The Kanaka Surf
The tourist women, under the hau tree arbour that lines the Moanahotel beach, gasped when Lee Barton and his wife Ida emerged fromthe bath-house. And as the pair walked past them and down to thesand, they continued to gasp. Not that there was anything aboutLee Barton provocative of gasps. The tourist women were not of thesort to gasp at sight of a mere man's swimming-suited body, nomatter with what swelling splendour of line and muscle such bodywas invested. Nevertheless, trainers and conditioners of men wouldhave drawn deep breaths of satisfaction at contemplation of thephysical spectacle of him. But they would not have gasped in theway the women did, whose gasps were indicative of moral shock.Ida Barton was the cause of their perturbation and disapproval.They disapproved, seriously so, at the first instant's glimpse ofher. They thought--such ardent self-deceivers were they--that theywere shocked by her swimming suit. But Freud has pointed out howpersons, where sex is involved, are prone sincerely to substituteone thing for another thing, and to agonize over the substitutedthing as strenuously as if it were the real thing.Ida Barton's swimming suit was a very nice one, as women's suitsgo. Of thinnest of firm-woven black wool, with white trimmings anda white belt-line, it was high-throated, short-sleeved, and brief-skirted. Brief as was the skirt, the leg-tights were no lessbrief. Yet on the beach in front of the adjacent Outrigger Club,and entering and leaving the water, a score of women, not provokinggasping notice, were more daringly garbed. Their men's suits, asbrief of leg-tights and skirts, fitted them as snugly, but weresleeveless after the way of men's suits, the arm-holes deeply low-cut and in-cut, and, by the exposed armpits, advertiseful that thewearers were accustomed to 1916 decollete.So it was not Ida Barton's suit, although the women deceivedthemselves into thinking it was. It was, first of all, say herlegs; or, first of all, say the totality of her, the sweet andbrilliant jewel of her femininity bursting upon them. Dowager,matron, and maid, conserving their soft-fat muscles or protectingtheir hot-house complexions in the shade of the hau-tree arbour,felt the immediate challenge of her. She was menace as well, anaffront of superiority in their own chosen and variously successfulgame of life.But they did not say it. They did not permit themselves to thinkit. They thought it was the suit, and said so to one another,ignoring the twenty women more daringly clad but less perilouslybeautiful. Could one have winnowed out of the souls of thesedisapproving ones what lay at bottom of their condemnation of hersuit, it would have been found to be the sex-jealous thought: THATNO WOMAN, SO BEAUTIFUL AS THIS ONE, SHOULD BE PERMITTED TO SHOW HERBEAUTY. It was not fair to them. What chance had they in theconquering of males with so dangerous a rival in the foreground?They were justified. As Stanley Patterson said to his wife, wherethe two of them lolled wet in the sand by the tiny fresh-waterstream that the Bartons waded in order to gain the Outrigger Clubbeach:"Lord god of models and marvels, behold them! My dear, did youever see two such legs on one small woman! Look at the roundnessand taperingness. They're boy's legs. I've seen featherweights gointo the ring with legs like those. And they're all-woman's legs,too. Never mistake them in the world. The arc of the front lineof that upper leg! And the balanced adequate fullness at the back!And the way the opposing curves slender in to the knee that IS aknee! Makes my fingers itch. Wish I had some clay right now.""It's a true human knee," his wife concurred, no less breathlessly;for, like her husband, she was a sculptor. "Look at the joint ofit working under the skin. It's got form, and blessedly is notcovered by a bag of fat." She paused to sigh, thinking of her ownknees. "It's correct, and beautiful, and dainty. Charm! If everI beheld the charm of flesh, it is now. I wonder who she is."Stanley Patterson, gazing ardently, took up his half of the chorus."Notice that the round muscle-pads on the inner sides that makemost women appear knock-kneed are missing. They're boy's legs,firm and sure--""And sweet woman's legs, soft and round," his wife hastened tobalance. "And look, Stanley! See how she walks on the balls ofher feet. It makes her seem light as swan's down. Each step seemsjust a little above the earth, and each other step seems just alittle higher above until you get the impression she is flying, orjust about to rise and begin flying . . . "So Stanley and Mrs. Patterson. But they were artists, with eyestherefore unlike the next batteries of human eyes Ida Barton wascompelled to run, and that laired on the Outrigger lanais(verandas) and in the hau-tree shade of the closely adjoiningseaside. The majority of the Outrigger audience was composed, notof tourist guests, but of club members and old-timers in Hawaii.And even the old-times women gasped."It's positively indecent," said Mrs. Hanley Black to her husband,herself a too-stout-in-the-middle matron of forty-five, who hadbeen born in the Hawaiian islands, and who had never heard ofOstend.Hanley Black surveyed his wife's criminal shapelessness andvoluminousness of antediluvian, New-England swimming dress with awithering, contemplative eye. They had been married a sufficientnumber of years for him frankly to utter his judgment."That strange woman's suit makes your own look indecent. Youappear as a creature shameful, under a grotesqueness of apparelstriving to hide some secret awfulness.""She carries her body like a Spanish dancer," Mrs. Patterson saidto her husband, for the pair of them had waded the little stream inpursuit of the vision."By George, she does," Stanley Patterson concurred. "Reminds me ofEstrellita. Torso just well enough forward, slender waist, not toolean in the stomach, and with muscles like some lad boxer'sarmouring that stomach to fearlessness. She has to have them tocarry herself that way and to balance the back muscles. See thatmuscled curve of the back! It's Estrellita's.""How tall would you say?" his wife queried."There she deceives," was the appraised answer. "She might befive-feet-one, or five-feet-three or four. It's that way she hasof walking that you described as almost about to fly.""Yes, that's it," Mrs. Patterson concurred. "It's her energy, herseemingness of being on tip toe with rising vitality."Stanley Patterson considered for a space."That's it," he enounced. "She IS a little thing. I'll give herfive-two in her stockings. And I'll weigh her a mere one hundredand ten, or eight, or fifteen at the outside.""She won't weigh a hundred and ten," his wife declared withconviction."And with her clothes on, plus her carriage (which is builded ofher vitality and will), I'll wager she'd never impress any one withher smallness.""I know her type," his wife nodded. "You meet her out, and youhave the sense that, while not exactly a fine large woman, she's awhole lot larger than the average. And now, age?""I'll give you best there," he parried."She might be twenty-five, she might be twenty-eight . . . "But Stanley Patterson had impolitely forgotten to listen."It's not her legs alone," he cried on enthusiastically. "It's theall of her. Look at the delicacy of that forearm. And the swellof line to the shoulder. And that