Each isle a stanza, and the whole a song."And he was right. Flesh is golden there. The native women are sun-ripe Junos, the native men bronzed Apollos. They sing, and dance,and all are flower-bejewelled and flower-crowned. And, outside therigid "Missionary Crowd," the white men yield to the climate and thesun, and no matter how busy they may be, are prone to dance and singand wear flowers behind their ears and in their hair. Jack Kersdalewas one of these fellows. He was one of the busiest men I ever met.He was a several-times millionaire. He was a sugar-king, a coffeeplanter, a rubber pioneer, a cattle rancher, and a promoter of threeout of every four new enterprises launched in the islands. He was asociety man, a club man, a yachtsman, a bachelor, and withal ashandsome a man as was ever doted upon by mammas with marriageabledaughters. Incidentally, he had finished his education at Yale, andhis head was crammed fuller with vital statistics and scholarlyinformation concerning Hawaii Nei than any other islander I everencountered. He turned off an immense amount of work, and he sangand danced and put flowers in his hair as immensely as any of theidlers.He had grit, and had fought two duels--both, political--when hewas no more than a raw youth essaying his first adventures inpolitics. In fact, he played a most creditable and courageous partin the last revolution, when the native dynasty was overthrown; andhe could not have been over sixteen at the time. I am pointing outthat he was no coward, in order that you may appreciate what happenslater on. I've seen him in the breaking yard at the HaleakalaRanch, conquering a four-year-old brute that for two years haddefied the pick of Von Tempsky's cow-boys. And I must tell of oneother thing. It was down in Kona,--or up, rather, for the Konapeople scorn to live at less than a thousand feet elevation. Wewere all on the lanai of Doctor Goodhue's bungalow. I was talkingwith Dottie Fairchild when it happened. A big centipede--it wasseven inches, for we measured it afterwards--fell from the raftersoverhead squarely into her coiffure. I confess, the hideousness ofit paralysed me. I couldn't move. My mind refused to work. There,within two feet of me, the ugly venomous devil was writhing in herhair. It threatened at any moment to fall down upon her exposedshoulders--we had just come out from dinner."What is it?" she asked, starting to raise her hand to her head."Don't!" I cried. "Don't!""But what is it?" she insisted, growing frightened by the fright sheread in my eyes and on my stammering lips.My exclamation attracted Kersdale's attention. He glanced our waycarelessly, but in that glance took in everything. He came over tous, but without haste."Please don't move, Dottie," he said quietly.He never hesitated, nor did he hurry and make a bungle of it."Allow me," he said.And with one hand he caught her scarf and drew it tightly around hershoulders so that the centipede could not fall inside her bodice.With the other hand--the right--he reached into her hair, caught therepulsive abomination as near as he was able by the nape of theneck, and held it tightly between thumb and forefinger as hewithdrew it from her hair. It was as horrible and heroic a sight asman could wish to see. It made my flesh crawl. The centipede,seven inches of squirming legs, writhed and twisted and dasheditself about his hand, the body twining around the fingers and thelegs digging into the skin and scratching as the beast endeavouredto free itself. It bit him twice--I saw it--though he assured theladies that he was not harmed as he dropped it upon the walk andstamped it into the gravel. But I saw him in the surgery fiveminutes afterwards, with Doctor Goodhue scarifying the wounds andinjecting permanganate of potash. The next morning Kersdale's armwas as big as a barrel, and it was three weeks before the swellingwent down.All of which has nothing to do with my story, but which I could notavoid giving in order to show that Jack Kersdale was anything but acoward. It was the cleanest exhibition of grit I have ever seen.He never turned a hair. The smile never left his lips. And hedived with thumb and forefinger into Dottie Fairchild's hair asgaily as if it had been a box of salted almonds. Yet that was theman I was destined to see stricken with a fear a thousand times morehideous even than the fear that was mine when I saw that writhingabomination in Dottie Fairchild's hair, dangling over her eyes andthe trap of her bodice.I was interested in leprosy, and upon that, as upon