Evening Star Newspaper, February 22, 1925, Page 64

The Brides of Tarabora ARABORA a sugar island. Miles out at sea, th» wonder- ful blue-green of the cane fields strikes you like a high note in a song. Almost all rear the trade winds blow about these low \ds of the ‘teen and twenty latitudes; you are sure, when vou come up to Tarabora, and anchor oft the sparkling, red-roofed town, to find the wind, us ever, at play with the green lagoons of that surround the township, grape-blue shadows at play wind; and you will ask your: you have as before, why ever speaks or thinks of the ness of thi§ most lovely thing. Certainly, the people who live on Tarabora do not think the sugar- cane lovely. They are all “company” folk, and they have no time to trouble about peacock’s-neck colors running riot in the fields, or songs that the trade-wind, gvpsy king of all the winds that blow, sings in the rippling leaves of the nine-foot purple-stem- med “New Guinea.” In the morning, before the sun has crept down from the gilded peak of Orana, the first of the com- pany men come out on the verandas. Horses are waiting; legs are swung over saddles; women in white mo Ing wrappers set down half-emptied cups to wave good-byes. Down at the end of the town the whistle sereams from the great gray iron mill. The overseers are away and the with the elf, as no one loveli- From the handsome bungalows at the end of the town come, later, men in suits of Assam silk, and boots im- ported from “home”; men whose hair is thinning and whose figures, in ex- pensive jackets and cummerbunds, are not, by & great deal, so good to look on as the lean young shapes of the shirted oversee: These are the peo- ple who “count” on Tarabora; man- agers of departments; estate manag- ers come in to report to the G. M.; mill superintendents, chief account- ants, nd “last, exquisite, apart’-— the G. M. himself. You might have | lived long on Tarabora and never| hav heard its general manager spoken of as Wilbur Redding, Mr. Redding, Redding, or any other com- bLination of his actual names. S in his ptesence, “The G. M.” in his ab- sence, represented Wilbur Redding, tenant of the biggest bungalow, occu- pant of the biggest office and holder of th highest salary and the great- est dignity on Tarabora. He was young for a G. M.; not much over 40, and if he was, like all thef big officials, a trifle fat, his height carried if off Those. hes, and the | heav black mustache, pinched, straight nose and big eyes, gray and hard, but handsome, entitled him (con- sidering his salary) to be called a fasci- nating man, and every single woman on Tarabara felt the fascination, and wondered, and sometimes hoped. . For the M., prize of prizes unmarried Perhaps this had something to do with the number of unwedded women on the island. During the reign of the previous G. M., who had a wife and five children, the white women were nearly all wives. It was the custom to get married on the island, no matter where you had met your bride. Tarabora was very remote in- was deed, and the difference between three | steamer fares and one was of serious quences. So nobody went south to ied, and the girls who came were almost all prespective brides. U new G. M. brought in a element. Mrs. Assistant Manager. Mrs. Accountant, even Mrs. Overseer and Mrs. Clerk, felt it was plain duty to scrape up the fare and give Dorothy, Thelma, Ivy and Joan a chance. If you did draw the big, big prize—and somehow nobody did— there were a number of smaller ones. And the overseers were so good-look- ing. Young, T the new hard-trained, healthy, sun- bronzed, busy, the company of riders who dashed up and down the miles and miles of Tarabora’s canefields all day long, supervising the imported Indian labor, calling over, doctoring, settling murderous disputes, restrain- ing the tyrannies of the turbaned, greedy “siradars”—these men, though their salaries were small and their ways not always ways of righteous ness, found even more favor in the eyes of Doris, Kathleen, Myrtle, Betty and Maie, than did the superior, important men the office block And the missionary parson of the Manchester United Churches, who had Dbeen in Tarabora for at least G. M.'s, quite often, in thos of Redding's reign, told the arabora public in St George's Church that they were now to declare it, and when they did not declare anything of the kind, went on with his job of making Phyllis