South of the Line/Their Troubles

IME passes, even in the Islands. Felisi of Luana had now reached the mature age of sixteen.

And things had happened during the past year, drastic things that have a habit of changing the whole aspect of life. No longer was she called upon by her father to adventure forth from the family roof tree and wrest from a grudging world the wherewithal to purchase such luxuries as his advanced tastes demanded. Such excursions were no more, so that for Felisi the curtain was rung down on the thrilling drama of other people's business. Henceforth, she must attend to her own. That is why we come upon her engaged in nothing more romantic than turning the handle of a borrowed sewing machine.

It came hard at first. For the matter of that, and after eighteen months of eventless Luana, it still came hard at times, and she paused in her work to gaze wistfully through the doorway and across the stretch of sparkling Pacific that separated her from the great "outside."

What was happening over there, she wondered? Who was now dispensing imitation pink coral on Suva's crowded wharves, or lending a helping hand where it was needed—and sometimes where it was not—in the multifarious and intricate problems of human existence? In short, how was the world continuing to survive without her? She was sorry for it, as sorry for the world in its bereavement as she occasionally was for herself. Then her glance would leave the horizon, and rest on the bundle at her side, and she would sigh and return to her sewing, persuaded that perhaps all was for the best. It was growing, that bundle, and from it she derived all the comforts that a nest-egg brings.

At the moment, however, unrest possessed her. A white man had come to live at Luana; nothing less! And what was more, a white man of an entirely new pattern—sparse as to hair at the temples, almost blind to judge by the size of tortoise-shell rimmed sun-glasses that he wore, thoughtful of countenance, and content to sit in a cane chair under a mango tree for longer than Felisi had ever seen a white man sit in any one place.

True, he occasionally wrote letters with a chewed pencil on flimsy paper, and as often tore them up when written; but for the most part he merely sat there in the little square of croton-bordered garden before the house he had acquired, staring into vacancy.

So much she knew from casual observation, but what of the rest? Who was he? Why was he? In fact, what about him? It was still a physical impossibility, then, for Felisi to live in the neighbourhood of a mystery without trying to solve it? It is to be feared so.

Toward evening she found herself ornamenting her hair with a red hibiscus blossom, donning her most striking sulu, and practising her smile. Why? Well, such things play a more prominent part in the elucidation of mysteries than might be supposed. Besides, it was necessary to fill the bamboo with drinking water, and the path to the spring led past her new neighbour's abode, and—and is it not permissible to look as attractive as one can, anyway?

The precious bundle was relegated to the care of one of her numerous relatives, and Felisi set out. At the croton hedge she paused for breath, but was allowed to proceed without so much as a glance in her direction. It was strange, but not past remedy. On the return journey she came swinging down the hill, a truly devastating apparition. Precisely at the croton hedge the water bamboo needed readjustment to the accompaniment of a hummed meke air. But nothing happened—nothing whatsoever....

That was why a few minutes later Garnet was brought back from a particularly promising flight of fancy to things practical by a mango dropping fair and square in the middle of his manuscript. It was a disturbing occurrence, but when he came to think of it the wonder was it had not happened before, considering the heavily laden state of the tree overhead and the litter of fruit about the garden. This last would have to be attended to. There were several things that needed attending to.... And that was as far as Garnet usually got in attending to them. But on this occasion it seemed providential that a native of some sort was staring at him over the hedge.

"Hi!" he called. "You want mango?" He indicated the untidy garden with a wave of the hand.

The "native of some sort" seemed unimpressed with the possibilities in mangoes; or was it that she failed to understand?

"Mango!" repeated Garnet, stabbing the air in their direction with the chewed pencil. "Plenty mango, savvy?"

Felisi pouted, then smiled. She was equally expert at either.

"Me get you," she said brightly, displaying her latest linguistic achievement fresh garnered from an American schooner.

It had the desired effect. Garnet removed his sun-glasses, levered himself out of the chair, and strolled over to the hedge.

"Oh, so you get me, do you?" he observed, also and unconsciously observing those qualities in Felisi of Luana that he had been intended to. "Well, what about it?"

He looked considerably younger without the glasses, Felisi reflected, and he had kind eyes. There was a button missing from his shirt, and a hole in one of his socks. A freshly crumpled letter protruded from the left pocket of his duck jacket. His manner was of the bluff, playful order universally adopted by white folk in dealing with children, dogs, and natives, but it was assumed, she decided. He was not really like that....

"Clear them up and you can have them," he continued. "How would that do?"

"You no like 'em mango?" suggested Felisi.

"Hate 'em," said Garnet.

"Me, too," admitted Felisi.

Garnet laughed. Refreshing little person, he told himself. Evidently had ideas of her own, and after all, why not? Wonderful eyes ... and what hair, and skin, and carriage! But it was the possibilities of a mind that intrigued Garnet. What if she actually had one? And if she had, what did it harbour? Rather interesting, that—life through a Kanaka's eyes. Entirely new viewpoint. He wondered... That was his trade.

His wonder grew as the sun-drenched days passed by, and each evening Felisi appeared with a reed basket to relieve him of some mangoes—never all, because that would have ended the visitations—but sufficient to make a showing before she squatted at his feet, and they indulged in a sort of mango social. It was a quaint occasion, but they both enjoyed it.

"What about the Princess and the poor man?" suggested Garnet. "You might let me have that again, will you?"

"You like 'im, eh?" questioned Felisi.

"Very much," said Garnet. "But there's something wrong with the end. They were drowned, weren't they?"

Felisi regarded him reproachfully.

"Them no drowned," she said. "Them marry."