every otherisland subject, Kersdale had encyclopedic knowledge. In fact,leprosy was one of his hobbies. He was an ardent defender of thesettlement at Molokai, where all the island lepers were segregated.There was much talk and feeling among the natives, fanned by thedemagogues, concerning the cruelties of Molokai, where men andwomen, not alone banished from friends and family, were compelled tolive in perpetual imprisonment until they died. There were noreprieves, no commutations of sentences. "Abandon hope" was writtenover the portal of Molokai."I tell you they are happy there," Kersdale insisted. "And they areinfinitely better off than their friends and relatives outside whohave nothing the matter with them. The horrors of Molokai are allpoppycock. I can take you through any hospital or any slum in anyof the great cities of the world and show you a thousand times worsehorrors. The living death! The creatures that once were men!Bosh! You ought to see those living deaths racing horses on theFourth of July. Some of them own boats. One has a gasoline launch.They have nothing to do but have a good time. Food, shelter,clothes, medical attendance, everything, is theirs. They are thewards of the Territory. They have a much finer climate thanHonolulu, and the scenery is magnificent. I shouldn't mind goingdown there myself for the rest of my days. It is a lovely spot."So Kersdale on the joyous leper. He was not afraid of leprosy. Hesaid so himself, and that there wasn't one chance in a million forhim or any other white man to catch it, though he confessedafterward that one of his school chums, Alfred Starter, hadcontracted it, gone to Molokai, and there died."You know, in the old days," Kersdale explained, "there was nocertain test for leprosy. Anything unusual or abnormal wassufficient to send a fellow to Molokai. The result was that dozenswere sent there who were no more lepers than you or I. But theydon't make that mistake now. The Board of Health tests areinfallible. The funny thing is that when the test was discoveredthey immediately went down to Molokai and applied it, and they founda number who were not lepers. These were immediately deported.Happy to get away? They wailed harder at leaving the settlementthan when they left Honolulu to go to it. Some refused to leave,and really had to be forced out. One of them even married a leperwoman in the last stages and then wrote pathetic letters to theBoard of Health, protesting against his expulsion on the ground thatno one was so well able as he to take care of his poor old wife.""What is this infallible test?" I demanded."The bacteriological test. There is no getting away from it.Doctor Hervey--he's our expert, you know--was the first man to applyit here. He is a wizard. He knows more about leprosy than anyliving man, and if a cure is ever discovered, he'll be thatdiscoverer. As for the test, it is very simple. They havesucceeded in isolating the bacillus leprae and studying it. Theyknow it now when they see it. All they do is to snip a bit of skinfrom the suspect and subject it to the bacteriological test. A manwithout any visible symptoms may be chock full of the leprosybacilli.""Then you or I, for all we know," I suggested, "may be full of itnow."Kersdale shrugged his shoulders and laughed."Who can say? It takes seven years for it to incubate. If you haveany doubts go and see Doctor Hervey. He'll just snip out a piece ofyour skin and let you know in a jiffy."Later on he introduced me to Dr. Hervey, who loaded me down withBoard of Health reports and pamphlets on the subject, and took meout to Kalihi, the Honolulu receiving station, where suspects wereexamined and confirmed lepers were held for deportation to Molokai.These deportations occurred about once a month, when, the last good-byes said, the lepers were marched on board the little steamer, theNoeau, and carried down to the settlement.One afternoon, writing letters at the club, Jack Kersdale dropped inon me."Just the man I want to see," was his greeting. "I'll show you thesaddest aspect of the whole situation--the lepers wailing as theydepart for Molokai. The Noeau will be taking them on board in a fewminutes. But let me warn you not to let your feelings be harrowed.Real as their grief is, they'd wail a whole sight harder a yearhence if the Board of Health tried to take them away from Molokai.We've just time for a whiskey and soda. I've a carriage outside.It won't take us five minutes to get down to the wharf."To the wharf we drove. Some forty sad wretches, amid their