biceps! It's alive. Dollars todrowned kittens she can flex a respectable knot of it . . . "No woman, much less an Ida Barton, could have been unconscious ofthe effect she was producing along Waikiki Beach. Instead ofmaking her happy in the small vanity way, it irritated her."The cats," she laughed to her husband. "And to think I was bornhere an almost even third of a century ago! But they weren't nastythen. Maybe because there weren't any tourists. Why, Lee, Ilearned to swim right here on this beach in front of the Outrigger.We used to come out with daddy for vacations and for week-ends andsort of camp out in a grass house that stood right where theOutrigger ladies serve tea now. And centipedes fell out of thethatch on us, while we slept, and we all ate poi and opihis and rawaku, and nobody wore much of anything for the swimming andsquidding, and there was no real road to town. I remember times ofbig rain when it was so flooded we had to go in by canoe, outthrough the reef and in by Honolulu Harbour.""Remember," Lee Barton added, "it was just about that time that theyoungster that became me arrived here for a few weeks' stay on ourway around. I must have seen you on the beach at that very time--one of the kiddies that swam like fishes. Why, merciful me, thewomen here were all riding cross-saddle, and that was long beforethe rest of the social female world outgrew its immodesty and camearound to sitting simultaneously on both sides of a horse. Ilearned to swim on the beach here at that time myself. You and Imay even have tried body-surfing on the same waves, or I may havesplashed a handful of water into your mouth and been rewarded byyour sticking out your tongue at me--"Interrupted by an audible gasp of shock from a spinster-appearingfemale sunning herself hard by and angularly in the sand in aswimming suit monstrously unbeautiful, Lee Barton was aware of aninvoluntary and almost perceptible stiffening on the part of hiswife."I smile with pleasure," he told her. "It serves only to make yourvaliant little shoulders the more valiant. It may make you self-conscious, but it likewise makes you absurdly self-confident."For, be it known in advance, Lee Barton was a super-man and IdaBarton a super-woman--or at least they were personalities sodesignated by the cub book-reviewers, flat-floor men and women, andscholastically emasculated critics, who from across the drearylevels of their living can descry no glorious humans over-toppingtheir horizons. These dreary folk, echoes of the dead past andimportunate and self-elected pall-bearers for the present andfuture, proxy-livers of life and vicarious sensualists that theyare in a eunuch sort of way, insist, since their own selves,environments, and narrow agitations of the quick are mediocre andcommonplace, that no man or woman can rise above the mediocre andcommonplace.Lacking gloriousness in themselves, they deny gloriousness to allmankind; too cowardly for whimsy and derring-do, they assert whimsyand derring-do ceased at the very latest no later than the middleages; flickering little tapers themselves, their feeble eyes aredazzled to unseeingness of the flaming conflagrations of othersouls that illumine their skies. Possessing power in no greaterquantity than is the just due of pygmies, they cannot conceive ofpower greater in others than in themselves. In those days therewere giants; but, as their mouldy books tell them, the giants arelong since passed, and only the bones of them remain. Never havingseen the mountains, there are no mountains.In the mud of their complacently perpetuated barnyard pond, theyassert that no bright-browed, bright-apparelled shining figures canbe outside of fairy books, old histories, and ancientsuperstitions. Never having seen the stars, they deny the stars.Never having glimpsed the shining ways nor the mortals that treadthem, they deny the existence of the shinning ways as well as theexistence of the high-bright mortals who adventure along theshining ways. The narrow pupils of their eyes the centre of theuniverse, they image the universe in terms of themselves, of theirmeagre personalities make pitiful yardsticks with which to measurethe high-bright souls, saying: "Thus long are all souls, and nolonger; it is impossible that there should exist greater-staturedsouls than we are, and our gods know that we are great of stature."But all, or nearly all on the beach, forgave Ida Barton her suitand form when she took the water. A touch of her hand on herhusband's arm, indication and challenge in her laughing face, andthe two ran as one for half a dozen paces and leapt as one from thehard-wet sand of the beach, their bodies describing flat arches offlight ere the water was entered.There are two surfs at Waikiki: the big, bearded man surf thatroars far out beyond the diving-stage; the smaller, gentler,wahine, or woman, surf that breaks upon the shore itself. Here isa great shallowness, where one may wade a hundred or severalhundred feet to get beyond depth. Yet, with a good surf onoutside, the wahine surf can break three or four feet, so that,close in against the shore, the hard-sand bottom may be three feetor three inches under the welter of surface foam. To dive from thebeach into this, to fly into the air off racing feet, turn in mid-flight so that heels are up and head is down, and, so to enter thewater head-first, requires wisdom of waves, timing of waves, and atrained deftness in entering such unstable depths of water withpretty, unapprehensive, head-first cleavage, while at the same timemaking the shallowest possible of dives.It is a sweet, and pretty, and daring trick, not learned in a day,nor learned at all without many a milder bump on the bottom orclose shave of fractured skull or broken neck. Here, on the spotwhere the Bartons so beautifully dived, two days before a Stanfordtrack athlete had broken his neck. His had been an error in timingthe rise and subsidence of a wahine wave."A professional," Mrs. Hanley Black sneered to her husband at IdaBarton's feat."Some vaudeville tank girl," was one of the similar remarks withwhich the women in the shade complacently reassured one another--finding, by way of the weird mental processes of self-illusion, agreat satisfaction in the money caste-distinction between one whoworked for what she ate and themselves who did not work for whatthey ate.It was a day of heavy surf on Waikiki. In the wahine surf it wasboisterous enough for good swimmers. But out beyond, in thekanaka, or man, surf, no one ventured. Not that the score or moreof young surf-riders loafing on the beach could not venture there,or were afraid to venture there; but because their biggestoutrigger canoes would have been swamped, and their surf-boardswould have been overwhelmed in the too-immense over-topple anddown-fall of the thundering monsters. They themselves, most ofthem, could have swum, for man can swim through breakers whichcanoes and surf-boards cannot surmount; but to ride the backs ofthe waves, rise out of the foam to stand full length in the airabove, and with heels winged with the swiftness of horses to flyshoreward, was what made sport for them and brought them out fromHonolulu to Waikiki.The captain of Number Nine canoe, himself a charter member of theOutrigger and a many-times medallist in long-distance swimming, hadmissed seeing the Bartons take the water, and first