is quite as happy as any Christian, Mrs. Pippy.”
“I do hope she’s clean, Mr. Pritchard.”
“Well, her people usually are. However, you might explain to her the mysteries of a modern bathtub. Do you think you and Julia can manage to dress her for dinner—after a fashion?”
Mrs. Pippy expressed the hope that the experiment might prove successful and suggested that Julia be interviewed.
Julia, a romantic, rosy-cheeked, imaginative but extremely plain woman in the early thirties, was overwhelmed with importance to discover that the master of the house had elected to lean upon her, to seek her advice and coöperation when confronted by this most unusual dilemma.
“An’ is it lady-in-waitin’ to a queen you’d ask me to be, Misther Pritchard? Faith, then, an’ I’ll defy you to find a body more willin’. Of course we’ll take care of her. Why shouldn’t we? Sure, ’tis sympathy an’ undhershtandin’ she’ll need this night. Where’s the poor lamb?”
For some reason not quite apparent to him, Dan had a feeling that Julia Hagerty was, beyond a doubt, the most wonderful woman he had ever met. Mrs. Pippy, he thought, had been overeducated and civilized and sheltered to the point where all the humanity had been squeezed out of her, while Julia, child of the soil, had, in the daily battle for bread and butter, been humanized to the point where she and Tamea could meet on something akin to common ground.
At that moment Tamea, having warmed her fingers and stretched herself flat on her back on the thick oriental rug, took up her accordion and commenced improvising a melody that had in it that wailing quality, that funereal suggestion inseparable from the music of a dying race, or an oppressed.
As she played Tamea sang, in a sweet little voice that scarcely filled the room, a semi-chant that Dan Pritchard suspected was also an improvisation, with words and music dedicated to the one who was still drifting outward with the tide.
Mrs. Pippy’s ultra-superior countenance commenced to soften and Julia stood listening open-mouthed.
“The poor darlin’,” murmured Julia.
Suddenly Tamea ceased her improvisation, shifted a few octaves and played “One Sweetly Solemn Thought.” In the twilight of the big living room it seemed that an organ was softly playing.
“She’s a Christian!” Mrs. Pippy whispered dramatically.
“I hope not,” Dan replied. “I think I prefer her pagan innocence.”
“But how strange that, with her father not yet cold in his—ah—watery grave, she should elect to sing and play whatever it is she plays.”
“Well, if one be tied to tradition and humbug and false standards and cowardice, I suppose Tamea’s conductisstrange,” Dan admitted. “I think, however, that I can understand it. Certainly I appreciate it. What if the girl was passionately devoted to her father? What if he did commit suicide in her presence two hours ago? They had talked it over beforehand, sanely, and both had agreed that it was the best and simplest way out. And Gaston wasn’t messy about it. To me his passing was as magnificent as that of the doomed Viking of old who put out to sea in his burning galley. Smiling, composed, he stepped blithely over the ship’s rail.
“Just one step from life to death, you say? No, not to death, but to another life! We Christians who believe in the resurrection of the dead and the communion of saints are horribly afraid of death, but the pagan has nothing to regret and journeys over the Styx in a spirit of adventure and altruism. Tamea will, from time to time, weep because she will miss her father’s comradeship and affection, but never because her father has parted with life, for to her and her people life without joy is worse than death.
“They make no mystery of death; it is not an occasion or a tremendous event save when a monarch passes. No mourning clothes or mourning period to bolster up a pretense of an affection for the deceased stronger than that which actually existed; no tolling of bells, no sonorous ritual. That is the hokum of our civilization. But tradition, mummery and religion are unknown to Tamea. She is simple, sane and philosophical, and whatever you do, Mrs. Pippy, and you, Julia, don’t pretend that anything unusual has happened. Do not proffer her sympathy. What she craves is affection and understanding.”
“You are already late to dinner, Mr. Pritchard. Sooey Wan is on the warpath,” Mrs. Pippy suggested. She was not in sympathy with Mr. Pritchard’s views and desired to change the subject.
“Some day I’m going to do something to Sooey Wan. I grow weary of his tyranny. Julia, come with me and I’ll introduce you to Her Majesty.”
Tamea turned her head as they entered the room but did not trouble to rise. Dan noticed that her eyes were bright with unshed tears, that her lips quivered pitifully, that the brave little smile of welcome she summoned for him was very wistful.
“Tamea, this is Julia, who will take good care of you.”
The Queen of Riva sat up and looked Julia over. Julia, fully alive to the tremendous drama of the situation, had wreathed her plain features in a smile that was almost a friendly leer; her Irish blue eyes glittered with curiosity and amiability.
“Hello, Tammy, darlin’,” she crooned. “Come here to me, you poor gir’rl, till I take care o’ you. Glory be to the Heavenly Father, did you ever see the like o’ that shmile? An’ thim eyes, Mrs. Pippy! An’ her hair that long she’s sittin’ on it! Wirra, will you look at her complexion! Like ripe shtrawberries smothered in cream.”
Julia held out her arms. Tamea stared at her for several seconds, then carefully laid aside her accordion and stood up.
“She is a plain woman, but her heart is one of gold,” she said to Dan, and went to Julia and was gathered into her arms.
Poor Julia! Like Tamea, she too was an exile, far from a land she loved and the loving of which, with her kind, amounts to a religious duty. Julia was a servant, a plain, uneducated woman, but at birth God had given her the treasure for which Solomon, in his mature years, had prayed. She had an understanding heart, and to it now she pressed the lonely Tamea, the while she stroked the girl’s wondrous, rippling, jet-black tresses.
“Poor darlin’,” she crooned. “You poor orphant, you.”
“I will kiss you,” Tamea declared, and did it. She looked over her shoulder at Dan Pritchard. “And you will give me this woman all for myself?” she queried.
“Yes, my dear,” he answered brazenly. “Julia belongs to you. Did she not give herself to you? Why should I withhold my permission? Julia is your slave.”
She beamed her gratitude. “Give me, please, one of my father’s black pearls—any one you do not want for yourself.”
Gravely Dan took from his pocket the envelope Gaston of the Beard had entrusted to him for Tamea, and spread the pearls on his open palm. Tamea selected one that was worth ten thousand dollars if it was worth a penny, and handed it to Julia.
“Observe, Julia,” she said, “the warm bright glow in the heart of this pearl. It is like the warm bright glow in the heart of you, my Julia. Take it. Thus I reward those who love me—thus and thus,” and she kissed Julia’s russet cheeks.
Julia eyed her employer with amazement and wonder. “Glory be, Misther Pritchard,” she gasped, “what’ll I do with it?”
“Put it away in a safe deposit box, Julia,” he suggested. “It is worth a small fortune. And remember what I told you. Nothing that may happen must be unusual. Understand. Now take Tamea upstairs and dress her while I call on Sooey Wan and set dinner back half an hour.”