mats,blankets, and luggage of various sorts, were squatting on thestringer piece. The Noeau had just arrived and was making fast to alighter that lay between her and the wharf. A Mr. McVeigh, thesuperintendent of the settlement, was overseeing the embarkation,and to him I was introduced, also to Dr. Georges, one of the Boardof Health physicians whom I had already met at Kalihi. The leperswere a woebegone lot. The faces of the majority were hideous--toohorrible for me to describe. But here and there I noticed fairlygood-looking persons, with no apparent signs of the fell diseaseupon them. One, I noticed, a little white girl, not more thantwelve, with blue eyes and golden hair. One cheek, however, showedthe leprous bloat. On my remarking on the sadness of her aliensituation among the brown-skinned afflicted ones, Doctor Georgesreplied:-"Oh, I don't know. It's a happy day in her life. She comes fromKauai. Her father is a brute. And now that she has developed thedisease she is going to join her mother at the settlement. Hermother was sent down three years ago--a very bad case.""You can't always tell from appearances," Mr. McVeigh explained.That man there, that big chap, who looks the pink of condition, withnothing the matter with him, I happen to know has a perforatingulcer in his foot and another in his shoulder-blade. Then there areothers--there, see that girl's hand, the one who is smoking thecigarette. See her twisted fingers. That's the anaesthetic form.It attacks the nerves. You could cut her fingers off with a dullknife, or rub them off on a nutmeg-grater, and she would notexperience the slightest sensation.""Yes, but that fine-looking woman, there," I persisted; "surely,surely, there can't be anything the matter with her. She is tooglorious and gorgeous altogether.""A sad case," Mr. McVeigh answered over his shoulder, alreadyturning away to walk down the wharf with Kersdale.She was a beautiful woman, and she was pure Polynesian. From mymeagre knowledge of the race and its types I could not but concludethat she had descended from old chief stock. She could not havebeen more than twenty-three or four. Her lines and proportions weremagnificent, and she was just beginning to show the amplitude of thewomen of her race."It was a blow to all of us," Dr. Georges volunteered. "She gaveherself up voluntarily, too. No one suspected. But somehow she hadcontracted the disease. It broke us all up, I assure you. We'vekept it out of the papers, though. Nobody but us and her familyknows what has become of her. In fact, if you were to ask any manin Honolulu, he'd tell you it was his impression that she wassomewhere in Europe. It was at her request that we've been so quietabout it. Poor girl, she has a lot of pride.""But who is she?" I asked. "Certainly, from the way you talk abouther, she must be somebody.""Did you ever hear of Lucy Mokunui?" he asked."Lucy Mokunui?" I repeated, haunted by some familiar association. Ishook my head. "It seems to me I've heard the name, but I'veforgotten it.""Never heard of Lucy Mokunui! The Hawaiian nightingale! I beg yourpardon. Of course you are a malahini, {1} and could not be expectedto know. Well, Lucy Mokunui was the best beloved of Honolulu--ofall Hawaii, for that matter.""You say WAS," I interrupted."And I mean it. She is finished." He shrugged his shoulderspityingly. "A dozen haoles--I beg your pardon, white men--have losttheir hearts to her at one time or another. And I'm not counting inthe ruck. The dozen I refer to were haoles of position andprominence.""She could have married the son of the Chief Justice if she'd wantedto. You think she's beautiful, eh? But you should hear her sing.Finest native woman singer in Hawaii Nei. Her throat is pure silverand melted sunshine. We adored her. She toured America first withthe Royal Hawaiian Band. After that she made two more trips on herown--concert work.""Oh!" I cried. "I remember now. I heard her two years ago at theBoston Symphony. So that is she. I recognize her now."I was oppressed by a heavy sadness. Life was a futile thing atbest. A short two years and this magnificent creature, at thesummit of her magnificent success, was one of the leper squadawaiting deportation to Molokai. Henley's lines came into my mind:-"The poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers;