glimpsed thembeyond the last festoon of bathers clinging to the life-lines.From then on, from his vantage of the upstairs lanai, he kept hiseyes on them. When they continued out past the steel diving-stagewhere a few of the hardiest divers disported, he muttered vexedlyunder his breath "damned malahinis!"Now malahini means new-comer, tender-foot; and, despite theprettiness of their stroke, he knew that none except malahiniswould venture into the racing channel beyond the diving-stage.Hence the vexation of the captain of Number Nine. He descended tothe beach, with a low word here and there picked a crew of thestrongest surfers, and returned to the lanai with a pair ofbinoculars. Quite casually, the crew, six of them, carried NumberNine to the water's edge, saw paddles and everything in order for aquick launching, and lolled about carelessly on the sand. Theywere guilty of not advertising that anything untoward was afoot,although they did steal glances up to their captain strainingthrough the binoculars.What made the channel was the fresh-water stream. Coral cannotabide fresh water. What made the channel race was the immenseshoreward surf-fling of the sea. Unable to remain flung up on thebeach, pounded ever back toward the beach by the perpetualshoreward rush of the kanaka surf, the up-piled water escaped tothe sea by way of the channel and in the form of under-tow alongthe bottom under the breakers. Even in the channel the waves brokebig, but not with the magnificent bigness of terror as to right andleft. So it was that a canoe or a comparatively strong swimmercould dare the channel. But the swimmer must be a strong swimmerindeed, who could successfully buck the current in. Wherefore thecaptain of Number Nine continued his vigil and his muttereddamnation of malahinis, disgustedly sure that these two malahiniswould compel him to launch Number Nine and go after them when theyfound the current too strong to swim in against. As for himself,caught in their predicament, he would have veered to the lefttoward Diamond Head and come in on the shoreward fling of thekanaka surf. But then, he was no one other than himself, a bronze.Hercules of twenty-two, the whitest blond man ever burned tomahogany brown by a sub-tropic sun, with body and lines and musclesvery much resembling the wonderful ones of Duke Kahanamoku. In ahundred yards the world champion could invariably beat him a secondflat; but over a distance of miles he could swim circles around thechampion.No one of the many hundreds on the beach, with the exception oftill captain and his crew, knew that the Bartons had passed beyondthe diving-stage. All who had watched them start to swim out hadtaken for granted that they had joined the others on the stage.The captain suddenly sprang upon the railing of the lanai, held onto a pillar with one hand, and again picked up the two specks ofheads through the glasses. His surprise was verified. The twofools had veered out of the channel toward Diamond Head, and weredirectly seaward of the kanaka surf. Worse, as he looked, theywere starting to come in through the kanaka surf.He glanced down quickly to the canoe, and even as he glanced, andas the apparently loafing members quietly arose and took theirplaces by the canoe for the launching, he achieved judgment.Before the canoe could get abreast in the channel, all would beover with the man and woman. And, granted that it could getabreast of them, the moment it ventured into the kanaka surf itwould be swamped, and a sorry chance would the strongest swimmer ofthem have of rescuing a person pounding to pulp on the bottom underthe smashes of the great bearded ones.The captain saw the first kanaka wave, large of itself, but smallamong its fellows, lift seaward behind the two speck-swimmers.Then he saw them strike a crawl-stroke, side by side, facesdownward, full-lengths out-stretched on surface, their feetsculling like propellers and their arms flailing in rapid over-handstrokes, as they spurted speed to approximate the speed of theovertaking wave, so that, when overtaken, they would become part ofthe wave, and travel with it instead of being left behind it.Thus, if they were coolly skilled enough to ride outstretched onthe surface and the forward face of the crest instead of beingflung and crumpled or driven head-first to bottom, they would dashshoreward, not propelled by their own energy, but by the energy ofthe wave into which they had become incorporated.And they did it! "SOME swimmers!" the captain of Number Nine madeannouncement to himself under his breath. He continued to gazeeagerly. The best of swimmers could hold such a wave for severalhundred feet. But could they? If they did, they would be a thirdof the way through the perils they had challenged. But, notunexpected by him, the woman failed first, her body not presentingthe larger surfaces that her husband's did. At the end of seventyfeet she was overwhelmed, being driven downward and out of sight bythe tons of water in the over-topple. Her husband followed andboth appeared swimming beyond the wave they had lost.The captain saw the next wave first. "If they try to body-surf onthat, good night," he muttered; for he knew the swimmer did notlive who would tackle it. Beardless itself, it was father of allbearded ones, a mile long, rising up far out beyond where theothers rose, towering its solid bulk higher and higher till itblotted out the horizon, and was a giant among its fellows ere itsbeard began to grow as it thinned its crest to the over-curl.But it was evident that the man and woman knew big water. Noracing stroke did they make in advance of the wave. The captaininwardly applauded as he saw them turn and face the wave and waitfor it. It was a picture that of all on the beach he alone saw,wonderfully distinct and vivid in the magnification of thebinoculars. The wall of the wave was truly a wall, mounting, evermounting, and thinning, far up, to a transparency of the colours ofthe setting sun shooting athwart all the green and blue of it. Thegreen thinned to lighter green that merged blue even as he looked.But it was a blue gem-brilliant with innumerable sparkle-points ofrose and gold flashed through it by the sun. On and up, to thesprouting beard of growing crest, the colour orgy increased untilit was a kaleidoscopic effervescence of transfusing rainbows.Against the face of the wave showed the heads of the man and womanlike two sheer specks. Specks they were, of the quick, adventuringamong the blind elemental forces, daring the titanic buffets of thesea. The weight of the down-fall of that father of waves, eventhen imminent above their heads, could stun a man or break thefragile bones of a woman. The captain of Number Nine wasunconscious that he was holding his breath. He was oblivious ofthe man. It was the woman. Did she lose her head or courage, ormisplay her muscular part for a moment, she could be hurled ahundred feet by that giant buffet and left wrenched, helpless, andbreathless to be pulped on the coral bottom and sucked out by theundertow to be battened on by the fish-sharks too cowardly to taketheir human meat alive.Why didn't they dive deep, and with plenty of time, the captainwanted to know, instead of waiting till the last tick of safety andthe first tick of peril were one? He saw the woman turn her headand laugh to the man, and his head turn in