THE
BOTTLE IMP
There was a man
of the Island of Hawaii, whom I shall call Keawe; for the truth is, he still
lives, and his name must be kept secret; but the place of his birth was not far
from Honaunau, where the bones of Keawe the Great lie hidden in a cave. This
man was poor, brave, and active; he could read and write like a schoolmaster;
he was a first-rate mariner besides, sailed for some time in the island
steamers, and steered a whaleboat on the Hamakua coast. At length it came in
Keawe's mind to have a sight of the great world and foreign cities, and he
shipped on a vessel bound to San Francisco.
This is a fine
town, with a fine harbour, and rich people uncountable; and in particular,
there is one hill which is covered with palaces. Upon this hill Keawe was one
day taking a walk with his pocket full of money, viewing the great houses upon
either hand with pleasure. "What fine houses these are!" he was
thinking, "and how happy must those people be who dwell in them, and take
no care for the morrow!" The thought was in his mind when he came abreast
of a house that was smaller than some others, but all finished and beautified
like a toy; the steps of that house shone like silver, and the borders of the
garden bloomed like garlands, and the windows were bright like diamonds; and
Keawe stopped and wondered at the excellence of all he saw. So stopping, he was
aware of a man that looked forth upon him through a window so clear that Keawe
could see him as you see a fish in a pool upon the reef. The man was elderly,
with a bald head and a black beard; and his face was heavy with sorrow, and he
bitterly sighed. And the truth of it is, that as Keawe looked in upon the man,
and the man looked out upon Keawe, each envied the other.
All of a sudden,
the man smiled and nodded, and beckoned Keawe to enter, and met him at the door
of the house.
"This is a
fine house of mine," said the man, and bitterly sighed. "Would you
not care to view the chambers?"
So he led Keawe
all over it, from the cellar to the roof, and there was nothing there that was
not perfect of its kind, and Keawe was astonished.
"Truly,"
said Keawe, "this is a beautiful house; if I lived in the like of it I
should be laughing all day long. How comes it, then, that you should be
sighing?"
"There is no
reason," said the man, "why you should not have a house in all points
similar to this, and finer, if you wish. You have some money, I suppose?"
"I have
fifty dollars," said Keawe; "but a house like this will cost more
than fifty dollars."
The man made a
computation. "I am sorry you have no more," said he, "for it may
raise you trouble in the future; but it shall be yours at fifty dollars."
"The
house?" asked Keawe.
"No, not the
house," replied the man; "but the bottle. For, I must tell you,
although I appear to you so rich and fortunate, all my fortune, and this house
itself and its garden, came out of a bottle not much bigger than a pint. This
is it."
And he opened a
lockfast place, and took out a round-bellied bottle with a long neck; the glass
of it was white like milk, with changing rainbow colours in the grain.
Withinsides something obscurely moved, like a shadow and a fire.
"This is the
bottle," said the man; and, when Keawe laughed, "You do not believe
me?" he added. "Try, then, for yourself. See if you can break
it."
So Keawe took the
bottle up and dashed it on the floor till he was weary; but it jumped on the
floor like a child's ball, and was not injured.
"This is a
strange thing," said Keawe. "For by the touch of it, as well as by
the look, the bottle should be of glass."
"Of glass it
is," replied the man, sighing more heavily than ever; "but the glass
of it was tempered in the flames of hell. An imp lives in it, and that is the
shadow we behold there moving; or so I suppose. If any man buy this bottle the
imp is at his command; all that he desires-- love, fame, money, houses like
this house, ay, or a city like this city--all are his at the word uttered.
Napoleon had this bottle, and by it he grew to be the king of the world; but he
sold it at the last, and fell. Captain Cook had this bottle, and by it he found
his way to so many islands; but he, too sold it, and was slain upon Hawaii.
For, once it is sold, the power goes and the protection; and unless a man
remain content with what he has, ill will befall him."
"And yet you
talk of selling it yourself?" Keawe said.
"I have all
I wish, and I am growing elderly," replied the man. "There is one
thing the imp cannot do--he cannot prolong life; and, it would not be fair to
conceal from you, there is a drawback to the bottle; for if a man die before he
sells it, he must burn in hell for ever."
"To be sure,
that is a drawback and no mistake," cried Keawe. "I would not meddle
with the thing. I can do without a house, thank God; but there is on thing I
could not be doing with one particle, and that is to be damned."
"Dear me,
you must not run away with things, " returned the man. "All you have
to do is to use the power of the imp in moderation, and then sell it to someone
else, as I do to you, and finish your life in comfort."
"Well, I
observe two things," said Keawe. "All the time you keep sighing like
a maid in love, that is one; and, for the other, you sell this bottle very
cheap."
