Читать книгу The Dark River - Charles Bernard Nordhoff - Страница 7

Table of Contents

The sun was an hour high the following morning when they started down the lagoon. McLeod sat in the stern of the canoe Fara had loaned them, trying to keep it on a direct course while Hardie paddled in the bow.

"Don't put so much muscle into it, Alan," he said. "Let me get the hang of steering first."

Hardie paused and looked back at him.

"I supposed an old Tahitian like yourself would know all about outrigger canoes. We've eight miles to go, according to Fara."

"There's plenty of time. Take it easy."

They paddled on for an hour, with scarcely a word exchanged between them. The stillness of early morning rested upon land and sea, deepened by the thin clear crowing of jungle cocks in the forest that covered the lowlands and the hills beyond. Above them, far inland, they had glimpses of plateaus crossed by bands of golden light, narrow canyons filled with purple haze, the head walls of valleys, and, higher and farther still, the peaks of mountains dimly seen through veils of mist. At times they moved along the brink of shoals that shelved steeply into the depths; here they drifted or paddled slowly. And on the right hand stretched the lonely coast, broken by small bays and coves and promontories, with no sign anywhere of human habitation.

"I've always wanted to see one of the ends of the earth," Hardie remarked, presently.

"There's something sad about it. Don't you think so?"

"It's true of any place that nature has claimed for its own again. Tyson was telling me that, in the ancient days, this was one of the most thickly settled parts of the island."

"I'd like to have seen it then."

"I believe I prefer it as it is.... How far to go now, do you think?"

"We must be better than halfway," said McLeod. "Put your back into it a bit more now."

"Getting impatient?"

"Yes."

"You must have come this way more than once with your father and mother."

"I suppose I did. If they'd lived, Alan, I might have spent all my boyhood here. Who knows--I might never have left the island."

"I doubt that. Your parents would have gotten too homesick for Devonshire. Even if they had stayed, you'd have been sent home to school."

"What do you see ahead there, off to the left?"

"Nothing."

"You don't!"

Hardie looked again, more carefully, rubbing his eyes and then shading them with his hand. "Well, something, perhaps. It's a blur to me."

"Damn it, Alan. You've forgotten your dark glasses. You know what the orders were."

"It doesn't matter."

"You know better! I'll take care of them after this. You can't be counted on, that's plain."

"What is it you see?"

"A small island offshore. It must be the one Fara told us about, at the entrance to Vaihiva Valley. You see it, surely?"

"Looks like a point to me."

"No, there's clear water between it and the mainland."

Half an hour later they were abreast of the islet. Leaving it on the left, they now had in view the valley with its two great terraces, foreshortened from their vantage point. All the upper part was canopied with cloud, but the lower reaches lay in full sunlight.

"Alan, I'm beginning to remember it now," McLeod said. "Our house stood on that point across the river. That'll be Mauri's house on this side, and the little pier by those trees is where my father used to take me swimming. It must have been my father."

"You're dreaming," Hardie said. "You weren't five years old when you left here. I doubt if you remember where your house stood."

"We'll soon know," McLeod replied. "I don't see anyone, but they must be here somewhere."

"What a glorious spot! I don't wonder your parents loved it."

They paddled across the smooth waters of the lagoon and entered the river which wound before them in a still deep channel shaded by great trees along its banks. Making the canoe fast to the pier, they took the path to the house.

"Let me speak first," McLeod said, in a low voice. He knocked lightly on one of the verandah posts. There was no response. He knocked again.

"Where are they all?" he whispered.

"All? How many are there to be? I don't remember Tyson speaking of any great family."

"There's Mauri's old father, at least, beside herself. And didn't Tyson say something about a daughter?"

"I've forgotten."

"Let's go around to the back. They can't be far off."

A walk strewn with coral sand and shaded by tall hibiscus bushes led around one side of the house. Before them stretched a wide area of land bordered by the river on one side and the lagoon on the other. It was carpeted with a lawn that had the appearance of being grazed by cattle. Coconut palms, lime, orange, breadfruit, and mango trees laden with fruit cast their shadows on the grass, and clumps of banana plants partly concealed various outbuildings with bamboo walls and thatched roofs that descended in long sweeping lines to the low eaves. As they stood there, entranced by the sunny silence of the place, a bird with snow-white plumage appeared from behind a corner of the house. Immediately it saw them, it walked away with an air of dignified anxiety, turning its head as though to make certain it was not being followed. Then, flapping its wings, it took the air and disappeared to seaward.