Marguerite and Henry William one. And_ the line of bungalows with front and back ve- randas, whence thé earliest smells of coffec arose in the shadowy dawn, had quite as many wrappered women waving good-bye on the steps as had the front, back and two-side veranda residences later in the morning. In- deed, they had more. For it was known in Tarabora that Head Ac- of neat, small countant Carrick and Mrs. Carrick did not breakfast together, and that the wife of the secretary—the secre tary—nagged her husband till th last possible moment and then went into the drawing room and slammed the door as he departed. Also it was known that the beautiful house, roof- ed with real tiles, which was occu- pied by Mrs. Churchill of Lalaruna estate when she came into town, sel- dom_sheltered Churchill at one and the same time as his wife. But that was scandal. In Tarabora toward half-past 11 o'clook, when the sun is high and ter- rityingly hot, the smaller bungalows get busily astir. From the mill the, canefield | A Big Discovery Created Unusual Excitement in Town whistle vells out furiously. Then do married Hazel and married Jean run for the kitchen; then does unwedded but hopeful Gladys fly to looking- glass and powder puff. For the overseers are coming back. Half an hour later on, down at the ofice block, a quieter crowd from | desk and counter and private glassed ’cmnpanmcnl will trickle home to the big “all-round veranda” bunga- lows. In the two-veranda-ed cottages, | youth and the giory of youth; leather- | tanned boyish faces pressed to the | white-rose paleness of tropic girl- hood; cheap furniture and colored tablecloth alico dresses, nickel and tin. In the “residences” at the other end, middie age returning to its. deli- cate meal; fine china and pure silver: women in lac amd muslins; not so much noise, so much loud gayety; not (one thinks, though, of course, one cannot know) so much kissing. Some of the married riders of the canefields quarrel with their wives; it has even been said that one or two beat them. Love and life are strong in these young men, who are net, per- haps, all rightly mated, but who all | know their own minds, and impetuous- | Iy exvress what they feel. One thinks | that—like another stiff-chinned fellow | who followed an out-of-doors job, in the dawn of our times—they would be | ready, promptly, to *spue out” any one who blew neither hot nor cold. At any rate, Jim Garland said some- thing of that kind to his wife about one Charlie Cameron, gone South on leave, as they sat down together to company bwllock and baked banana. “Have you and Con been arguing over him again?”’ he went on. “Your eyes are pinky. Why doesn't she come to lunch? There was an interval. “She’s going to go down to Sidney and see what's become of him,” haz- arded Jim. “She would—when he never wrote or answered her telegrams, even,” mocked Alice. *You know a lot about Consuelo. Didn't it ever strike you she was the proudest——" “Now, then, I've guessed,” pro- claimed the overseer. “She’s gone and got engaged to some one else.” “Very clever. Who?" “Oh, 1 don't know after her, more or- “Consuelo,” said Alice, rising, “has— got —engaged to—the G, M.!" “But Al, he never paid her more than ordinary attention, so far as I could see—except at the dance—"" “And except at the tennis fete, and every Sunday after church—who ever aw the G. M. go to church before? And —well, if you didn’t see it, others did. Only one didn’t think, somehow, she'd take him.” “No,” agreed the overseer. “She seemed to be crying her eyes out over Charlie; and I don’t wonder; there's a dashed sight of difference between 24 and 44, not to speak of the difference in looks and Well, ou know, the G. M. is not quite a plaster saint.” “She means to marry him. And, Jim, they're going to be married the d; after tomorro “Well, that sounds sensible; a lot of bother. “Oh, 1 don’t know! soon.” “How? Hasn't she all the fan- danglements she got for Charlie?” “Yes. 1 don't mean that. Only, somehow T wish they'd waited. Jim, what do you really, really think has become of Charli “When a man’s engaged to a girl and doesn’t answer letters or tele- grams—even if they have had a silly quarrel like those two—he's either dead or tied up to some one else, you take my word.” “I wish—I don’t know what I wish,” mourned Alice. “Well, I know what I wish—that an ill-wind may blow somebody good. What about a rise for you and