"I have told
you already why I sigh," said the man. "It is because I fear my
health is breaking up; and, as you said yourself, to die and go to the devil is
a pity for anyone. As for why I sell so cheap, I must explain to you there is a
peculiarity about the bottle. Long ago, when the devil brought it first upon
earth, it was extremely expensive, and was sold first of all to Prester John
for many millions of dollars; but it cannot be sold at all, unless sold at a
loss. If you sell it for as much as you paid for it, back it comes to you again
like a homing pigeon. It follows that the price has kept falling in these
centuries, and the bottle is now remarkably cheap. I bought it myself from one
of my great neighbours on this hill, and the price I paid was only ninety
dollars. I could sell it for as high as eighty-nine dollars and ninety-nine
cents, but not a penny dearer, or back the thing must come to me. Now, about
this there are two bothers. First, when you offer a bottle so singular for
eighty odd dollars, people suppose you to be jesting. And second--but there is
no hurry about that--and I need not go into it. Only remember it must be coined
money that you sell it for."
"How am I to
know that this is all true?" asked Keawe.
"Some of it
you can try at once," replied the man. "Give me your fifty dollars,
take the bottle, and wish your fifty dollars back into your pocket. If that
does not happen, I pledge you my honour I will cry off the bargain and restore
your money."
"You are not
deceiving me?" said Keawe.
The man bound
himself with a great oath.
"Well, I will risk that much," said
Keawe, "for that can do no harm." And he paid over his money to the
man, and the man handed him the bottle.
"Imp of the
bottle," said Keawe, "I want my fifty dollars back." And sure
enough he had scarce said the word before his pocket was as heavy as ever.
"To be sure
this is a wonderful bottle," said Keawe.
"And now,
good morning to you, my fine fellow, and the devil go with you for me!"
said the man.
"Hold
on," said Keawe, "I don't want any more of this fun. Here, take your
bottle back."
"You have
bought it for less than I paid for it," replied the man, rubbing his
hands. "It is yours now; and, for my part, I am only concerned to see the
back of you." And with that he rang for his Chinese servant, and had Keawe
shown out of the house.
Now, when Keawe
was in the street, with the bottle under his arm, he began to think. "If
all is true about this bottle, I may have made a losing bargain," thinks
he. "But perhaps the man was only fooling me." The first thing he did
was to count his money; the sum was exact--forty-nine dollars American money,
and one Chili piece. "That looks like the truth," said Keawe.
"Now I will try another part."
The streets in
that part of the city were as clean as a ship's decks, and though it was noon,
there were no passengers. Keawe set the bottle in the gutter and walked away.
Twice he looked back, and there was the milky, round-bellied bottle where he
left it. A third time he looked back, and turned a corner; but he had scarce
done so, when something knocked upon his elbow, and behold! it was the long
neck sticking up; and as for the round belly, it was jammed into the pocket of
his pilot- coat.
"And that
looks like the truth," said Keawe.
The next thing he
did was to buy a cork-screw in a shop, and go apart into a secret place in the
fields. And there he tried to draw the cork, but as often as he put the screw
in, out it came again, and the cork as whole as ever.
"This is
some new sort of cork," said Keawe, and all at once he began to shake and
sweat, for he was afraid of that bottle.
On his way back
to the port-side, he saw a shop where a man sold shells and clubs from the wild
islands, old heathen deities, old coined money, pictures from China and Japan,
and all manner of things that sailors bring in their sea-chests. And here he
had an idea. So he went in and offered the bottle for a hundred dollars. The
man of the shop laughed at him at the first, and offered him five; but indeed,
it was a curious bottle--such glass was never blown in any human glass-works,
so prettily the colours shown under the milky white, and so strangely the
shadow hovered in the midst; so, after he had disputed awhile after the manner
of his kind, the shopman gave Keawe sixty silver dollars for the thing, and set
it on a shelf in the midst of his window.
"Now,"
said Keawe, "I have sold that for sixty which I bought for fifty--so, to
say truth, a little less, because one of my dollars was from Chili. Now I shall
know the truth upon another point."
So he went back
on board his ship, and, when he opened his chest, there was the bottle, and had
come more quickly than himself. Now Keawe had a mate on board whose name was
Lopaka.
"What ails
you?" said Lopaka, "that you stare in your chest?"
They were alone
in the ship's forecastle, and Keawe bound him to secrecy, and told all.
"This is a
very strange affair," said Lopaka; "and I fear you will be in trouble
about this bottle. But there is one point very clear--that you are sure of the
trouble, and you had better have the profit in the bargain. Make up your mind
what you want with it; give the order, and if it is done as you desire, I will
buy the bottle myself; for I have an idea of my own to get a schooner, and go
trading through the islands."