"That's a pet, evidently," said Hardie. "I've never seen a more comical air of astonishment and disapproval in a bird's behavior. What was it?"

"Belongs to the heron family, I should think," McLeod replied, absently. "Alan, this place is like a dream to me. All sorts of dim memories seem to be coming back. You can't imagine what a strange feeling it gives me."

"Listen, Mac. I think I'll leave you."

"Leave me? What for?"

"You should have come alone. I would have wanted to, in your place. Don't know why I didn't think of this before."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. You'll want to talk with Mauri about your father and mother, and your childhood here, and all the rest of it. I'll walk to Tautira. Fara said there's a footpath along the beach that can be followed without much trouble. You don't mind paddling the canoe back?"

"Not if you're sure you want to go."

"I do. I'd like to see the coast from on shore."

"There's one thing," McLeod said. "If they ask me, I think I'll stay on here for a day or so."

"Of course. I won't expect you till you come. I'll be off now while there's time."

McLeod stood looking after his friend until he had disappeared among the trees in the direction of the beach. Then, finding that there was no one at hand, he took a path leading into the valley and followed it for some distance. At a turn near the river he came face to face with a slender, dark-haired woman with a basket on her arm. She stopped short at sight of him and drew back a pace or two.

"Madame Mauri?"

She set down her basket, regarding him for a few seconds with a grave questioning glance.

"Yes," she replied.

"You don't know me?" he added, smiling.

She continued to regard him in the same grave manner, then shook her head.

"But perhaps you will remember a little boy who was here many years ago with his father and mother? Didn't they live in a house just across the river?"

An expression of astonishment that seemed almost painful in its intensity came into Mauri's eyes.

"Aué!" she exclaimed in a low voice. "Yes, but... you are not..."

"I'm the little boy, Mauri--George McLeod."

He regretted his abruptness. Mauri had been only a vague memory of his childhood and he supposed that she must have forgotten him long since. He now realized that the forgetting had been on his part. Tears brimmed into her eyes, and in a manner that touched him deeply she stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks; then she clung to him, unable to speak. She raised her head and held him at arm's length, her mouth quivering as she gazed at him.

"George, do you remember what you called me when you were little? You couldn't say 'Mauri' then. It was always 'Mau'i.'"

"Did I?"

"And I called you 'Toti.' Did you know me just now?"

"I guessed it, Mauri. I'd even forgotten your name--think of that! It was Mr. Tyson, in Papeete, who told me."

"Of course. You were such a baby when I had to let you go."

"But I believe I remember that time. I remember how I hung on to you when some strange woman came to take me away. It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Mr. Tyson had to send you back to England. I took you to Tautira and he met us there with the Frenchwoman who was going with you on the steamer. It was a sad day for me, Toti. I wanted to keep you."

She fell silent. The silence lengthened until McLeod was conscious of a slight feeling of embarrassment. He was about to speak when Mauri looked up once more.

"You must forgive me, Toti. I'm forgetting my English."

"You needn't apologize. I don't remember a single word of Tahitian. Didn't I use to speak it a little?"

"Yes; you learned very fast."

"And you've always lived here? Ever since...?"

"Always. I like it here."

"I don't wonder. I've never seen a more beautiful spot. I'm beginning to remember it again."

"Toti, did you come... all the way, to see me?"

"Of course. One of the first things I asked Mr. Tyson was about Vaihiva and you."

"I mean, did you come all the way from England, just for this?"

"Oh.... No, I can't say I did. Tahiti is so far away, Mauri. I don't think I ever expected to see it again."

"Then why did you come?"

"It was a great piece of luck. I have a friend who is making a voyage around the world and he asked me to come with him."

"How long will you stay on Tahiti?"

"Only a month, I'm afraid. We think we'll go on to New Zealand by the next steamer.... You don't remember ever hearing my father speak of an old friend of his--George Hardie?"

"Hardie?... I don't know..."

"I'm traveling with Mr. Hardie's son, Alan. He was named for my father and I was named for his."

Mauri glanced up with a startled expression.

"Hardie... Yes, I do remember that name now! Aué! Yes... Why... was he the man you went to live with in England?"

"That's the one. And I've lived in the Hardie family ever since. Alan is just my age. We've grown up together."

Mauri fell silent again. McLeod could see that she had been profoundly moved by this unexpected meeting, and was both surprised and touched by her agitation.

"I'm glad you remember about me, Mauri," he said. "I didn't suppose you would. I'm afraid I've disturbed you, coming like this. I should have let you know, in advance."