me, €h? A G. M. is a good sort of step- brother-in-law to have. I could do with the managership bf one of the other-side estates. “They're asking no one to the wed- ding.” said Alice, “and Con. means to wear a traveling dress—but, of course, every one will go and look on. Isn't it spiteful having it at 12 on a week day “Hardly playing the game. |on I can get it in time, by it a bit fine with the coolies.” “Do,” begged Alice. * % kX They were all avoid It's too—too | | T reck- cutting IM GARLAND did “cut it fine” and so did other overseers. But, nev- ertheless, when Garland's gray, sweating and foaming, galloped into Tarabora town at 25 minutes past 11, the wedding procession was just en- tering the mission chapel. “What's the hurry for?” asked Gar- land, swinging off his horse. “Tongareva coming in,” =aid an- other rider. Out at sea there was a small black | body. It grew bigger. It turned end |on for the harbor and shaped into a V with a funnel in the midst. not due for two days. New captain, new breom, T suppose. No doubt the G. M. spotted her and hurried things up so that he could get clear away to Orana before he's copped to attend to busi- ness.” “He won't do it.” “Think not? She's nearly in. Come along; never mind your clothes— every one's the same.” Nevertheless, there ‘were a num- ber of well dressed people already in the church to shame the unlucky riders of the caneflelds—if they had been easily shamed, which they were not. They crowded together in the aisles (early birds in the white coats and clean boots, having taken up all the pews), stared, commented and whispered. Not all the whispers were complimentary. The G. M. was not too well liked at the best of times, and this hurried mysterious way of marrying the prettiest girl in Tara- bora did not add to his popularity. ‘The sound of the steamer whistling as she came alongside the jetty, min- gled with the final vows of Garland's sister-in-law and Tarabora's G. M. Jim Garland watched them critically; watched the Rev. Joshua Strake dron- ing through the service as one well accustomed to it all, and little moved, thought, as he had often thought, that the Rev. Joshua looked like a bit of a sneak. And then Garland, moved by some 0ad impulse that he could not have defined, turned around and looked at the open door of the church. And the doorway, looking over the heads of the crowd within, he saw a face— voung, handsome, very drawn and very white—the face of Charlie Cam- eron: - Charlle Cameron,” sald Jim to himself. “Come back by the boat. Oh, my aunt He looked about him. No one, ap- parently, had seen the face except himself. All the overseers, clerks and engineers, all the departmental heads, all the wives and famliles, were gaz- ing with deepest attention at the G. M. as he displayed the pale soles of a pair of very new boots, kneeling on a crimson cushion by the side of white-tailored Consuelo. Garland managed to through the crowd. 'Where's that Charlie?” he thought, not without axiety He remembered a thing or two about Charlie. Charlie was no sucking dove when things went wrong. Goodness knew what PR There he was, under the mango tree. What was ho looking at Garland strode forward. A party of coolies, working at the grass edges of the walks, had left 2 dozen three- foot knives stacked up against the trunk of the mango tree. It as at these that Cameron was looking, i e Tarabora, where now and again an overseer is sliced into rashes by coolies armed with field tools, peo- ple do not look calmly upon any angry man who shows a fancy for long knifeblades. Jim read h friend’s mind as clearly and instantly as he had read the minds of men maddened with “bhang,” once or twice, when lives hung on the read- ing. He came up behind Charlie— always, if possible, comes up be- d the man who looks lovingly at long knives—and promptly pinioned his elbows, Cameron was strong, but big Garland was the: unchallenged Hercules of all the overseers. He dragged the young man away from the knives, got him around the corner of a clump of orange trees and shook him. “Won't do, push out son,” he said. “No slicing _up of bridegrooms on any part of the estate where I'm in charge. Come back to your senses. What have vou been doing? “Let me go,” struggled Cameron. “I don't mean anything, Jim-—at Teant F. w7 My head seems on fire. Am I going mad? Did I fancy I saw . Don't tell me it was she and that beast of a G. M.