"That is not
my idea," said Keawe; "but to have a beautiful house and garden on
the Kona Coast, where I was born, the sun shining in at the door, flowers in
the garden, glass in the windows, pictures on the walls, and toys and fine
carpets on the tables, for all the world like the house I was in this day--only
a storey higher, and with balconies all about like the king's palace; and to
live there without care and make merry with my friends and relatives."
"Well,"
said Lopaka, "let us carry it back with us to Hawaii, and if all comes
true, as you suppose, I will buy the bottle, as I said, and ask a
schooner."
Upon that they
were agreed, and it was not long before the ship returned to Honolulu, carrying
Keawe and Lopaka, and the bottle. They were scarce come ashore when they met a
friend upon the beach, who began at once to condole with Keawe.
"I do not
know what I am to be condoled about," said Keawe.
"Is it
possible you have not heard," said the friend, "your uncle--that good
old man--is dead, and your cousin--that beautiful boy--was drowned at
sea?"
Keawe was filled
with sorrow, and, beginning to weep and to lament he forgot about the bottle.
But Lopaka was thinking to himself, and presently, when Keawe's grief was a
little abated, "I have been thinking," said Lopaka. "Had not
your uncle lands in Hawaii, in the district of Kau?"
"No,"
said Keawe, "not in Kau; they are on the mountain-side--a little way south
of Hookena."
"These lands
will now be yours?" asked Lopaka.
"And so they
will," says Keawe, and began again to lament for his relatives.
"No,"
said Lopaka, "do not lament at present. I have a thought in my mind. How
if this should be the doing of the bottle? For here is the place ready for your
house."
"If this be
so," cried Keawe, "it is a very ill way to serve me by killing my
relatives. But it may be, indeed; for it was in just such a station that I saw
the house with my mind's eye."
"The house,
however, is not yet built," said Lopaka.
"No, nor
like to be!" said Keawe, "for though my uncle has some coffee and ava
and bananas, it will not be more than will keep me in comfort; and the rest of
that land is the black lava."
"Let us go
to the lawyer," said Lopaka; "I have still this idea in my
mind."
Now, when they
came to the lawyer's, it appeared Keawe's uncle had grown monstrous rich in the
last days, and there was a fund of money.
"And here is
the money for the house!" cried Lopaka.
"If you are
thinking of a new house," said the lawyer, "here is the card of a new
architect, of whom they tell me great things."
"Better and
better!" cried Lopaka. "Here is all made plain for us. Let us
continue to obey orders."
So they went to
the architect, and he had drawings of houses on his table.
"You want
something out of the way," said the architect. "How do you like
this?" and he handed a drawing to Keawe.
Now, when Keawe
set eyes on the drawing, he cried out aloud, for it was the picture of his
thought exactly drawn.
"I am for
this house," thought he. "Little as I like the way it comes to me, I
am in for it now, and I may as well take the good along with the evil."
So he told the
architect all that he wished, and how he would have that house furnished, and
about the pictures on the wall and the knick-knacks on the tables; and he asked
the man plainly for how much he would undertake the whole affair.
The architect put
many questions, and took his pen and made a computation; and when he had done
he named the very sum that Keawe had inherited.
Lopaka and Keawe
looked at one another and nodded.
"It is quite
clear," thought Keawe, "that I am to have this house, whether or no.
It comes from the devil, and I fear I will get little good by that; and of one
thing I am sure, I will make no more wishes as long as I have this bottle. But
with the house I am saddled, and I may as well take the good along with the
evil."
So he made his
terms with the architect, and they signed a paper; and Keawe and Lopaka took
ship again and sailed to Australia; for it was concluded between them they
should not interfere at all, but leave the architect and the bottle imp to
build and to adorn that house at their own pleasure.
The voyage was a
good voyage, only all the time Keawe was holding in his breath, for he had
sworn he would utter no more wishes, and take no more favours from the devil.
The time was up when they go back. The architect told them that the house was
ready, and Keawe and Lopaka took a passage in the Hall, and went down Kona way
to view the house, and see if all had been done fitly according to the thought
that was in Keawe's mind.
Now, the house
stood on the mountain-side, visible to ships. Above, the forest ran up into the
clouds of rain; below, the black lava fell in cliffs, where the kings of old
lay buried. A garden bloomed about that house with every hue of flowers; and
there was an orchard of papaia on the one hand and an orchard of breadfruit on
the other, and right in front, toward the sea, a ship's mast had been rigged up
and bore a flag. As for the house, it was three storeys high, with great
chambers and broad balconies on each. The windows were of glass, so excellent
that it was as clear as water and as bright as day. All manner of furniture
adorned the chambers. Pictures hung upon the wall in golden frames: pictures of
ships, and men fighting, and of the most beautiful women, and of singular
places; nowhere in the world are there pictures of so bright a colour as those
Keawe found hanging in his house. As for the knick-knacks, they were
extraordinary fine; chiming clocks and musical boxes, little men with nodding
heads, books filled with pictures, weapons of price from all quarters of the
world, and the most elegant puzzles to entertain the leisure of a solitary man.
