The Strange Adventure Of James Shervinton Part 7

Her face lit up with pleasure. "It is kind of you. And you will not find me troublesome. I should go mad if I were left alone here, for Niabon has always been such a friend to me. Whenever my husband was away, she came and stayed with me."

This allusion to her husband, I could see, pained her, and therefore, although I knew that several parties were out in search of him, I did not mention his name to her.

"Mr. Sherry," she said presently, "I have a suggestion to make. One of the boats belonging to this station was lost, as you know, not long ago, but there is another, a large one, which was sold to some natives. Would you like me to send for her, and if you like it better than your own, I think we could buy it back."

I knew the boat well enough by sight. She was half-decked, and although not a beauty to look at, was certainly a much better and safer boat than my own for a long voyage. I decided to inspect her, and my hostess at once despatched a man to the village where the boat was then lying with a message to the chief to bring her to Taritai. I told Mrs. Krause that if the boat was seaworthy she would certainly be far preferable to my own, and that I would buy it from the natives. And then, much against my will, I had to ask her what she intended doing with her husband's property when she left the island.

"That is one subject upon which I want your advice. Will you look at his account-books, and tell me his position with the firm in Hamburg?"

Krause had kept his books very methodically, and after taking stock of the little trade goods that were still unsold, and counting his cash, I was able to tell her pretty exactly how he stood. There was about 200 due to him altogether.

"What would you advise me to do?" she asked.

"As far as the house and all that is in it is concerned, you can do nothing but leave it under the care of the head men of Taritai. They will undertake the responsibility, and hand the station over to the first German s.h.i.+p that calls."

"There will be a man-o'-war here soon, the _Elizabeth_. At least, we heard that she was likely to come here some time this year."

I said she would be doing wisely if she remained on the island, and got the man-of-war captain to settle up Krause's affairs; but she shuddered and looked at me in such fear that I said no more, beyond remarking that as her husband had left no will--at least, as far as she knew--I feared she would have trouble in getting the amount due to him at the time of his death. She would probably have to go to Sydney, where there was a branch of the firm he was trading for.

"I don't want the 200," she said vehemently. "I have a little money of my own--about twenty dollars--and one cannot well starve anywhere in the South Seas. I am young and can work. I could earn my living by making Panama hats if I could find nothing else to do."

CHAPTER VII

"Twenty dollars is not much of a stand-by in a town like Apia or Levuka," I said gravely, as I looked at her now animated features.

"Living there is very expensive--as I know to my sorrow--and unless you have friends at either place, you would have to go to an hotel in the first place."

"I am not afraid, Mr. Sherry. And I am not jesting about the hat-making.

All of my mother's family were very expert at it, and quite often I have seen as much as twenty-five or thirty Mexican dollars paid for one of our hats. We could have sold ten times the number had we been able to have made more."

"Where was this?" I asked, with interest.

"At Agana, in the Marianas. My father lived there for many years. He was a very poor man, and had a hard struggle to get along with such a large family. So we all had to help him as much as we could. He was an Englishman named Arundel, and was in some Government employment in Rangoon. I do not remember exactly what it was, but think he was connected with maritime matters, for I remember that he had many nautical books, and used to go away frequently in the Government steamers to Perak and Singapore. I can scarcely remember my mother, for she died when I, who was the youngest of the family, was about six years old. But I think she was of Dutch-Javanese parentage, for sometimes she would speak to us children in both languages, and I remember her being very dark. Soon after she died, my father--who was always of a restless disposition I suppose--either gave up, or lost his employment in Rangoon, and taking us with him, settled on Tinian, in the Marianas, where he had something to do with cattle. But we did not remain there permanently; we were always moving about from one island to another--sometimes we would be living at Saipan, sometimes at Rota, and sometimes at Agana, in Guam. At this last place--which I love dearly--we were very happy, although we were so poor."

She stopped somewhat abruptly, and added that it was at this place she had met Krause, who came to the Marianas from Manila, on behalf of his firm, who had a large establishment at the latter city.