—in the church—together—-" “But I must tell you, because It was. Get a hold on yourself, man; they’ll be out in a minute. Don't go making a Why did you never answer her letters or telegrams? Yes, T'll let you go if you stay where you are.” “Letters? Consuelo’s? Why didn't she answer mine? She never wrote: it was mostly because of that that I came back early—I'd seven months' leave saved up—and T find her “Cameron, you know you'd quar- reled with her before you left. Why, you—>" - “Yes, but it was only she knew that. I swear of us took it seriously.” “Seems she did—in the letters or—-" “You great lumping carthorse, can't you see? No letters! No letters! Why, it was Ratcliffe I saw standing with him as his best man. Ratcliffe! The postmaster! Now do you see, you—you bat? “Gad, Charlie, I'm afraid T do. You're in a hole, my boy, you've been done in, and I'm dashed Sorry. They say the G. M. always does get his fancies in the end—you remember Mrs. Cope—with the eyes—and that poor little coolis wom: “If T didn’t know—if it wasn't— well, you'd drive a fellow mad, you chunk of lumber. But the game isn't quite up vet; there's . . . They're nonsense— we neither absence of ¥ *TAKE ME HOME, ALLIE,” THEY HEARD THE GIRL SOB. iy coming out. T must ses her. Don't hold me or T'll kill you. “Married's married; you can't take her away from her husband. What do you suppose I'd have done to any one who tried to take Al from me?" The younger man stopped dead, his feet in a drift of fallen orange flowers, “I never breathed. “Of wha “Taking Alic “Oh, look here, you've got a touch of the sun. Let me bring you into the hotel. You're not fit to be out. There they come; don’t—-"" “I'm going to speak to her.” * ok ok ¥ HE fierce squalls of best Patna and third-grade coolie that dis- tinguished zll the weddings of Tara- bora Dhad begun to blow in earnest; the ground was white with rice; bride and bridegroom were dodging and stooping, spectators so busy that no one—at first—had any attention to spare. But in a minute or two it became clear that something beyond the usual wedding turmoil was afoot; people stood clear, dropped the half-emptied bags of rice and con- fetti and stared. Redding's great motor, in charge of a coolie chauf- feur, stood waiting underneath an arch of palms. The bride was draw- ing her long cloak about her before mounting into the car. Redding stood close behind. His shoulder was toward Cameron; it was im- possible to tell whether he saw any- thing or not. “Get in, my dear, get in,” he said to the bride, putting his hand under her elbow. “Hurry; this crowd is enough to make you faint” He grinned beneath his moustache. ‘Always gets his fancies in- the end,” whispered some mocking devil in Charlie Cameron’s ear. Charlie’s young brown fingers clos- ed suddenly over the veiny hand of the G. M. and tossed it from Con- suelo’s arm. 1 think, in that second, she knew all—before she had time to turn from the step of the car and see her lover's face glowing close to hers; before his ery of “Consuelo” reached her ear. “Charlie!” she said, as if she had just beeri waiting for him to come. Then she seemed to remember, and drew back, with a chilling stare. “Oh, it's Mr. Cameron. I don't know why you came back to Tara- bora. Will yvou please stand out of the way and let me get in?" she asked “Yes, Cameron by it?" demanded the G. M Just 10 seconds too late to save his credit among the riders of the canefields They did not much cave for him and they did like Charife Cameron more than a little, but no one would have lifted a finger had the (. M. knocked the disturber of his happiness into the roadside d n. In fact, they would have viewed the act with strong approval. It was what a man ought to do. Instead, the backed off from thought of that” he what do you mean G M cursed and Cameron. The ac- tion might have been meant to draw Consuelo away —he certainly had placed his hand on her arm again— the other arm: Charlie still kept his hold—but it was not so interpreted. A low, mocking murmur ran through the ranks of the crowd. It came from the men: the women were gap- Ing and crving: some because they pitied Consuelo, but most because they were angered at the slight put on ‘that hero of Tarabora's woman- kind, the dignified, splendid general manager. How could a mere over- seer darc? g Consuelo spoke their thought “I don't know how you dare” ske sald. ‘“Please take your hand