And as no one would care to live in such chambers, only to walk through and
view them, the balconies were made so broad that a whole town might have lived
upon them in delight; and Keawe knew not which to prefer, whether the back
porch, where you got the land breeze, and looked upon the orchards and the
flowers, or the front balcony, where you could drink the wind of the sea, and
look down the steep wall of the mountain and see the Hall going by once a week
or so between Kookena and the hills of Pele, or the schooners plying up the
coast for wood and ava and bananas.
When they had
viewed all, Keawe and Lopaka sat on the porch.
"Well,"
asked Lopaka, "is it all as you designed?"
"Words
cannot utter it," said Keawe. "It is better than I dreamed, and I am
sick with satisfaction."
"There is
but one thing to consider," said Lopaka; "all this may be quite
natural, and the bottle imp have nothing whatever to say to it. If I were to
buy the bottle, and got no schooner after all, I should have put my hand in the
fire for nothing. I gave you my word, I know; but yet I think you would not
grudge me one more proof."
"I have
sworn I would take no more favours," said Keawe. "I have gone already
deep enough."
"This is no
favour I am thinking of," replied Lopaka. "It is only to see the imp
himself. There is nothing to be gained by that, and so nothing to be ashamed
of; and yet, if I once saw him, I should be sure of the whole matter. So
indulge me so far, and let me see the imp; and, after that, here is the money
in my hand, and I will buy it."
"There is
only one thing I am afraid of," said Keawe. "The imp may be very ugly
to view; and if you once set eyes upon him you might be very undesirous of the
bottle."
"I am a man
of my word," said Lopaka. "And here is the money betwixt us."
"Very
well," replied Keawe. "I have a curiosity myself. So come, let us
have one look at you, Mr. Imp."
Now as soon as
that was said, the imp looked out of the bottle, and in again, swift as a
lizard; and there sat Keawe and Lopaka turned to stone. The night had quite
come, before either found a thought to say or voice to say it with; and then
Lopaka pushed the money over and took the bottle.
"I am a man
of my word," said he, "and had need to be so, or I would not touch
this bottle with my foot. Well, I shall get my schooner and a dollar or two for
my pocket; and then I will be rid of this devil as fast as I can. For to tell
you the plain truth, the look of him has cast me down."
"Lopaka,"
said Keawe, "do not you think any worse of me than you can help ; I know
it is night, and the roads had, and the pass by the tombs an ill place to go by
so late, but I declare since I have seen that little face, I cannot eat or
sleep or pray till it is gone from me. I will give you a lantern, and a basket
to put the bottle in, and any picture or fine thing in all my house that takes
your fancy;--and be gone at once, and go sleep at Hookena with Nahinu."
"Keawe,"
said Lopaka, "many a man would take this ill; above all, when I am doing
you a turn so friendly, as to keep my word and buy the bottle; and for that
matter, the night and the dark, and the way by the tombs, must be all tenfold
more dangerous to a man with such a sin upon his conscience, and such a bottle
under his arm. But for my part, I am so extremely terrified myself, I have not
the heart to blame you. Here I go then; and I pray God you may be happy in your
house, and I fortunate with my schooner, and both get to heaven in the end in
spite of the devil and his bottle."
So Lopaka went
down the mountain; and Keawe stood in his front balcony, and listened to the
clink of the horse's shoes, and watched the lantern go shining down the path,
and along the cliff of caves where the old dead are buried; and all the time he
trembled and clasped his hands, and prayed for his friend, and gave glory to
God that he himself had escaped out of that trouble.
But the next day
came very brightly, and that new house of his was so delightful to behold that
he forgot his terrors. One day followed another, and Keawe dwelt there in
perpetual joy. He had his place on the back porch; it was there he ate and
lived, and read the stories in the Honolulu newspapers; but when anyone came by
they would go in and view the chambers and the pictures. And the fame of the
house went far and wide; it was called Ka-Hale Nui--the Great House--in all
Kona; and sometimes the Bright House, for Keawe kept a Chinaman, who was all
day dusting and furbishing; and the glass and the gilt, and the fine stuffs,
and the pictures, shown as bright as the morning. As for Keawe himself, he
could not walk in the chambers without singing, his heart was so enlarged; and
when ships sailed by upon the sea, he would fly his colours on the mast.