response. Above them,overhanging them, as they mounted the body of the wave, the beard,creaming white, then frothing into rose and gold, tossed upwardinto a spray of jewels. The crisp off-shore trade-wind caught thebeard's fringes and blew them backward and upward yards and yardsinto the air. It was then, side by side, and six feet apart, thatthey dived straight under the over-curl even then disintegrating tochaos and falling. Like insects disappearing into the convolutionsof some gorgeous gigantic orchid, so they disappeared, as beard andcrest and spray and jewels, in many tons, crashed and thundereddown just where they had disappeared the moment before, but wherethey were no longer.Beyond the wave they had gone through, they finally showed, side byside, still six feet apart, swimming shoreward with a steady strokeuntil the next wave should make them body-surf it or face andpierce it. The captain of Number Nine waved his hand to his crewin dismissal, and sat down on the lanai railing, feeling vaguelytired and still watching the swimmers through his glasses."Whoever and whatever they are," he murmured, "they aren'tmalahinis. They simply can't be malahinis."Not all days, and only on rare days, is the surf heavy at Waikiki;and, in the days that followed, Ida and Lee Barton, much inevidence on the beach and in the water, continued to arousedisparaging interest in the breasts of the tourist ladies, althoughthe Outrigger captains ceased from worrying about them in thewater. They would watch the pair swim out and disappear in theblue distance, and they might, or might not, chance to see themreturn hours afterward. The point was that the captains did notbother about their returning, because they knew they would return.The reason for this was that they were not malahinis. Theybelonged. In other words, or, rather, in the potent Islands-word,they were kamaaina. Kamaaina men and women of forty remembered LeeBarton from their childhood days, when, in truth, he had been amalahini, though a very young specimen. Since that time, in thecourse of various long stays, he had earned the kamaainadistinction.As for Ida Barton, young matrons of her own age (privily wonderinghow she managed to keep her figure) met her with arms around andhearty Hawaiian kisses. Grandmothers must have her to tea andreminiscence in old gardens of forgotten houses which the touristnever sees. Less than a week after her arrival, the aged QueenLiliuokalani must send for her and chide her for neglect. And oldmen, on cool and balmy lanais, toothlessly maundered to her aboutGrandpa Captain Wilton, of before their time, but whose wild andlusty deeds and pranks, told them by their fathers, they rememberedwith gusto--Grandpa Captain Wilton, or David Wilton, or "All Hands"as the Hawaiians of that remote day had affectionately renamed him.All Hands, ex-Northwest trader, the godless, beach-combing,clipper-shipless and ship-wrecked skipper who had stood on thebeach at Kailua and welcomed the very first of missionaries, offthe brig Thaddeus, in the year 1820, and who, not many years later,made a scandalous runaway marriage with one of their daughters,quieted down and served the Kamehamehas long and conservatively asMinister of the Treasury and Chief of the Customs, and acted asintercessor and mediator between the missionaries on one side andthe beach-combing crowd, the trading crowd, and the Hawaiian chiefson the variously shifting other side.Nor was Lee Barton neglected. In the midst of the dinners andlunches, the luaus (Hawaiian feasts) and poi-suppers, and swims anddances in aloha (love) to both of them, his time and inclinationwere claimed by the crowd of lively youngsters of old Kohala dayswho had come to know that they possessed digestions and variousother internal functions, and who had settled down to somewhat ofsedateness, who roistered less, and who played bridge much, andwent to baseball often. Also, similarly oriented, was the oldpoker crowd of Lee Barton's younger days, which crowd played formore consistent stakes and limits, while it drank mineral water andorange juice and timed the final round of "Jacks" never later thanmidnight.Appeared, through all the rout of entertainment, Sonny Grandison,Hawaii-born, Hawaii-prominent, who, despite his youthful forty-oneyears, had declined the proffered governorship of the Territory.Also, he had ducked Ida Barton in the surf at Waikiki a quarter ofa century before, and, still earlier, vacationing on his father'sgreat Lakanaii cattle ranch, had hair-raisingly initiated her, andvarious other tender tots of five to seven years of age, into hisboys' band, "The Cannibal Head-Hunters" or "The Terrors ofLakanaii." Still farther, his Grandpa Grandison and her GrandpaWilton had been business and political comrades in the old days.Educated at Harvard, he had become for a time a world-wanderingscientist and social favourite. After serving in the Philippines,he had accompanied various expeditions through Malaysia, SouthAmerica, and Africa in the post of official entomologist. Atforty-one he still retained his travelling commission from theSmithsonian Institution, while his friends insisted that he knewmore about sugar "bugs" than the expert entomologists employed byhim and his fellow sugar planters in the Experiment Station.Bulking large at home, he was the best-known representative ofHawaii abroad. It was the axiom among travelled Hawaii folk, thatwherever over the world they might mention they were from Hawaii,the invariable first question asked of them was: "And do you knowSonny Grandison?"In brief, he was a wealthy man's son who had made good. Hisfather's million he inherited he had increased to ten millions, atthe same time keeping up his father's benefactions and endowmentsand overshadowing them with his own.But there was still more to him. A ten years' widower, withoutissue, he was the most eligible and most pathetically sought-aftermarriageable man in all Hawaii. A clean-and-strong-featuredbrunette, tall, slenderly graceful, with the lean runner's stomach,always fit as a fiddle, a distinguished figure in any group, thegreying of hair over his temples (in juxtaposition to his young-textured skin and bright vital eyes) made him appear even moredistinguished. Despite the social demands upon his time, anddespite his many committee meetings, and meetings of boards ofdirectors and political conferences, he yet found time and space tocaptain the Lakanaii polo team to more than occasional victory, andon his own island of Lakanaii vied with the Baldwins of Maui in thebreeding and importing of polo ponies.Given a markedly strong and vital man and woman, when a secondequally markedly strong and vital man enters the scene, the perilof a markedly strong and vital triangle of tragedy becomesimminent. Indeed, such a triangle of tragedy may be described, inthe terminology of the flat-floor folk, as "super" and"impossible." Perhaps, since within himself originated the desireand the daring, it was Sonny Grandison who first was conscious ofthe situation, although he had to be quick to anticipate thesensing intuition of a woman like Ida Barton. At any rate, andundebatable, the last of the three to attain awareness was LeeBarton, who promptly laughed away what was impossible to laughaway.His first awareness, he quickly saw, was so belated that half hishosts and hostesses were already