Gabrielle of the Lagoon. W. H. Myddleton

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       W. H. Myddleton

      Gabrielle of the Lagoon

      A Romance of the South Seas

      Published by Good Press, 2020

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066099022

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I—ROMANCE’S FIRST THRILL

       CHAPTER II—THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

       CHAPTER III—SOUTH SEA OPERA BOUFFE

       CHAPTER IV—THE SOUL’S RIVAL

       CHAPTER VI—THE DERELICT

       CHAPTER VII—WHEN THE STARS DANCED

       CHAPTER VIII—HEATHEN LAND

       CHAPTER IX—THE HOMERIC SPIRIT

       CHAPTER X—THE WINE-DARK SEAS

       CHAPTER XI—KIDNAPPED

      "

      PROLOGUE

      Though it was night and there was no moon, a dim, weird light lay over the isle and pierced to the depths of the forests. It was in the Solomons, where the dark, picturesque surroundings of palm and reef, the noise of the distant surfs, made a suitable setting for anything unexpected. Even the silver sea-birds had weird, startled-looking eyes down Felisi beach way. And when the wild brown men crept away from the grave-side of one whom they had just buried in the forest, the winds sighed a fitting music across the primeval heights. But there was nothing strange in that; men must die wherever one goes, and it was a common enough occurrence in that heathen land where the ocean boomed on the one side and inland to the south-west stood the mountains, looking like mighty monuments erected in memory of the first dark ages. Across the skies of Bougainville the stars had been marshalled in the millions. It seemed a veritable heathen faeryland as the night echoed a hollow “Tarabab!” But even that heathenish word was only the tribal chief’s yell as he stood under the palms conducting the semi-religious tambu ceremony. The tawny maidens and high chiefs, with their feather head-dresses, all in full festival costume, were squatting in front of the secret tambu stage, some mumbling prayer, others beating their hands together as an accompaniment. And still the dusky tambu dancer moved her perfect limbs rhythmically to the rustling of her sarong-like attire, swaying first to the right then to the left as she chanted to the wailings of the bamboo fifes and bone flutes. The orchestral-like moan of the huge bread-fruits, as odorous drifts of hot wind swept in from the tropic seas, seemed to murmur in complete sympathy with the pretty dancer. One might easily have concluded that Oom Pa, the aged high priest, was the “star turn” of the evening as he stood there enjoying his thoughts and performing magnificently on the monster tribal drum.

      There was something fascinating and super-primitive about the whole scene. The very scents from decaying forest frangipani and hibiscus blossoms seemed to drift out of the damp gloom of the dark ages. The presence of civilisation in any form seemed the remotest of possibilities. Even the fore-and-aft schooner, with yellowish, hanging canvas sails, lying at anchor just beyond the shore lagoons, looked like some strange-rigged craft that sailed mysterious seas.

      But as the assembled tribe once again wildly clamoured for the next dancer to come forward and exhibit her charms, a murmur of surprise rose from the back rows of stalwart, tattooed chiefs—a white girl suddenly ran out of the forest and jumped on to the tambu stage!

      One aged chiefess who was busy mumbling her prayers looked up and gave a frightened scream. Even the aged philosophical head-hunter Ra-mai, who had one hundred and eighty skulls hanging to his credit in his palavana hard by, gave a mellow grunt, so great was his surprise. A white girl, lips red as coral, hair like the sunset’s gold, standing by his old pae pae! It was something that he had never dreamed of. The tawny maidens squatting beneath the coco-nut-oil-lamp-lit shades on the right of the buttressed banyans, lifted their hands in astonishment. For a moment the white girl stood perfectly still. All eyes were upon her. She stared vacantly as though she were in a trance. Then she moved forward a few steps, her feet lightly touching the forest floor as if she were a visionary figure veiled in moonlight. Only the sudden renewal of the wild clamouring and guttural cries of “O la Maramam tambu, papalaga!” (“A white girl will dance before us!”) seemed to rouse her to her senses, reminding her of the reason she had responded to the swelling chorus of tribal drums.

      The barbarian musicians had begun to bang and blow on their flutes in an inspired way as they urged her to dance. Her sudden hesitation was very evident to every onlooker. And as she stood there by the monster tambu idol, its big glass eyes agog and wooden lips stretched in hideous laughter, she had a strange, unearthly beauty. The winds sighed in the palms; she wavered like a blown spirit-girl that had been suddenly swept out of the night of stars into the midst of those Pharaoh-like chiefs. Some of those warriors watched with chin on hand, others stared upon her with burning eyes.

      Those old chiefs and their women-kind had seen many strange sights and experienced many shocks since German, British, Malayan, Hindoo, Chinese and Dutch settlers had set foot on their shores; but still they were quite unprepared for the sight they witnessed that night. The handsome Malayo-Polynesian half-castes nudged their comrades in the ribs and murmured the native equivalent to “What-o!” To their delight, the white girl had mounted the pae pae and had begun to dance and sing. The whole tribe watched and listened, spellbound. The haunting sweetness of the melody seemed to bring all ears under its influence. It was something in the way of song that those wild people had never heard before.

      Only the pretty faded blue robe falling down to her brown-stockinged ankles and the long tortoise-shell comb stuck in the rich folds of her golden-bronze hair told of her mortal origin. And there was no mistaking the reality of that indisputable bang on the heathen bandmaster’s drum. That dusky virtuoso was certainly inspired by human passion.

      Ra-mai, who was a kind of religious genius, dropped his festival calabash and rubbed his eyes, for the girl was swaying as though she were fastened on to the winds, her eyes wide open, staring upon him. The old priestly warrior swore, long after, that she was a spirit-maid whom he had loved a thousand years ago, and who had returned that night, as white as a deep-sea pearl, to show men how great a priest and warrior he really was. But he was a poetical old fellow and had a high opinion of himself where female beauty and frailty were concerned. But if there was an element of surprise over her sudden appearance before them, the astonishment of these natives was intensified by her dramatic exit from their midst. Just as the guttural cries of the chiefs and the weird monotones of the chanting tambu maidens had caught the tempo of her dance, she gave a scream, stood perfectly still and stared on those wild men with a terrified look in her eyes. Then, before anyone could realise her intentions, she had leapt from the pae pae, had run away into the forest and vanished like a wraith!

      The whole tribal assemblage looked into each other’s eyes in astonishment. Such an exhibition of red betel-nut-stained teeth had never been seen in a midnight forest festival before, for they all stared open-mouthed.

      “Tabaran