So time went by,
until one day Keawe went upon a visit as far as Kailua to certain of his
friends. There he was well feasted; and left as soon as he could the next
morning, and rode hard, for he was impatient to behold his beautiful house;
and, besides, the night then coming on was the night in which the dead of old
days go abroad in the sides of Kona; and having already meddled with the devil,
he was the more chary of meeting with the dead. A little beyond Honaunau,
looking far ahead, he was aware of a woman bathing in the edge of the sea; and
she seemed a well grown girl, but he thought no more of it. Then he saw her
white shift flutter as she put it on, and then her red holoku; and by the time
he came abreast of her she was done with her toilet, and had come up from the
sea, and stood by the track-side in her red holoku, and she was all freshened
with the bath, and her eyes shone and were kind. Now Keawe no sooner beheld her
than he drew rein.
"I thought I
knew everyone in this country," said he. "How comes it that I do not
know you?"
"I am Kokua,
daughter of Kiano," said the girl, "and I have just returned from
Oahu. Who are you?"
"I will tell
you who I am in a little," said Keawe, dismounting from his horse,
"but not now. For I have a thought in my mind, and if you knew who I was,
you might have heard of me, and would not give me a true answer. But tell me,
first of all, one thing: Are you married?"
At this Kokua
laughed out aloud. "It is you who ask questions," said she. "Are
you married yourself?"
"Indeed,
Kokua, I am not," repled Keawe, "and never thought to be until this hour.
But here is the plain truth. I have met you here at the roadside, and I saw
your eyes, which are like the stars, and my heart went to you as swift as a
bird. And so now, if you want none of me, say so, and I will go on to my own
place; but if you think me no worse than any other young man, say so, too, and
I will turn aside to your father's for the night, and tomorrow I will talk with
the good man."
Kokua said never
a word, but she looked at the sea and laughed.
"Kokua,"
said Keawe, "if you say nothing, I will take that for the good answer; so
let us be stepping to your father's door."
She went on ahead
of him, still without speech; only sometimes she glanced back and glanced away
again, and she kept the string of her hat in her mouth.
Now, when they
had come to the door, Kiano came out on his verandah, and cried out and
welcomed Keawe by name. At that the girl looked over, for the fame of the great
house had come to her ears; and, to be sure, it was a great temptation. All
that evening they were very merry together; and the girl was as bold as brass
under the eyes of her parents, and made a mock of Keawe, for she had a quick
wit. The next day he had a word with Kiano, and found the girl alone.
"Kokua,"
said he, "you made a mock of me all the evening; and it is still time to
bid me go. I would not tell you who I was, because I have so fine a house, and
I feared you would think too much of that house and too little of the man that
loves you. Now you know all, and if you wish to have seen the last of me, say
so at once."
"No,"
said Kokua; but this time she did not laugh, nor did Keawe ask for more.
This was the
wooing of Keawe; things had gone quickly; but so an arrow goes, and the ball of
a rifle swifter still, and yet both may strike the target. Things had gone
fast, but they had gone far also, and the thought of Keawe rang in the maiden's
head; she heard his voice in the breach of the surf upon the lava, and for this
young man that she had seen but twice she would have left father and mother and
her native islands. As for Keawe himself, his horse flew up the path of the
mountain under the cliff of tombs, and the sound of the hoofs, and the sound of
Keawe singing to himself for pleasure echoed in the caverns of the dead. He
came to the Bright House, and still he was singing. He sat and ate in the broad
balcony, and the Chinaman wondered at his master, to hear how he sang between
the mouthfuls. The sun went down into the sea, and the night came; and Keawe
walked the balconies by lamplight, high on the mountains, and the voice of his
singing startled men on ships.
"Here am I
now upon my high place," he said to himself. "Life may be no better;
this is the mountain top; and all shelves about me towards the worse. For the
first time I will light up the chambers, and bathe in my fine bath with the hot
water and the cold, and sleep alone in the bed of my bridal chamber."
So the Chinaman
had word, and he must rise from sleep and light the furnaces; and as he wrought
below, beside the boilers, he heard his master singing and rejoicing above him
in the lighted chambers. When the water began to be hot the Chinaman cried to
his master; and Keawe went into the bathroom; and the Chinaman heard him sing
as he filled the marble basin; and heard him sing, and the signing broken, as
he undressed; until of a sudden, the song ceased. The Chinaman listened, and
listened; he called up the house to Keawe to ask if all were well, and Keawe
answered him "Yes," and bad him go to bed; but there was no more
singing in the Bright House; and all night long, the Chinaman heard his
master's feet go round and round the balconies without repose.