away. Mr. Redding and I want to start. “You aren't going to start, Con- suelo,” was Cameron's reply, given with a curious, quiet surety that puzzled the watching Garland. What was dt the bottom of this? “If you make any more disturbance Y1l have the police vemove you, Cameron,” fussed Redding, in his M. voice, T must speak to Consuelo.” “Mrs. Redding doesn't wish to be troubled.” * % ¥ X HE G. M. put his foot on the step. Consuelo had taken her seat. She leaned out over the side of the car. “You can—you can say what you have to say before my husband”; she spoKe somewhat unsteadily. “I've two things to say,” stated Cameron. He was very quiet now, but if one looked at his eyes . . . “One is this. I wrote to you, I telegraphed to you. You didn't get my letters or wiltes. Did you write to me?’ “Yes,” Consuelo’s lips red now, but the color of glove. Redding had taken his seat now. Cameron kept his hand on the door. “I think you had better stand back,” said the general manager. “My 'dear—I donm’t want to reprove you exactly, but is this the place or the time—I'm sure you will see . . . Let's get on, and you can talk to this young man, if you wish, on another occasion. Mrs. Garland"—to Jim's were not a pale kid Alice, who had come forward—' think you'd better tell Consuelo—" Alfce, anxious to avoid a scene, leaned into the car. “Con,” she said, “Mr. Redding is this isn’t the time to make a it's too—1I mean, you had better not stop, dearest. Every one's star- ing. Oh, do go on!” ‘“l—" began Consuelo again. She stared round her, saw what she had scarce been conscious of before, the crowd of gaping faces, and flushed scarlet. Once more she looked about her, as a wild, captured thing might lock, when the doors of its prison are opening before it, and gentle, unrelenting hands are push- ing it In. Then she pulled down her veil and sank back. | drinks By Beatrice Grimshaw “You can go an,” she sald. “You shall not said Cameron. He sprang up her side of the car, leaned roughly on her shoulder, and whispered on sentence—two ~sen- tences—in her ear. Consuelo gave a scream, stood up, fumbled with the doorhandle and then sprang right out of the car over the low door. “What are you saying to my wife?” cried the G, M. But nobody minded the G. M., dis- credited idol and man of straw from henceforth on Tarabora. Nobody even saw where he went or what he did. The eves of the whole crowd were focused on the bride, hurrying away on the arm of her stepsister, with Cameron behind. “Take me home, Allle,” they heard the girl sob. “Oh, take me home!” And the door of the Garland house, in a minute, closed be- hind the bride. * X k¥ HOUGH heaven fell and homes perished, the work of the com- pany had to go on. At half-past one Jim Garland mounted his afternoon horse and cantered off down & canyon of green cane, leaving his wife almost in hysterics, Consuelo invisible in a darkened room, and the general man- ager on the veranda steps, cursing the coolie who had just answered his knock, and told him that the mem sahib was too sick to-see any one. He came home at sundown to a house stili disturbed, a wife divided between trembling relief and quiver- ing dismay, and a sister-in-law who obstinately shut herself yp and re- fused all explanation .of anything. The cooky boy—whom Garland shame- lessly examined, contrary to all the etiquette of Tarabora—had an amaz- ing tale to tell of the great sahib, who it seemed, had walked up and walked up and down outside the house till near dusk, as one dis- tracted, and had then gone home cry- ing. The cooky boy added that there was a devil walking alongside of the great sahib; it evidently meant to follow him to his home. It was not a nice kind of devil. Indlans knew all about it, but white sahibs never believed. At this point, Alive, with very red eyes, came out, and told Garland that a note had come from Cameron; she had seen it, and it only said that he would call some time next day, prob- ably about 2 o'clock. Con wouldn’t say anything; that is, she only said “You'd better not know,” and laughed and cried together. Who had brought the note? A coolie from the wirelese station. And would Jim come in at once, because she had managed tc make him a beefsteak pudding, in spite of everything, and it wouldn't stand any more bolling. It was a disturbed evening in Tara- bora, but after all, the world had to g0 on, though general managers were parted