"I should like to see the Marianas--or the Ladrones, as we traders call them," I said. "There is a very dear friend of mine now living at San Anlaccio in Guam----"

"What is his name?" she asked quickly.

"Jose Otano. He was mate of a New Bedford whaler."

"I know him, I know him," she cried excitedly, "he and his mother, and his two sisters--Nicolacoa and Maria. Oh, how I should love to see them again! I remember going to San Anlaccio with my father and an elder sister, and staying there for two or three months. My father was buying cattle for _tasajo_, and we lived with the Otano family. They were very kind to as, and we three little girls used to ride together on the water buffaloes, and one day their brother Jose, who I remember was a sailor, had to come and search for us, for we were lost in a great swamp between Punta de los Amantes and the stone cross of Padre Sanvitores."

"Those are the people," I said, feeling pleasurably excited myself that we should have mutual friends. "I have often heard him speak of his mother and two sisters. And often, very often he has urged me to pay him a visit, and settle down with him. He says that I should not want to leave the Marianas once I could see what a beautiful country it is."

"No, indeed! Ah, Mr. Sherry, 'tis indeed a beautiful country. I wonder if I shall ever see it again! My father, two brothers, and three of my sisters died of fever just before I married Krause, and there are but two of us left now--myself and another sister who is married to the Spanish doctor at San Ignacio de Agana. Oh, shall I ever see her face again?"

Her eyes sparkled, and her pale face flushed as she bent towards me with clasped hands: "Oh, the mere thought of it makes me feel a young girl again."

"Why should you not?" I began, then I ceased speaking, and walked up and down the room thinking, and I felt my cheeks flush as a project, daring enough, came to my mind.

"Have you a big sheet chart of the Pacific--the large blue-backed one?"

I asked.

"Yes, there it is in the corner beside you, with some others. But it is old."

"It will do."

I spread it out on the table, and weighted down each of the four ends by means of books, so as to get a good view.

[Ill.u.s.tration: I spread the chart out on the table 092]

"Come here, Mrs. Krause, and look."

She came over to me, and then her thin little hand followed my forefinger as I made a pencilled mark on the chart to the south-east.

"Here is Tarawa; here is Apia in Samoa, nearly fifteen hundred miles distant. Here is the island of Ovalau in Fiji, about the same distance.

Do you see?"

"Yes, I see."

"And here, north-west from Tarawa, is your home on Guam--more than two thousand miles away. 'Tis a long, long way--but it could be done."

"A long, long way indeed." She lifted her eyes to me--and then she placed her hand on mine. "Why do you smile, Mr. Sherry; and yet why say 'it could be done'?"

"Let us sit down and talk the matter over quietly;" and I led her to a seat.

"Why should we go to Fiji or Samoa?" I said quickly, my blood afire with my new project. "There is nothing to draw you thither, is there?"

"Nothing. I know no one at either place. But you----"

"I! It matters but little to me where I go. But I am sick to death of this island, and long to be doing something. I am a man without a home, without ties, a wandering South Sea deadbeat--no friends."

"You must not say that," she said softly. "I am sure you have many friends. Just now you spoke of one--Jose Otano."

"Aye, I did; but I meant friends in Europe, in the outer and greater world--people who care for, who even give me a pa.s.sing thought."

"That is sad, indeed. Oh, it must be sad to be alone, quite, quite alone in the world. And I am very, very sorry for you, Mr. Sherry."

The deep ring of sympathy in her voice warmed my heart to the little woman.

"Mrs. Krause," I said--and I spoke quietly, "you are a brave woman, else you would not dare to come with me in a small boat to so distant a place as Fiji or Samoa. But will you be braver still, and risk your life in a still more dangerous enterprise?"

"I will, indeed, Mr. Sherry. I have no sense of the fear of death--none, absolutely none," she replied.

"Then let us give up the idea of Fiji," I cried, catching her hand, "let us go to the north-west--to Guam, to your own home."