Elaine

Short Story:

By C. S. Ramsay

THE shadows cast by the gently-sway ing fronds of the coconut-trees were like patterned lace, as the moon climbed into the clear vault above.

The man let his gaze wander dreamily to the three islands floating in a sea of silver. Then, nearer, to the palm fringed beach of the lagoon, and the long green slope up to the steps of the verandah.

Yes, it had been worth it. The sneers of derision and the emphatic prophecies of failure had neither proved their accu racy or deterred his efforts. It had been a fight, admittedly a hard-won fight, against the heavy odds of sticky heat, shortage of labour, lush tangle of vege tation, and then the “blow.” But he had “arrived.” Pride of accomplishment and possession were now as spice to life.

Of course, he had been lonely. After all, no matter how one assured oneself that this was life as it was originally intended to be, there were always days and nights when, clear-cut as the cameo of black shadow beneath that mango-tree, came flashes on the screen of memory.

Nights and days on the Continent—Paris; Nice; the tables at Monte Carlo. . . .

Dinners with Diana in New York. . . .

Three deliriously happy weeks at Palm Springs—twenty-one days and nights of passion-filled ecstacy. . , . Bah! And what had it brought him? Disillusion ment and defeat!

No, not defeat. For had he not, when the world —his world—crashed in dissolu tion around him, retained the elements of his manhood and his sanity? And now he had Motutapu. Moulded, he might say, from the virgin bush by his own hands. Thank God, his work and the beauty of his island home had sufficed to annul the rankling stabs of bitter memories.

AND then, as though to complete his happiness, had come Elaine. Dark, sinuous, graceful as a cat. Love?

More than love it was she so freely gave him. It was pure, unadulterated devo tion. Each morning as he left for the plantation, she offered her caress. She was always waiting to greet him on his return. Their evenings were spent in quiet and complete companionship. What conversation he had offered was mostly replied to in monosyllables.

Strange, silent creature! For long periods she would sit motionless gazing into the night, her weird, inscrutable eyes half-closed. He had often watched her and tried to read her thoughts, but failed to gain an inkling. Sometimes he had to speak twice to her before she gave him her attention. But she would then invariably rise, stretch herself with feline grace, throw herself into his arms, and pour out such a flood of passionate adoration that at times brought him to the verge of tears for the very wonder of it.

Little enough had he done for her that he should merit it. Certainly, she had come to the island like a piece of flotsam —had stowed away on old Cap. Ander son’s schooner, a destitute waif —and he had accepted her, dirty and bedraggled as she was, and had given her of his best.

She had crept one night to his house and peered fearfullv in at him as he sat reading. Strange that had been! Not a

sound had she made, nor did she offer a word, yet he had felt her presence as plainly as though she had stepped before him. He had looked up—and his whole heart had gone out to her. It was the starvation in her great round eyes and emaciated body which had cut through his surprise and blocked the stirrings of repulsion at her condition.

He had not moved, but had quietly told her to come in. At the sound of his voice she had cringed and half-turned as though to run. Then, gaining confidence as he spoke again, she moved forward to his chair.

From what he could gather later, she has been a waif since she was first able to fend for herself. Of her parentage he could discover nothing. Yet he had been content to accept her as she was, and he had been amply rewarded by the love and gratitude she poured out for him. And they had been happy together.

She was subject to moods. Almost, it seemed to him at times, she was oblivious of his presence. Then, at others, she went into what approached paroxysms of love for him. He would sometimes awaken at night to find her gone from the bed He would arise and steal out to the verandah to see her sitting staring into the moonlight or the dark. But no matter how quietly he moved, always she sensed his approach, and would rise and come to him even before he spoke.

AND now she was gone! Gone as stealthily as she had come. And he was left to a great loneliness.

God! How he missed her!

Hating to be alone, at the approach of night, he would seek to hold in conver sation old black Manu, who had washed and cooked for him since his first coming.

Manu had helped him search the island for her without avail. He had offered no comment other than to growl: “I told you you were making too much of her.

It never does to let a female know just how she stands with one.”

Looking back, the man had to admit that perhaps Manu was right. He had lavished a love on Elaine which had been equalled only by hers for him. Or, could her love have been only assumed? Could she have so convincingly deceived him?

Bah! Conjecture was futile. Damn it, she was gone, and to hell with her for a deceitful jade!

But—and his eyes moved to her fav ourite spot on the verandah—if only he could see her sitting there as she was wont to do. But, curses on it, she was not there, so what was to be gained by useless longings? He should have known better, anyway, than to accept a waif like her on face value only.

There was little doubt she had cleared out on the copra-ketch which left at dawn yesterday morning. Probably— hateful thought—she had at last suc cumbed to the blandishments of the handsome Samoan Mate. Saipale had always quite openly admired her, and had never troubled to hide the covetous ness in his eyes. Often he had said to her: ‘‘Elaine, you are as beautiful as a starry night.” And of late she was certainly less aloof in her manner to ward him. She had seemed to like him better than any of the men who occa sionally came to the house. Damna tion take the false she-devil! But—

but she had loved him, and it was very lonesome now without her.

Two whole days and a night, and this was the second night. Well, he must just go on as he had before she came. It was maddening, though, how one’s thoughts could go on and on around the same circle in endless repe tition.

PERHAPS a good stiff whisky and coconut would help. Rising, he kicked his chair aside, strode out to a young tree at the top of one of the symmetrical rows. Selecting a nut from a moonlit bunch, he reached up and wrenched it off. He looked at it as it lay in his palm, cool and rounded like a —yes, like a young girl’s breast. . . .

A sudden rustle behind him swung him round. From the black pool of shadow beneath the mango-tree a lithe, dew-soaked form raced toward him.

“Elaine!”

He swooped forward and swept her into his arms.

“You little black witch—l should have expected it! You’re the second female in my life to jilt me for—a rat!”

The cat snuggled close against his neck, rubbed her sleek head hard on his chin, and purred in ecstacy.