from their brides, and there was all tomorrow’s work to think of and people had to get sleep. So mid- night and peace fell together on the island and the town. And at sun- rise, when the purple leaf-stalks of the canes cradled each an entire and perfect amethyst of dew, and the world was full of gray shadows and blue smoke, the riders rode away to the fields, leaving behind them a row of tranquil little bungalows inhabited by wives and bables and cooky boys| and happiness. With the first call of the whistle they came clattering back into town. intent upon baths and and luncheons—and rode straight into Tragedy E{6 ¥ x AL through Tarabora town, women were running in and out of each other’s houses, children crying un- heeded, cooky boys Idling without re- proof. From more than one bungalow came sounds of hysteric sobbing. Smells of burning here and there de- clared unheard-of misfortunes in kitchens. The doctor was visible, coming out of one house, and making for another. Never, since the vear when the cholera came to the island, had such confusion, such distress made dark the sun of the tropic day. Jim, Garland, coming upon these sights at the turn of the road, set vicious spurs to his horse, flung him- self off at his gate, and rushed up the steps of the veranda. An outbreak of bubonic plague was the least thing that he fearetl. He was confronted by the sight of Cameron, sitting on a lounge, with both arms round Consuelo. Consuelo was kissing him and crying. “Con!" shouted the outraged broth- er-in-law, “while you're in my house and Alice’s I'll thank you to remem- ber that you're a married womas No, I'm not,” said the girl, taking Cameron’s handkerchief out of his pocket and drying her eyes with it. “I'm not married a bit. “Why, 1 saw you “No, mo! Charlie says we aren’t married. Charlie says——" A scream broke from the back ve- randa. “There! Some woman's just come in and told Alice. Go to her, Jim, it's better she should hear it from—-" Jim had gone. “Charlie,” said Consuelo, smoothing down her heavy coils of red-gold hair and looking adoringly into his face, “tell me all about it now. How much do the people in the town know?" “What you do—that Strake has been marrying people illegally all the time he's been here, and that most of them aren’t husbands and wives.” “Isn’t it perfectly awful? I won- der we dare to be happy about such a thing.” “Well, you know, I didn't give it out till T'd got the radio from the so- licitor 1 was employing in Melbourne, telling me there'd be a special act passed at once to legalize all the mar- riages. That's why I made you keep it dark. 1 had to tell you, to prevent your going off with that devil of a G. M. Whatever made you—- “There'll be time to talk about all that by and by,” interrupted the. girl, O LU » [ OT KNIVES AGAINST THE TRUNK OF A MAN GO TREE. IT WAS AT THESE THAT CAMERON WAS LOOKING. with flushed cheeks. “When you think you're deserted, and the whole island ‘is laughing at you . . . Oh, by the way, I think he's taking it pretty hard. He's shut himself up since yesterday, and never come out of his room.” “He’s not the only one” stated Cameron coolly. “Strake is shut up in mine, with the door locked."” “Oh! Why?" “Thought it safer. He came to me himself—cringing. Afrald they'd lynch him or something, once it was known. Don't tell any one where he is We'll_smuggle him off by the next boat. We don’t owe him a grudge, do we, Con?" “No,” laughed the girl. you find out?” “By the merest chance—a group photo of your sister’s wedding. You were in it, you know, so I kept it. And a man at the hotel where I was staying recognized Strake as a fellow |named Smith, who had been dissent- ing minister in a little hole in New Zealand years ago, and left under a cloud. He didn’'t remember what it was. But, he said he could swear to the face. So I got detectives on, and they worked it out before the boat salled—enough to go on with. an . Heavens, If I'd missed the boat!” “Oh, don’t think of it!” shuddered the girl. “Thank Heaven you came in time. And Smith—Strake—acknowl- edged it when you tackled him?" “Pretty well. He cringed a lot and said it was hard on a man, and he didn’t know what to do. 1 couldn't quite get the hang of what he was saying. But he did acknowledge that he was Smith, and not Strake. He seemed sort of hysterical. I think he drugs. I couldn’t get him to talk con- secutively; he only wanted me to ‘save