aware. Casting back, he realizedthat for some time any affair to which he and his wife were invitedfound Sonny Grandison likewise invited. Wherever the two had been,the three had been. To Kahuku or to Haleiwa, to Ahuimanu, or toKaneohe for the coral gardens, or to Koko Head for a picnicking anda swimming, somehow it invariably happened that Ida rode in Sonny'scar or that both rode in somebody's car. Dances, luaus, dinners,and outings were all one; the three of them were there.Having become aware, Lee Barton could not fail to register Ida'snote of happiness ever rising when in the same company with SonnyGrandison, and her willingness to ride in the same cars with him,to dance with him, or to sit out dances with him. Most convincingof all, was Sonny Grandison himself. Forty-one, strong,experienced, his face could no more conceal what he felt than couldbe concealed a lad of twenty's ordinary lad's love. Despite thecontrol and restraint of forty years, he could no more mask hissoul with his face than could Lee Barton, of equal years, fail toread that soul through so transparent a face. And often, to otherwomen, talking, when the topic of Sonny came up, Lee Barton heardIda express her fondness for Sonny, or her almost too-eloquentappreciation of his polo-playing, his work in the world, and hisgeneral all-rightness of achievement.About Sonny's state of mind and heart Lee had no doubt. It waspatent enough for the world to read. But how about Ida, his owndozen-years' wife of a glorious love-match? He knew that woman,ever the mysterious sex, was capable any time of unguessed mystery.Did her frank comradeliness with Grandison token merely frankcomradeliness and childhood contacts continued and recrudesced intoadult years? or did it hide, in woman's subtler and more secretiveways, a beat of heart and return of feeling that might even out-balance what Sonny's face advertised?Lee Barton was not happy. A dozen years of utmost and post-nuptialpossession of his wife had proved to him, so far as he wasconcerned, that she was his one woman in the world, and that thewoman was unborn, much less unglimpsed, who could for a momentcompete with her in his heart, his soul, and his brain. Impossibleof existence was the woman who could lure him away from her, muchless over-bid her in the myriad, continual satisfactions sherendered him.Was this, then, he asked himself, the dreaded contingency of allfond Benedicts, to be her first "affair?" He tormented himselfwith the ever iterant query, and, to the astonishment of thereformed Kohala poker crowd of wise and middle-aged youngsters aswell as to the reward of the keen scrutiny of the dinner-giving anddinner-attending women, he began to drink King William instead oforange juice, to bully up the poker limit, to drive of nights hisown car more than rather recklessly over the Pali and Diamond Headroads, and, ere dinner or lunch or after, to take more than anaverage man's due of old-fashioned cocktails and Scotch highs.All the years of their marriage she had been ever complaisanttoward him in his card-playing. This complaisance, to him, hadbecome habitual. But now that doubt had arisen, it seemed to himthat he noted an eagerness in her countenancing of his pokerparties. Another point he could not avoid noting was that SonnyGrandison was missed by the poker and bridge crowds. He seemed tobe too busy. Now where was Sonny, while he, Lee Barton, wasplaying? Surely not always at committee and boards of directorsmeetings. Lee Barton made sure of this. He easily learned that atsuch times Sonny was more than usually wherever Ida chanced to be--at dances, or dinners, or moonlight swimming parties, or, the veryafternoon he had flatly pleaded rush of affairs as an excuse not tojoin Lee and Langhorne Jones and Jack Holstein in a bridge battleat the Pacific Club--that afternoon he had played bridge at DoraNiles' home with three women, one of whom was Ida.Returning, once, from an afternoon's inspection of the great dry-dock building at Pearl Harbour, Lee Barton, driving his machineagainst time, in order to have time to dress for dinner, passedSonny's car; and Sonny's one passenger, whom he was taking home,was Ida. One night, a week later, during which interval he hadplayed no cards, he came home at eleven from a stag dinner at theUniversity Club, just preceding Ida's return from the Alstone poisupper and dance. And Sonny had driven her home. Major Fanklinand his wife had first been dropped off by them, they mentioned, atFort Shafter, on the other side of town and miles away from thebeach.Lee Barton, after all mere human man, as a human man unfailinglymeeting Sonny in all friendliness, suffered poignantly in secret.Not even Ida dreamed that he suffered; and she went her merry,careless, laughing way, secure in her own heart, although a trifleperplexed at her husband's increase in number of pre-dinnercocktails.Apparently, as always, she had access to almost all of him; but nowshe did not have access to his unguessable torment, nor to the longparallel columns of mental book-keeping running their totallingbalances from moment to moment, day and night, in his brain. Inone column were her undoubtable spontaneous expressions of herusual love and care for him, her many acts of comfort-serving andof advice-asking and advice-obeying. In another column, in whichthe items increasingly were entered, were her expressions and actswhich he could not but classify as dubious. Were they what theyseemed? Or were they of duplicity compounded, whether deliberatelyor unconsciously? The third column, longest of all, totalling mostin human heart-appraisements, was filled with items relatingdirectly or indirectly to her and Sonny Grandison. Lee Barton didnot deliberately do this book-keeping. He could not help it. Hewould have liked to avoid it. But in his fairly ordered mind theitems of entry, of themselves and quite beyond will on his part,took their places automatically in their respective columns.In his distortion of vision, magnifying apparently trivial detailwhich half the time he felt he magnified, he had recourse toMacIlwaine, to whom he had once rendered a very considerableservice. MacIlwaine was chief of detectives. "Is Sonny Grandisona womaning man?" Barton had demanded. MacIlwaine had said nothing."Then he is a womaning man," had been Barton's declaration. Andstill the chief of detectives had said nothing.Briefly afterward, ere he destroyed it as so much dynamite, LeeBarton went over the written report. Not bad, not really bad, wasthe summarization; but not too good after the death of his wife tenyears before. That had been a love-match almost notorious inHonolulu society, because of the completeness of infatuation, notonly before, but after marriage, and up to her tragic death whenher horse fell with her a thousand feet off Nahiku Trail. And notfor a long time afterward, MacIlwaine stated, had Grandison beenguilty of interest in any woman. And whatever it was, it had beenunvaryingly decent. Never a hint of gossip or scandal; and theentire community had come to accept that he was a one-woman man,and would never marry again. What small affairs MacIlwaine hadjotted down he insisted that Sonny Grandison did not dream wereknown by another person outside the principals themselves.Barton glanced hurriedly, almost shamedly, at the several names andincidents, and knew