"But how can that be if they dived together off a cliff higher than Suva church because the King wouldn't let them, and never came up again?"

"Me no say them never come up again," protested Felisi in injured tones. "Me no finish."

"Ah, I see," murmured Garnet, leaning back in his chair. "Another powerful instalment in our next, eh? Well, fire ahead."

"Them dive," proceeded Felisi dramatically, "down—down, an' never come up"

"There you are," said Garnet.

"Never come up three—six days," continued Felisi, ignoring the interruption.

"Gad, they must have had a pair of lungs on them," came another that met with a like fate.

"King him think them finish, but"

"Ah!" breathed Garnet.

"Poor man him hunt plenty turtle. Him see turtle go in cave under sea. Him take Princess in cave"

"And I suppose when they did come out, the King was so pleased to see his daughter again that he made the poor man a chief, and let them marry?"

Felisi nodded gravely.

"How you know?" she demanded.

"I have an instinct in these things," said Garnet.

Felisi decided it was a disappointing process to recount Island history to people with instinct—whatever that might be. It robbed the narrator of a legitimate and hard-earned climax.

"You now," she announced, after sitting in silence while Garnet produced reflective smoke clouds that hung on the still air above his head.

"What's that?" he exclaimed, with the sudden dread of his species that something was expected of him.

"But—I don't know anything," he faltered. "Besides, I come from a cold, uninteresting place where princesses don't dive off cliffs or—or do anything like that."

"You write plenty letters," accused Felisi with seeming irrelevance.

"Letters?—Yes, I suppose I do," admitted Garnet on reflection. "I must write quite a lot of letters, heaven help me!"

"What for you write 'em?"

Garnet pondered the matter, perceiving that it was in truth his turn now.

"Money, mostly," he stated truthfully.

"Plenty friend belong you, eh?"

"A fair number."

"An' you write 'em letter for money."

"In a way; that is—yes."

Felisi relapsed into silence. The mystery was solved. She had no idea that writing to one's friends for money was such a remunerative proceeding.

There followed further cursory conversation, possibly a cup of tea, and Felisi's departure, impeded by the laden reed basket.

Such were the mango socials, and they continued with marked success for nearly a month. Then Garnet's conscience got to work. There was a calendar in his house, an advertisement of the local shipping company, and more than once he found himself standing before it staring fixedly at a date whereon was printed in small blue letters:

"S.S. Levu arrives Malita." The announcement had the effect of making him feel supremely uncomfortable. It was absurd, but it was so.

"Poor little devil," he muttered, and strolled out to the garden.

Felisi was diligently eradicating mangoes. Garnet watched her. "What was he to say to her? How was he to say it? He was probably her world, and she would be an exile after to-night. That was what it amounted to.

A scene from "Madama Butterfly" flashed across his mind, and he found himself revising the cast of characters. He remembered how he had wanted to kick the hero of that opera, just as he was mentally kicking himself now. Yet what had he done? Nothing that could account for his present state of mind. Unintentionally, even unconsciously, he had won the affection of this child, and the realization of it filled him with pity. How was he to tell her that she must come no more? Garnet shrank from the ordeal with the repugnance of a deeply sympathetic nature.

What a deal of unnecessary suffering there was in the world, he mused. We trampled through life, crushing the hope and happiness of others like insects under foot. It was all an accident, of course, but the result was the same. We passed on our way unconscious murderers. Yet there were some in this whirlwind of a world who took time to notice and to think, and suffered in consequence. Garnet told himself that he was one of these. He sighed.

Whereupon Felisi, who had finished the mango harvest, looked up.

"Him sick?" she suggested, indicating the place where the lower half of Garnet's waistcoat should have been.

"No," he said. "I was thinking about a story that I have to tell, and don't know how."

"You tell 'em all right," encouraged Felisi.

"Think so?" said Garnet. "Well, here goes!"

He could not bring himself to look at her as he spoke. Instead, he addressed the branches of the mango tree:

"There was once a garden, a little girl, and a man. The man liked the little girl, the little girl liked the man, and they both liked the garden, so for some time they had a very pleasant time all round. But outside this garden, and creeping nearer every day, there was a—a trouble, a she trouble that particularly disliked little girls. Of course the little girl knew nothing of this trouble, but the man knew it very well indeed—so well that when it was only a day's journey from the garden he thought it best to tell the little girl so that she could run away and not be troubled with the trouble. That was why one evening he made it all into a story and told it her while they were sitting in the garden."

It was some time before Garnet dared to steal a glance at his audience, but when he did there was something in Felisi's silence that told him she understood. Then, of a sudden, she was on her feet, her body swaying with excitement.

"Him all right," she said breathlessly. "Me now. All the same story—girl, garden, man, trouble—him he trouble, mine," and with that she turned and fled.

Perhaps it was as well, Garnet decided, fumbling for his pipe; but the garden looked infernally empty ... and what on earth could the child mean...?

Malita wharf was aswarm with its "steamer day" crowd when the Levu came alongside. Garnet saw his wife almost immediately, and waved a greeting with his hat over the head of the little native woman in front who had a bundle securely spliced to her side with a crimson sulu. This contained a minute object in the way of babies, but apparently in proper working order by the sounds it produced. It was its mother, though, that attracted Garnet's attention. Her head, though he could only see the back of it, was vaguely familiar. He looked again, and saw Felisi of Luana.

Before the gangway was out her husband, a bronze giant with a grin that threatened to interfere with his ears, had bounded onto the wharf and taken possession. He examined his wife, and she smiled radiantly; he examined her precious bundle, and she laughed ecstatically.

This, then, was the nature of Felisi's "trouble." Garnet smiled as he turned to meet his own.