him.' so I saved him by locking him in my bedroom, where he'll be roasted alive with the heat, by the way, and came along to tell about It. My hat, Con, there is a row!” “Let them row!” sald Consuelo with supreme selishness. “You and I are all right. Hush, here's Al * x ok x LICE came in crying. Almost all the women on Tarabora were crying that da “Oh, isn't it dreadful!” she sobbed. “Jim and I aren't married—the Car- ricks—the Sharmans—nobody is?" “Don’t worry, they'll rush the act through at once, and it'll be all right,” consoled Cameron. ‘“Besides, some people are married. Strake didn't mar- ry_them all. Still; there's a deuce of a lot of the others, and I don't sup- pose they'll all take it as you and Jim will” “How do you mean?” “Well, the same thing happened in England, once. And when they went round getting the list of all the people whose marriages had to be legalized, there were quite a few who gal% they'd rather have it let alone.” “Yes, it is oh! There'll be trouble on Tarabora, or I'm much mistaken. Well, I'm going to look after that scaly beast in my room, and shake a few more details out of him, if-I can.” Trouble on Tarabora! There was something more than trouble that afternoon. It happened to be Saturday; if it had not been, I think the staff would have revolted from duty. How could any one have attended to weed- ing and plowing and bookkeeping and engine-driving with half the marriages of the island In the cru- cible? “Jim, it's awful” confided Alice to the man she had always called her husband. “Thank Heaven, you're all right.” “Thank Heaven you are yourself.” “How could I be anything else? But Mrs. Carrick ran right out of the house when she heard, and sald she was free at last. And the secre- tary called at once—at once, what do you think of that?—on Kitty Wilson, who they say—they say she has always—" 1 know. “And Mrs. Churchill is walking up and down the road, waiting for the undermanager of Lararua to come in. And Joe:Winter has gone no one knows where, but everybody guesses, and poor Carry Winter—you know, she's nine years older—has got a heart attack over it. And Jamieson, the tram man, came back from the other side of the island; he hadn't heard a thing about it—and his wife met! him at the gate and flung his ring in his face and said she was going to the doctor'’s. But when she got there the doctor was making love to | the matron, and his wife—- ‘Whose?" “The doctor’s—was hunting through the surgery for poisons, so Mrs. Jamieson ran and told them, and they only stopped her in time. Jim, it's like the end of the world.” * ok K K OME one came up the steps of the veranda. Alice, ~ overwrought, shrieked out and clung to Jim. He patted her like a kitten and looked over her shoulder. It was Cameron, coming back. “Where's Consuelo?” he sald, and passed his- tongue over his lips. They seemed to be dry. In the star- ing light of Garland’s cheap kerosene lamp he looked curiously pale. “What's wrong now?" inquired Garland, gently placing Alice on the lounge. “Everything—1 mea answered Cameron. any—" “I—you're all right. Every one's all right,” he said. “You can go out and tell them. There was something we=—I—didn’t kmow. Where's Con?" “How did nothing,” Have you “Tell me what's happened first,” | was Garland's answer. “The marriages are Cameron in a queer, croaking voic “Quite legal. Every one's all right but me and Consuelo. We're all wrong. Alice gave a cry, sprang up from the Jounge and flung her arms round her”husband’'s neck. “Oh, Jim,” she sald. you now.” She did. “It's awfully funny, eron, beginning to “If one could only see the funny side. I've been to Smith again. He said he'd made up his mind to con- fess. And just as he was saying so, a radio came in for me from the 'tec I was employing down south. And it said that the man had been identi fled as William Napoleon Smith— “Oh!” It was a simultaneous cry from both his hearers, “Yes. The man who was ship- wrecked in the South Pacific and drank all the fresh water, leaving the others to die. It followed him where- ever he went. dissenting parson in New Zealand— he’d been a parson, you remember— trusting to the common name—but it legal,” said 1 can kiss sald Cam laugh weakly. | And he took a job as| “Hold “Seems outside ont” there's sald Jim Garland. the deuce of a row Sounds like the coolles He looked at the rack of arms that hung on the wall. In Tarabora trou- ble among