surprise ere he committed the document to theflames. At any rate, Sonny had been most discreet. As he staredat the ashes, Barton pondered how much of his own younger life,from his bachelor days, resided in old MacIlwaine's keeping. Next,Barton found himself blushing, to himself, at himself. IfMacIlwaine knew so much of the private lives of community figures,then had not he, her husband and protector and shielder, planted inMacIlwaine's brain a suspicion of Ida?"Anything on your mind?" Lee asked his wife that evening, as hestood holding her wrap while she put the last touches to herdressing.This was in line with their old and successful compact offrankness, and he wondered, while he waited her answer, why he hadrefrained so long from asking her."No," she smiled. "Nothing particular. Afterwards . . . perhaps .. . "She became absorbed in gazing at herself in the mirror, while shedabbed some powder on her nose and dabbed it off again."You know my way, Lee," she added, after the pause. "It takes metime to gather things together in my own way--when there are thingsto gather; but when I do, you always get them. And often there'snothing in them after all, I find, and so you are saved thenuisance of them."She held out her arms for him to place the wrap about her--hervaliant little arms that were so wise and steel-like in battlingwith the breakers, and that yet were such just mere-woman's arms,round and warm and white, delicious as a woman's arms should be,with the canny muscles, masking under soft-roundness of contour andfine smooth skin, capable of being flexed at will by the will ofher.He pondered her, with a grievous hurt and yearning of appreciation--so delicate she seemed, so porcelain-fragile that a strong mancould snap her in the crook of his arm."We must hurry!" she cried, as he lingered in the adjustment of theflimsy wrap over her flimsy-prettiness of gown. "We'll be late.And if it showers up Nuuanu, putting the curtains up will make usmiss the second dance."He made a note to observe with whom she danced that second dance,as she preceded him across the room to the door; while at the sametime he pleasured his eye in what he had so often named to himselfas the spirit-proud flesh-proud walk of her."You don't feel I'm neglecting you in my too-much poker?" he triedagain, by indirection."Mercy, no! You know I just love you to have your card orgies.They're tonic for you. And you're so much nicer about them, somuch more middle-aged. Why, it's almost years since you sat uplater than one."It did not shower up Nuuanu, and every overhead star was out in aclear trade-wind sky. In time at the Inchkeeps' for the seconddance, Lee Barton observed that his wife danced it with Grandison--which, of itself, was nothing unusual, but which became immediatelya registered item in Barton's mental books.An hour later, depressed and restless, declining to make one of abridge foursome in the library and escaping from a few youngmatrons, he strolled out into the generous grounds. Across thelawn, at the far edge, he came upon the hedge of night-bloomingcereus. To each flower, opening after dark and fading, wilting,perishing with the dawn, this was its one night of life. Thegreat, cream-white blooms, a foot in diameter and more, lily-likeand wax-like, white beacons of attraction in the dark, penetratingand seducing the night with their perfume, were busy and beautifulwith their brief glory of living.But the way along the hedge was populous with humans, two by two,male and female, stealing out between the dances or strolling thedances out, while they talked in low soft voices and gazed upon thewonder of flower-love. From the lanai drifted the love-caressingstrains of "Hanalei" sung by the singing boys. Vaguely Lee Bartonremembered--perhaps it was from some Maupassant story--the abbe,obsessed by the theory that behind all things were the purposes ofGod and perplexed so to interpret the night, who discovered at thelast that the night was ordained for love.The unanimity of the night as betrayed by flowers and humans was ahurt to Barton. He circled back toward the house along a windingpath that skirted within the edge of shadow of the monkey-pods andalgaroba trees. In the obscurity, where his path curved away intothe open again, he looked across a space of a few feet where, onanother path in the shadow, stood a pair in each other's arms. Theimpassioned low tones of the man had caught his ear and drawn hiseyes, and at the moment of his glance, aware of his presence, thevoice ceased, and the two remained immobile, furtive, in eachother's arms.He continued his walk, sombred by the thought that in the gloom ofthe trees was the next progression from the openness of the skyover those who strolled the night-flower hedge. Oh, he knew thegame when of old no shadow was too deep, no ruse of concealment toofurtive, to veil a love moment. After all, humans were likeflowers, he meditated. Under the radiance from the lighted lanai,ere entering the irritating movement of life again to which hebelonged, he paused to stare, scarcely seeing, at a flaunt ofdisplay of scarlet double-hibiscus blooms. And abruptly all thathe was suffering, all that he had just observed, from the night-blooming hedge and the two-by-two love-murmuring humans to the pairlike thieves in each other's arms, crystallized into a parable oflife enunciated by the day-blooming hibiscus upon which he gazed,now at the end of its day. Bursting into its bloom after the dawn,snow-white, warming to pink under the hours of sun, and quickeningto scarlet with the dark from which its beauty and its being wouldnever emerge, it seemed to him that it epitomized man's life andpassion.What further connotations he might have drawn he was never to know;for from behind, in the direction of the algarobas and monkey-pods,came Ida's unmistakable serene and merry laugh. He did not look,being too afraid of what he knew he would see, but retreatedhastily, almost stumbling, up the steps to the lanai. Despite thathe knew what he was to see, when he did turn his head and beheldhis wife and Sonny, the pair he had seen thieving in the dark, hewent suddenly dizzy, and paused, supporting himself with a handagainst a pillar, and smiling vacuously at the grouped singing boyswho were pulsing the sensuous night into richer sensuousness withtheir honi kaua wiki-wiki refrain.The next moment he had wet his lips with his tongue, controlled hisface and flesh, and was bantering with Mrs. Inchkeep. But he couldnot waste time, or he would have to encounter the pair he couldhear coming up the steps behind him."I feel as if I had just crossed the Great Thirst," he told hishostess, "and that nothing less than a high-ball will preserve me."She smiled permission and nodded toward the smoking lanai, wherethey found him talking sugar politics with the oldsters when thedance began to break up.Quite a party of half a dozen machines were starting for Waikiki,and he found himself billeted to drive the Leslies and Burnstonshome, though he did not fail to note that Ida sat in the driver'sseat with Sonny in Sonny's car. Thus, she was home ahead of himand brushing her hair when he arrived. The parting of bed-goingwas usual, on the face of it, although he was almost rigid in hissuccessful effort for casualness as he remembered whose lips hadpressed hers last before his.Was, then, woman the utterly