Now the truth of
it was this: as Keawe undressed for his bath, he spied upon his flesh a patch
like a patch of lichen on a rock, and it was then that he stopped singing. For
he knew the likeness of that patch, and knew that he was fallen in the Chinese
Evil. [footnote: Leprosy.] Now, it is a sad thing for any man to fall into this
sickness. And it would be a sad thing for anyone to leave a house so beautiful
and so commodious, and depart from all his friends to the north coast of
Molokai between the mighty cliff and the sea-breakers. But what was that the
case of the man Keawe, he who had met his love but yesterday, and won her but
that morning, and now saw all his hopes break, in a moment, like a piece of
glass?
Awhile he sat
upon the edge of the bath; then sprang, with a cry and ran outside; and to and
fro, to and fro, along the balcony, like one despairing.
"Very
willingly could I leave Hawaii, the home of my fathers," Keawe was
thinking. "Very lightly could I leave my house, the high-placed, the
many-windowed, here upon the mountains. Very bravely could I go to Molokai, to
Kalaupapa by the cliffs, to live with the smitten and to sleep there, far from
my fathers. But what wrong have I done, what sin lies upon my soul, that I
should have encountered Kokua coming cool from the sea-water in the evening?
Kokua, the soul ensnarer! Kokua, the light of my life! Her may I never wed, her
may I look upon no longer, her may I no more handle with my living hand; and it
is for this, it is for you, O Kokua! that I pour my lamentations!"
Now you are to
observe what sort of a man Keawe was, for he might have dwelt there in the
Bright House for years, and no one been the wiser of his sickness; but he
reckoned nothing of that, if he must lose Kokua. And again, he might have wed
Kokua even as he was; and so many would have done, because they have the souls
of pigs; but Keawe loved the maid manfully, and he would do her no hurt and
bring her in no danger.
A little beyond
the midst of the night, there came in his mind the recollection of that bottle.
He went round to the back porch, and called to memory the day when the devil
had looked forth; and at the thought ice ran in his veins.
"A dreadful
thing is the bottle," thought Keawe, "and dreadful is the imp, and it
is a dreadful thing to risk the flames of hell. But what other hope have I to
cure the sickness or to wed Kokua? What!" he thought, "would I beard the
devil once, only to get me a house, and not face him again to win Kokua?"
Thereupon he
called to mind it was the next day the Hall went by on her return to Honolulu.
"There must I go first," he thought, "and see Lopaka. For the
best hope that I have now is to find that same bottle I was so please to be rid
of."
Never a wink
could he sleep; the food stuck in his throat; but he sent a letter to Kiano,
and about the time when the steamer would be coming, rode down beside the cliff
of the tombs. It rained; his horse went heavily; he looked up at the black
mouths of the caves, and he envied the dead that slept there and were done with
trouble; and called to mind how he had galloped by the day before, and was
astonished. So he came down to Hookena, and there was all the country gathered
for the steamer as usual. In the shed before the store they sat and jested and
passed the news; but there was no matter of speech in Keawe's bosom, and he sat
in their midst and looked without on the rain falling on the houses, and the surf
beating among the rocks, and the sighs arose in his throat.
"Keawe of
the Bright House is out of spirits," said one to another. Indeed, and so
he was, and little wonder.
Then the Hall
came, and the whaleboat carried him on board. The after-part of the ship was
full of Haoles [footnote: Whites] who had been to visit the volcano, as their
custom is; and the midst was crowded with Kanakas, and the forepart with wild
bulls from Hilo and horses from Kau; but Keawe sat apart from all in his
sorrow, and watched for the house of Kiano. There is sat, low upon the shore in
the black rocks and shaded by the cocoa palms, and there by the door was a red
holoku, no greater than a fly, and going to and fro with a fly's busyness.
"Ah, queen
of my heart," he cried, "I'll venture my dear soul to win you!"
Soon after,
darkness fell, and the cabins were lit up, and the Haoles sat and played at the
cards and drank whisky as their custom is; but Keawe walked the deck all night;
and all the next day, as they steamed under the lee of Maui or of Molokai, he
was still pacing to and from like a wild animal in a menagerie.
Towards evening
they passed Diamond Head, and came to the pier of Honolulu. Keawe stepped out
among the crowd and began to ask for Lopaka. It seemed he had become the owner
of a schooner--none better in the islands--and was gone upon an adventure as
far as Pola- Pola or Kahiki; so there was no help to be looked for from Lopaka.
Keawe called to mind a friend of his, a lawyer in the town (I must not tell his
name), and inquired of him. They said he was grown suddenly rich, and had a
fine new house upon Waikiki shore; and this put a thought in Keawe's head, and
he called a hack and drove to the lawyer's house.
The house was all
brand new, and the trees in the garden no greater than walking-sticks, and the
lawyer, when he came, had the air of a man well pleased.
What can I do to
serve you?" said the lawyer.