"No, no. It is a great surprise to see you, and a great pleasure. But... if you will excuse me a little? I've forgotten something in the valley. I must go back."

"I'll go with you if you like."

"There is no need. Wait for me in the house. I will come soon."

Mauri returned the way she had come, walking quickly until she was well out of sight; then she halted by a mapé tree whose great flanged trunk offered her yet further concealment. Safe from observation and torn between conflicting emotions, she turned toward the tree, pressing her face against the smooth bark. What must she do? What could she do? It was willed, this coming. It must have been so. From their graves the dead parents had willed that Naia's brother should return here to claim her. What if, in some strange way, the brother and sister should recognize each other? But that could never be; she was alarming herself for nothing. Certainly, there was no danger on Naia's side, nor would George remember his parents. But he must have seen their photograph. What if he should discover in Naia some resemblance to their mother? It was there--Mauri herself could see it: Naia had her mother's dark hair, the same grace of body, the same poise of the head. But the mother's eyes had been gray, and Naia's were deep brown, like her father's. But for all this there was no great likeness in Naia to either of her parents. Had there been, would it not have been remarked, by others, long since? Mr. Tyson, the consul, had known both parents well, but in all these years he had suspected nothing. Nor had anyone else.

But they must not meet, those two! To see them together... no, no, no! It would be more than she could bear! But how prevent the meeting? Naia had gone off early that morning, but whether down the lagoon or up the valley she did not know. She could not herself go in search. There would be no time. A moment later, to her relief, two children appeared on the path.

"You have seen Naia, Tomi?" she asked the elder of them.

The boy shook his head.

"Then find her for me, will you? Meina, you must help, too. And listen, Tomi. Tell Naia that she is to have her lunch at your mother's house and to wait for me there. I want her to go with me to the upper valley this afternoon. Go now, and be sure you find her. And don't forget: she is to wait for me at your mother's house."

The boy nodded and the children ran on up the path by the river.

Mauri had herself well in hand by the time she returned to the house, but the effort to maintain her composure taxed all of her strength and all her woman's skill at dissimulation. She found McLeod waiting for her on the verandah.

"This is the same house, isn't it, Mauri?" he asked. "The one I used to come to?"

"Yes."

"There's something else I seem to remember," he went on. "I was with some people... not here, I think; somewhere else, and it was dark and raining hard. I wanted my mother and couldn't find her. Was that something that really happened?"

"Yes. It was when your mother died, Toti. There was a great storm at that time."

"Where was I then?"

"In a little house up the valley."

"That room at the end of the verandah must have some association for me, but I can't think what it was."

"You slept there with your father and mother when you first came, until your own house was finished."

"Could I look into it, Mauri? It's strange how I'm beginning to remember, now that I'm here once more."

Mauri stood at the doorway while McLeod stepped into the room and looked about him.

"It's not as it was when you were here," she said. "This was my husband's room. He died six years ago. I keep it just as he left it."

"I can see that it was a man's room," McLeod replied. "He was a great reader, evidently."

"Yes; all those books were his. He was an American. It was just after we were married that we came here to live. We built this house at that time."

"How long was that before my father and mother came?"

"Let me see... four years, I think."

McLeod halted before a framed photograph that hung on the wall by a writing table.

"What a lovely girl! Who is she?"

"My daughter, Naia."

"Oh.... I didn't know that you had a daughter."

"Mr. Tyson didn't tell you?"

"Perhaps. But he told us so many things, and I was trying to take them all in at once.... You must be very proud of her. How old is she?"

"It was Mr. Tyson who took the photograph one time when he came here. My husband thought Naia looked very much like a sister of his who died when she was about our daughter's age."

"When was this taken?"

"Two years ago. Naia was fourteen then."

"Why... she must have been born when I was here!"

"Yes; she was a tiny baby when you left--four months old.... Aué, Toti! Here we stand talking, and you must be very hungry, after that long paddle down the lagoon. Come, I will get you some lunch. It is time."

"Does Naia live here, with you?"

"Yes. That is, sometimes. Now I will get your food. Wait on the verandah. It will not be long."

"I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance."

"You mean you make péapéa for me? No, no! I hope you are very hungry? The food is all ready, in the himaa. You remember the himaa, the oven in the ground? You will have some nice maa Tahiti for your lunch."

Half an hour later Mauri called him to his meal. The table on the back verandah was set for one.

"But what about you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry. I ate some fruit this morning when I was up the valley. I always do that and spoil my appetite. Eat well, Toti."

"But you've enough food here for a dozen! I don't know where to begin."