unmoral creature as depicted by theGerman pessimists? he asked himself, as he tossed under his readinglamp, unable to sleep or read. At the end of an hour he was out ofbed, and into his medicine case. Five grains of opium he tookstraight. An hour later, afraid of his thoughts and the prospectof a sleepless night, he took another grain. At one-hour intervalshe twice repeated the grain dosage. But so slow was the action ofthe drug that dawn had broken ere his eyes closed.At seven he was awake again, dry-mouthed, feeling stupid anddrowsy, yet incapable of dozing off for more than several minutesat a time. He abandoned the idea of sleep, ate breakfast in bed,and devoted himself to the morning papers and the magazines. Butthe drug effect held, and he continued briefly to doze through hiseating and reading. It was the same when he showered and dressed,and, though the drug had brought him little forgetfulness duringthe night, he felt grateful for the dreaming lethargy with which itpossessed him through the morning.It was when his wife arose, her serene and usual self, and came into him, smiling and roguish, delectable in her kimono, that thewhim-madness of the opium in his system seized upon him. When shehad clearly and simply shown that she had nothing to tell him undertheir ancient compact of frankness, he began building his opiumlie. Asked how he had slept, he replied:"Miserably. Twice I was routed wide awake with cramps in my feet.I was almost too afraid to sleep again. But they didn't come back,though my feet are sorer than blazes.""Last year you had them," she reminded him."Maybe it's going to become a seasonal affliction," he smiled."They're not serious, but they're horrible to wake up to. Theywon't come again till to-night, if they come at all, but in themeantime I feel as if I had been bastinadoed."In the afternoon of the same day, Lee and Ida Barton made theirshallow dive from the Outrigger beach, and went on, at a steadystroke, past the diving-stage to the big water beyond the KanakaSurf. So quiet was the sea that when, after a couple of hours,they turned and lazily started shoreward through the Kanaka Surfthey had it all to themselves. The breakers were not large enoughto be exciting, and the last languid surf-boarders and canoeistshad gone in to shore. Suddenly, Lee turned over on his back."What is it?" Ida called from twenty feet away."My foot--cramp," he answered calmly, though the words were twistedout through clenched jaws of control.The opium still had its dreamy way with him, and he was withoutexcitement. He watched her swimming toward him with so steady andunperturbed a stroke that he admired her own self-control, althoughat the same time doubt stabbed him with the thought that it wasbecause she cared so little for him, or, rather, so muchimmediately more for Grandison."Which foot?" she asked, as she dropped her legs down and begantreading water beside him."The left one--ouch! Now it's both of them."He doubled his knees, as if involuntarily raised his head and chestforward out of the water, and sank out of sight in the down-wash ofa scarcely cresting breaker. Under no more than a brief severalseconds, he emerged spluttering and stretched out on his backagain.Almost he grinned, although he managed to turn the grin into apain-grimace, for his simulated cramp had become real. At least inone foot it had, and the muscles convulsed painfully."The right is the worst," he muttered, as she evinced her intentionof laying hands on his cramp and rubbing it out. "But you'd betterkeep away. I've had cramps before, and I know I'm liable to grabyou if these get any worse."Instead, she laid her hands on the hard-knotted muscles, and beganto rub and press and bend."Please," he gritted through his teeth. "You must keep away. Justlet me lie out here--I'll bend the ankle and toe-joints in theopposite ways and make it pass. I've done it before and know howto work it."She released him, remaining close beside him and easily treadingwater, her eyes upon his face to judge the progress of his ownattempt at remedy. But Lee Barton deliberately bent joints andtensed muscles in the directions that would increase the cramp. Inhis bout the preceding year with the affliction, he had learned,lying in bed and reading when seized, to relax and bend the crampsaway without even disturbing his reading. But now he did the thingin reverse, intensifying the cramp, and, to his startled delight,causing it to leap into his right calf. He cried out with anguish,apparently lost control of himself, attempted to sit up, and waswashed under by the next wave.He came up, spluttered, spread-eagled on the surface, and had hisknotted calf gripped by the strong fingers of both Ida's smallhands."It's all right," she said, while she worked. "No cramp like thislasts very long.""I didn't know it could be so savage," he groaned. "If only itdoesn't go higher! It makes one feel so helpless."He gripped the biceps of both her arms in a sudden spasm,attempting to climb out upon her as a drowning man might try toclimb out on an oar and sinking her down under him. In thestruggle under water, before he permitted her to wrench clear, herrubber cap was torn off, and her hairpins pulled out, so that shecame up gasping for air and half-blinded by her wet-clinging hair.Also, he was certain he had surprised her into taking in a quantityof water."Keep away!" he warned, as he spread-eagled with acteddesperateness.But her fingers were deep into the honest pain-wrack of his calf,and in her he could observe no reluctance of fear."It's creeping up," he grunted through tight teeth, the gruntitself a half-controlled groan.He stiffened his whole right leg, as with another spasm, hurtinghis real minor cramps, but flexing the muscles of his upper leginto the seeming hardness of cramp.The opium still worked in his brain, so that he could play-actcruelly, while at the same time he appraised and appreciated herstress of control and will that showed in her drawn face, and theterror of death in her eyes, with beyond it and behind it, in hereyes and through her eyes, the something more of the spirit ofcourage, and higher thought, and resolution.Still further, she did not enunciate so cheap a surrender as, "I'lldie with you." Instead, provoking his admiration, she did say,quietly: "Relax. Sink until only your lips are out. I'll supportyour head. There must be a limit to cramp. No man ever died ofcramp on land. Then in the water no strong swimmer should die ofcramp. It's bound to reach its worst and pass. We're both strongswimmers and cool-headed--"He distorted his face and deliberately dragged her under. But whenthey emerged, still beside him, supporting his head as shecontinued to tread water, she was saying:"Relax. Take it easy. I'll hold your head up. Endure it. Livethrough it. Don't fight it. Make yourself slack--slack in yourmind; and your body will slack. Yield. Remember how you taught meto yield to the undertow."An unusually large breaker for so mild a surf curled overhead, andhe climbed out on her again, sinking both of them under as thewave-crest over-fell and smashed down."Forgive me," he mumbled through pain clenched teeth, as they drewin their first air again. "And leave me." He spoke jerkily, withpain-filled pauses between his sentences. "There is no need forboth of us to drown. I've got to go. It will be in my stomach, atany moment, and then I'll drag you under, and be unable to let goof you. Please, please, dear, keep away. One of us is enough.You've plenty to live for."She looked at him in reproach so deep that the last vestige of theterror of death was gone from her eyes. It was as if she had said,and more than if she had said: "I have only you to live for."Then Sonny did not count with her as much as he did!