"You are a
friend of Lopaka's," replied Keawe, "and Lopaka purchased from me a
certain piece of goods that I thought you might enable me to trace."
The lawyer's face
became very dark. "I do not profess to misunderstand you, Mr. Keawe,"
said he, "though this is an ugly business to be stirring in. You maybe
sure I know nothing, but yet I have a guess, and if you would apply in a
certain quarter I think you might have news."
And he named the
name of a man, which, again, I had better not repeat. So it was for days, and
Keawe went from one to another, finding everywhere new clothes and carriages,
and fine new houses and men everywhere in great contentment, although, to be
sure, when he hinted at his business their faces would cloud over.
"No doubt I
am upon the track," thought Keawe. "These new clothes and carriages
are all the gifts of the little imp, and these glad faces are the faces of men
who have taken their profit and got rid of the accursed thing in safety. When I
see pale cheeks and hear sighing, I shall know that I am near the bottle."
So it befell at
last that he was recommended to a Haole in Beritania Street. When he came to
the door, about the hour of the evening meal, there were the usual marks of the
new house, and the young garden, and the electric light shining in the windows;
but when the owner came, a shock of hope and fear ran through Keawe; for here
was a young man, white as a corpse, and black about the eyes, the hair shedding
from his head, and such a look in his countenance as a man may have when he is
waiting for the gallows.
"Here it is,
to be sure," thought Keawe, and so with this man he no ways veiled his
errand. "I am come to buy the bottle," said he.
At the word, the
young Haole of Beritania Street reeled against the wall.
"The
bottle!" he gasped. "To buy the bottle!" Then he seemed to
choke, and seizing Keawe by the arm carried him into a room and poured out wine
in two glasses.
"Here is my
respects," said Keawe, who had been much about with Haoles in his time.
"Yes," he added, "I am come to buy the bottle. What is the price
by now?"
At that word the
young man let his glass slip through his fingers, and looked upon Keawe like a
ghost.
"The
price," says he; "the price! you do not know the price?"
"It is for
that I am asking you," returned Keawe. "But why are you so much
concerned? Is there anything wrong about the price?"
"It has dropped
a great deal in value since your time, Mr. Keawe," said the young man,
stammering.
"Well, well,
I shall have the less to pay for it," said Keawe. "How much did it
cost you?"
The young man was
as white as a sheet. "Two cents," said he.
"What?"
cried Keawe, "two cents? Why, then, you can only sell it for one. And he
who buys it--" The words died upon Keawe's tongue; he who bought it could
never sell it again, the bottle and the bottle imp must abide with him until he
died, and when he died must carry him to the red end of hell.
The young man of
Beritania Street fell upon his knees. "For God's sake buy it!" he
cried. "You can have all my fortune in the bargain. I was mad when I
bought it at that price. I had embezzled money at my store; I was lost else; I
must have gone to jail."
"Poor
creature," said Keawe, "you would risk your soul upon so desperate an
adventure, and to avoid the proper punishment of your own disgrace; and you
think I could hesitate with love in front of me. Give me the bottle, and the
change which I make sure you have all ready. Here is a five-cent piece."
It was as Keawe
supposed; the young man had the change ready in a drawer; the bottle changed
hands, and Keawe's fingers were no sooner clasped upon the stalk than he had
breathed his wish to be a clean man. And, sure enough, when he got home to his
room and stripped himself before a glass, his flesh was whole like an infant's.
And here was the strange thing: he had no sooner seen this miracle, than his
mind was changed within him, and he cared naught for the Chinese Evil, and
little enough for Kokua; and had but the one thought, that here he was bound to
the bottle imp for time and for eternity, and had no better hope but to be a
cinder for ever in the flames of hell. Away ahead of him he saw them blaze with
his mind's eye, and his soul shrank, and darkness fell upon the light.
When Keawe came
to himself a little, he was aware it was the night when the band played at the
hotel. Thither he went, because he feared to be alone; and there, among happy
faces, walked to and fro, and heard the tunes go up and down, and saw Berger
beat the measure, and all the while he heard the flames crackle, and saw the
red fire burning in the bottomless pit. Of a sudden the band played Hiki-ao-ao;
that was a song that he had sung with Kokua, and at the strain courage returned
to him.
"It is done
now," he thought, "and once more let me take the good along with the
evil."
So it befell that
he returned to Hawaii by the first steamer, and as soon as it could be managed
he was wedded to Kokua, and carried her up the mountain side to the Bright
House.
Now it was so
with these two, that when they ere together, Keawe's heart was stilled; but so
soon has he was alone he fell into a brooding horror, and heard the flames
crackle, and saw the red fire burn in the bottomless pit. The girl, indeed, had
come to him wholly; her heart leapt in her side at sight of him, her hand clung
to his; and she was so fashioned from the hair upon her head to the nails upon
her toes that none could see her without joy. She was pleasant in her nature.