McLeod did full justice to the meal, while Mauri sat near by, replying briefly to his questions. When he had finished they returned to the front verandah, and McLeod became increasingly aware of a feeling of constraint on Mauri's part that puzzled him. He could not doubt that she had been sincerely glad to see him, but now he felt that she was uneasy in his presence and wishing him gone. She became more and more silent, and his own embarrassment grew as he tried to bridge these silences with talk of his voyage from England, his impressions of Tahiti, and his plans for further wanderings. He spoke again of Naia, but Mauri was as vague in her replies about her as she had been at first. It was plain that, for some reason, she did not wish to discuss her daughter. Nor was anything more said of his father and mother. After waiting vainly for her to suggest it, he asked if he might see their graves.

"Yes, Toti. I wished to speak of that," she said. "Come, we will go now."

She led the way in silence to the pier where the canoes were tied. Having crossed the river, they followed a dim path that wound through dense undergrowth to a great ironwood that lifted its branches high above the surrounding thickets. She halted at this spot.

"You remember this place?" she asked. "The house was here--such a pretty house, the native kind. It is gone long ago."

"I believe I remember this tree," McLeod replied.

"You played under it often. Your father and mother would sit here of an evening and you brought them shells from the beach. You see the tree over there, all in blossom? It is one your father planted."

"They were happy here, weren't they, Mauri?"

"At first they were very happy. They hoped your father would be well soon. But after... he wanted so much to live, and they knew it couldn't be."

"It's strange," McLeod replied. "What you just said about my bringing the shells almost gave me a picture of my mother."

"She was beautiful, Toti; not much older than you are now. And she had such a lovely voice; it was like music to hear her talk."

"Were you with her often?"

"Every day, after your father died. She stayed at our house most of the time then. She had great courage. I shall never forget how brave she was.... You must forgive me that I don't keep the land cleared any more."

"There's no reason why you should."

"I did at first. It was beautiful then. Your mother loved her garden, and there were only these great trees to shade the grass. It was all open and sunny. Then I let things grow as they would. To see it as it was, before, made me too sad."

"I understand."

"But the graves--you will see."

The burial plot was not far from where the house had stood--a green sunlit place enclosed with a high hedge filled with blossom. It was in perfect order; the three graves were bordered with shells and strewn with white coral sand, making a contrast to the green lawn around them. Slabs of white coral stood for headstones.

"Your father chose this place when he knew he would die. He wanted only a coral stone to mark it. Mr. Tyson thought the others should be the same."

McLeod nodded. He was deeply moved at the sight of these lonely graves. His parents had been scarcely more than names to him; he had long since come to think of Alan Hardie's father as his father and their home as his. Now, for the first time, he was conscious of a poignant sense of loss, of what might have been. Fond as he was of General Hardie, he realized that he had not taken the place of the father who lay here. He thought of the home in Devonshire where so many generations of McLeods had lived and died; it had been let to strangers since his childhood and held no memories for him. Only in this solitary place could he recall in a dim way the parents who had loved him and planned for his future so many years ago. He could imagine his mother's anguish when both knew that the end, for his father, could not be far off, and her loneliness after the end had come. He looked at the tiny grave beside hers.

"Mauri, will you tell me... I don't even know whether it is a brother or a sister that is buried here."

"It was a little girl, Toti."

"Did she... did she die when my mother...?"

"Yes."

Of a sudden Mauri sank to the ground and buried her head in her arms, weeping with a desolate intensity of passion that surprised and moved him deeply.

"Mauri! Forgive me! I didn't know...."

He broke off helplessly, stirred by this sorrow so much sharper than his own. It gave him a changed conception of the warmth and tenderness of Mauri's nature, and of the relationship that must have existed between her and his mother. At last she rose and led the way back to the river. When they had crossed she stood on the pier in silence for a moment.

"You will forgive me, Toti, to cry so much? I loved your mother, I don't go often to their graves."

"I shouldn't have asked you."

"No, no. It was right I should go with you. But not since a long time have I gone. It is my father who takes care of the graves."

She kissed him as she had before.

"Now, Toti, I will say good-bye. You have far to go, to Tautira, and you will need the daylight. It has been a great pleasure to see you. I think of you often, and I always will. I hope you have a happy journey with your friend."

As he left the mouth of the river and rounded the point, McLeod stopped paddling for a moment and looked toward the house, but Mauri was nowhere to be seen. He turned once more to look back at the great ironwood on the opposite side of the river. A little beyond, he could see the flowering tree his father had planted so long ago, a blaze of crimson splendor against the sombre green of the forests.