--was Barton'sexultant conclusion. But he remembered her in Sonny's arms underthe monkey-pods and determined on further cruelty. Besides, it wasthe lingering opium in him that suggested this cruelty. Since hehad undertaken this acid test, urged the poppy juice, then let itbe a real acid test.He doubled up and went down, emerged, and apparently strovefrantically to stretch out in the floating position. And she didnot keep away from him."It's too much!" he groaned, almost screamed. "I'm losing my grip.I've got to go. You can't save me. Keep away and save yourself."But she was to him, striving to float his mouth clear of the salt,saying: "It's all right. It's all right. The worst is right now.Just endure it a minute more, and it will begin to ease."He screamed out, doubled, seized her, and took her down with him.And he nearly did drown her, so well did he play-act his owndrowning. But never did she lose her head nor succumb to the fearof death so dreadfully imminent. Always, when she got her headout, she strove to support him while she panted and gaspedencouragement in terms of: "Relax . . . Relax . . . Slack . . .Slack out . . . At any time . . . now . . . you'll pass . . . theworst . . . No matter how much it hurts . . . it will pass . . .You're easier now . . . aren't you?"And then he would put her down again, going from bad to worse--inhis ill-treatment of her; making her swallow pints of salt water,secure in the knowledge that it would not definitely hurt her.Sometimes they came up for brief emergences, for gasping seconds inthe sunshine on the surface, and then were under again, draggedunder by him, rolled and tumbled under by the curling breakers.Although she struggled and tore herself from his grips, in thetimes he permitted her freedom she did not attempt to swim awayfrom him, but, with fading strength and reeling consciousness,invariably came to him to try to save him. When it was enough, inhis judgment, and more than enough, he grew quieter, left herreleased, and stretched out on the surface."A-a-h," he sighed long, almost luxuriously, and spoke with pausesfor breath. "It is passing. It seems like heaven. My dear, I'mwater-logged, yet the mere absence of that frightful agony makes mypresent state sheerest bliss."She tried to gasp a reply, but could not."I'm all right," he assured her. "Let us float and rest up.Stretch out, yourself, and get your wind back."And for half an hour, side by side, on their backs, they floated inthe fairly placid Kanaka Surf. Ida Barton was the first toannounce recovery by speaking first."And how do you feel now, man of mine?" she asked."I feel as if I'd been run over by a steam-roller," he replied."And you, poor darling?""I feel I'm the happiest woman in the world. I'm so happy I couldalmost cry, but I'm too happy even for that. You had me horriblyfrightened for a time. I thought I was to lose you."Lee Barton's heart pounded up. Never a mention of losing herself.This, then, was love, and all real love, proved true--the greatlove that forgot self in the loved one."And I'm the proudest man in the world," he told her; "because mywife is the bravest woman in the world.""Brave!" she repudiated. "I love you. I never knew how much, howreally much, I loved you as when I was losing you. And now let'swork for shore. I want you all alone with me, your arms around me,while I tell you all you are to me and shall always be to me."In another half-hour, swimming strong and steadily, they landed onthe beach and walked up the hard wet sand among the sand-loafersand sun-baskers."What were the two of you doing out there?" queried one of theOutrigger captains. "Cutting up?""Cutting up," Ida Barton answered with a smile."We're the village cut-ups, you know," was Lee Barton's assurance.That evening, the evening's engagement cancelled, found the two, ina big chair, in each other's arms."Sonny sails to-morrow noon," she announced casually and irrelevantto anything in the conversation. "He's going out to the MalayCoast to inspect what's been done with that lumber and rubbercompany of his.""First I've heard of his leaving us," Lee managed to say, despitehis surprise."I was the first to hear of it," she added. "He told me only lastnight.""At the dance?"She nodded."Rather sudden, wasn't it?""Very sudden." Ida withdrew herself from her husband's arms andsat up. "And I want to talk to you about Sonny. I've never had areal secret from you before. I didn't intend ever to tell you.But it came to me to-day, out in the Kanaka Surf, that if we passedout, it would be something left behind us unsaid."She paused, and Lee, half-anticipating what was coming, did nothingto help her, save to girdle and press her hand in his."Sonny rather lost his . . . his head over me," she faltered. "Ofcourse, you must have noticed it. And . . . and last night, hewanted me to run away with him. Which isn't my confession at all .. . "Still Lee Barton waited."My confession," she resumed, "is that I wasn't the least bit angrywith him--only sorrowful and regretful. My confession is that Irather slightly, only rather more than slightly, lost my own head.That was why I was kind and gentle to him last night. I am nofool. I knew it was due. And--oh, I know, I'm just a feeblefemale of vanity compounded--I was proud to have such a man sweptoff his feet by me, by little me. I encouraged him. I have noexcuse. Last night would not have happened had I not encouragedhim. And I, and not he, was the sinner last night when he askedme. And I told him no, impossible, as you should know why withoutmy repeating it to you. And I was maternal to him, very muchmaternal. I let him take me in his arms, let myself rest againsthim, and, for the first time because it was to be the for-ever lasttime, let him kiss me and let myself kiss him. You . . . I knowyou understand . . . it was his renunciation. And I didn't loveSonny. I don't love him. I have loved you, and you only, all thetime."She waited, and felt her husband's arm pass around her shoulder andunder her own arm, and yielded to his drawing down of her to him."You did have me worried more than a bit," he admitted, "until Iwas afraid I was going to lose you. And . . . " He broke off inpatent embarrassment, then gripped the idea courageously. "Oh,well, you know you're my one woman. Enough said."She fumbled the match-box from his pocket and struck a match toenable him to light his long-extinct cigar."Well," he said, as the smoke curled about them, "knowing you as Iknow you, and ALL of you, all I can say is that I'm sorry for Sonnyfor what he's missed--awfully sorry for him, but equally glad forme. And . . . one other thing: five years hence I've something totell you, something rich, something ridiculously rich, and allabout me and the foolishness of me over you. Five years. Is it adate?""I shall keep it if it is fifty years," she sighed, as she nestledcloser to him.GLEN ELLEN, CALIFORNIA.August 17, 1916.
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