the coolies is not lightly taken. Cameron reached out for a navy re- volver and went out with Garland on to the veranda. A body of white- clad Indlans were coming down the street, howling and beating their breasts That's no revolt drawing a breath of relief. | ognized the funeral cry. “It's dashed cheek, though,” o served meron, puzzled. “They shouldn’t be out of thel What's that they're saying? What's that? Garland, tell me. You know more Hindustani. Is it— What is 1t?" | he stammerea, craning over the ver- anda rail | “Garland, no mean Oriental s | listened for a moment ‘It is,” he men rushed | nearest coolie “What are you saying?’r demandec Jim. “What's this about the G. M “Oh, sahib, true I telling. . I Great said Garland He re answered Cameron. Both down and stopped the 8ot out, and then he came up here, and sald he would give his life to converting the coolies as a sort of penance. And he called himself Joshua Strake. But he did have a conscience about the marriages; he sent in all the papers to Melbourne in the name of William Smith, which was the name he'd used to take out the license—his own, withont the Na- poleon. And as no one ever saw them but himself, it was all right. And no one here knew, and the poor beggar said | it was the only happy time he'd ever known, and he hoped to live and ai “I don’t know why he shouldn't. It was plucky of him to tell you. Alice, we'll see he doesn’t suffer in the end. We don't care what the poor wretch did, do we?" “No, no,” sald the wife, clinging to his hand. But Consuelo had come in. She stood, in her white dress, like a sheet- ed ghost, looking on with burning eyes. “Yes, but what about Charlie and me?” she said. “I'm that man’s wife, after all.” There was a silence. Cameron stared hopelessly at the beauty that was not —could never, now—be hi “Con.” he began. “Con | sanib’s boy. Oh, sahib, door this | man breaking in, because Great Sahib | not coming out, and I finding him, he | very dead. Last night his neck he | cutting with his razor. Very dead | today > the G. M. hasn't arland, staring at Cameron | my cooky Loy saw a bit cl | the rest of us did.” | But had fled up the anda steps again, to where the white | Tobe of Consuelo fluttered palely in the d It was a faced it,” said ‘Seems arer than Cameron ver- happy night for some on Tarabora. But for others They say that Churchill riding crop to uses entirely unortho- dox; that Dora Jamieson ran awa: into the canefields, terrified of lord, who turned out to be her lord indeed; that Joe Winter was heard to envy the general manager his peace ful rest that night. And more, of which there is not space to tell Tarabora is at peace again. The Rev. Willilam Napoleon Smith is o more. He died of fever, caught nur ing sick cooltes with the utmost de- votion and care. His successor is An- glican and served years as chaplain to his majesty’s forces. There are no irregularities now on Tarabora. (Copyright, 1925.) put his Alexandria Presbyterians Seek Restoration of Old First Church (Continued from Fourth Page.) some interesting items concerning the 01d First Church. It was a long walk from most of our homes, for the town had grown in another directjon. But the ringing of the bell generally found us on our way to Sunday school, where the classes were arranged, ec- cording to age, in the galleries of the church, boys on one side, girls on the other. “Few of the children went home after Sunday school; some went to friends in the neighborhood, some to Dr. Murphey’s, ostensibly for water, but all came back crunching cakes or crackers, in time to witness the as- sembly of the congregation. “Great indulgence. was ghown the children during the which | were tedious to them, and the ‘long prayer’ generally found those of us vho could get a pew corner absorbed in the ‘Liberries’ (a popular child's book). I am constrained to admit that this custom 'was winked at by our seniors. Only flagrant cases ocourring directly under the parental elbow were suppressed. When unable to pursuc my literary tastes I counted the letters on old Dr. Muir's memorial tablet on old Dr. Muir's memorial tablet.” services, DR. JAMES CRAIK, WHO WAS BURIED IN THE CHURCHYARD OF THE OLD PRESBYTERIAN STREET, ALEXANDRIA. DR. WASHINGTON'S COMMAND, TON'S CQUSIN, M. OF BELLE AIR, PR CHURCH, ON SOUTH FAIRFAX CRAIK WAS A SURGEON ON AND HE MARRIED WASHING- MNE, DAUGHTER OF CHARLES EWELL E WILLIAM COUNTY, VA.