Life is, I think, a blunder and a shame."I recoiled from my own future. If this awful fate fell to LucyMokunui, what might my lot not be?--or anybody's lot? I wasthoroughly aware that in life we are in the midst of death--but tobe in the midst of living death, to die and not be dead, to be oneof that draft of creatures that once were men, aye, and women, likeLucy Mokunui, the epitome of all Polynesian charms, an artist aswell, and well beloved of men -. I am afraid I must have betrayedmy perturbation, for Doctor Georges hastened to assure me that theywere very happy down in the settlement.It was all too inconceivably monstrous. I could not bear to look ather. A short distance away, behind a stretched rope guarded by apoliceman, were the lepers' relatives and friends. They were notallowed to come near. There were no last embraces, no kisses offarewell. They called back and forth to one another--last messages,last words of love, last reiterated instructions. And those behindthe rope looked with terrible intensity. It was the last time theywould behold the faces of their loved ones, for they were the livingdead, being carted away in the funeral ship to the graveyard ofMolokai.Doctor Georges gave the command, and the unhappy wretches draggedthemselves to their feet and under their burdens of luggage began tostagger across the lighter and aboard the steamer. It was thefuneral procession. At once the wailing started from those behindthe rope. It was blood-curdling; it was heart-rending. I neverheard such woe, and I hope never to again. Kersdale and McVeighwere still at the other end of the wharf, talking earnestly--politics, of course, for both were head-over-heels in thatparticular game. When Lucy Mokunui passed me, I stole a look ather. She WAS beautiful. She was beautiful by our standards, aswell--one of those rare blossoms that occur but once in generations.And she, of all women, was doomed to Molokai. She straight onboard, and aft on the open deck where the lepers huddled by therail, wailing now, to their dear ones on shore.The lines were cast off, and the Noeau began to move away from thewharf. The wailing increased. Such grief and despair! I was justresolving that never again would I be a witness to the sailing ofthe Noeau, when McVeigh and Kersdale returned. The latter's eyeswere sparkling, and his lips could not quite hide the smile ofdelight that was his. Evidently the politics they had talked hadbeen satisfactory. The rope had been flung aside, and the lamentingrelatives now crowded the stringer piece on either side of us."That's her mother," Doctor Georges whispered, indicating an oldwoman next to me, who was rocking back and forth and gazing at thesteamer rail out of tear-blinded eyes. I noticed that Lucy Mokunuiwas also wailing. She stopped abruptly and gazed at Kersdale. Thenshe stretched forth her arms in that adorable, sensuous way thatOlga Nethersole has of embracing an audience. And with armsoutspread, she cried:"Good-bye, Jack! Good-bye!"He heard the cry, and looked. Never was a man overtaken by morecrushing fear. He reeled on the stringer piece, his face went whiteto the roots of his hair, and he seemed to shrink and wither awayinside his clothes. He threw up his hands and groaned, "My God! MyGod!" Then he controlled himself by a great effort."Good-bye, Lucy! Good-bye!" he called.And he stood there on the wharf, waving his hands to her till theNoeau was clear away and the faces lining her after-rail were vagueand indistinct."I thought you knew," said McVeigh, who had been regarding himcuriously. "You, of all men, should have known. I thought that waswhy you were here.""I know now," Kersdale answered with immense gravity. "Where's thecarriage?"He walked rapidly--half-ran--to it. I had to half-run myself tokeep up with him."Drive to Doctor Hervey's," he told the driver. "Drive as fast asyou can."He sank down in a seat, panting and gasping. The pallor of his facehad increased. His lips were compressed and the sweat was standingout on his forehead and upper lip. He seemed in some horribleagony."For God's sake, Martin, make those horses go!" he broke outsuddenly. "Lay the whip into themlay the whip intothem!""They'll break, sir," the driver remonstrated."Let them break," Kersdale answered. "I'll pay your fine and squareyou with the police. Put it to them. That's right. Faster!Faster!""And I never knew, I never knew," he muttered, sinking back in theseat and with trembling hands wiping the sweat away.The carriage was bouncing, swaying and lurching around corners atsuch a wild pace as to make conversation impossible. Besides, therewas nothing to say. But I could hear him muttering over and over,"And I never knew. I never knew."
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