She had the good word always. Full of song she was, and went to and fro in the
Bright House, the brightest thing in its three storeys, carolling like the
birds. And Keawe beheld and heard her with delight, and then must shrink upon
one side, and weep and groan to think upon the price that he had paid for her;
and then he must dry his eyes, and wash his face, and go and sit with her on
the broad balconies joining in her songs, and, with a sick spirit, answering
her smiles.
There came a day
when her feet began to be heavy and her songs more rare; and now it was not
Keawe only that would weep apart, but each would sunder from the other and sit
in opposite balconies with the whole width of the Bright House betwixt. Keawe
was so sunk in his despair, he scarce observed the change, and was only glad he
had more hours to sit alone and brood upon his destiny and was not so
frequently condemned to pull a smiling face on a sick heart. But one day, coming
softly through the house, he heard the sound of a child sobbing, and there was
Kokua rolling her face upon the balcony floor, and weeping like the lost.
"You do well
to weep in this house, Kokua," he said. "And yet I would give the
head off my body that you (at least) might have been happy."
"Happy!"
she cried. "Keawe, when you lived alone in your Bright House, you were the
word of the island for a happy man; laughter and song were in your mouth, and
your face was as bright as the sunrise. Then you wedded pour Kokua; and the
good God knows what is amiss in her--but from that day you have not smiled.
Ah!" she cried, "what ails me? I thought I was pretty, and I knew I
loved him. What ails me that I throw this cloud upon my husband?"
"Poor
Kokua," said Keawe. He sat down by her side, and sought to take her hand;
but that she plucked away. "Poor Kokua," he said, again. "My
poor child--my pretty. And I thought all this while to spare you! Well, you
shall know all. Then, at least, you will pity poor Keawe; then you will
understand how much he loved you in the past-- that he dared hell for your
possession--and how much he loves you still (the poor condemned one), that he
can yet call up a smile when he beholds you."
With that, he
told her all, even from the beginning.
"You have
done this for me?" she cried. "Ah, well then what do I
care!"--and she clasped and wept upon him.
"Ah,
child!" said Keawe, "and yet, when I consider of the fire of hell, I
care a good deal!"
"Never tell
me," said she; "no man can be lost because he loved Kokua, and no
other fault. I tell you, Keawe, I shall save you with these hands, or perish in
your company. What! you loved me, and gave your soul, and you think I will not
die to save you in return?"
"Ah, my
dear! you might die a hundred times, and what difference would that make?"
he cried, "except to leave me lonely till the time comes of my
damnation?"
"You know
nothing," said she. "I was educated in a school in Honolulu; I am no
common girl. And I tell you, I shall save my lover. What is this you say about
a cent? But all the world is not American. In England they have a piece they
call a farthing, which is about half a cent. Ah! sorrow!" she cried,
"that makes it scarcely better, for the buyer must be lost, and we shall
find none so brave as my Keawe! But, then, there is France; they have a small
coin there which they call a centime, and these go five to the cent or
thereabout. We could not do better. Come, Keawe, let us go to the French
islands; let us go to Tahiti, as fast as ships can bear us. There we have four
centimes, three centimes, two centimes one centime; four possible sales to come
and go on; and two of us to push the bargain. Come, my Keawe! kiss me, and
banish care. Kokua will defend you."
"Gift of
God!" he cried. "I cannot think that God will punish me for desiring
aught so good! Be it as you will, then; take me where you please: I put my life
and my salvation in your hands."
Early the next
day Kokua was about her preparations. She took Keawe's chest that he went with
sailoring; and first she put the bottle in a corner; and then packed it with
the richest of the clothes and the bravest of the knick-knacks in the house.
"For," said she, "we must seem to be rich folks, or who will
believe in the bottle?" All the time of her preparation she was as gay as
a bird; only when she looked upon Keawe, the tears would spring in her eye, and
she must run and kiss him. As for Keawe, a weight was off his soul; now that he
had his secret shared, and some hope in front of him, he seemed like a new man,
his feet went lightly on the earth, and his breath was good to him again. Yet
was terror still at his elbow; and ever and again, as the wind blows out a
taper, hope died in him, and he saw the flames toss and the red fire burn in hell.
It was given out
in the country they were gone pleasuring to the States, which was thought a
strange thing, and yet not so strange as the truth, if any could have guessed
it. So they went to Honolulu in the Hall, and thence in the Umatilla to San
Francisco with a crowd of Haoles, and at San Francisco took their passage by
the mail brigantine, the Tropic Bird for Papeete, the chief place of the French
in the south islands. Thither they came, after a pleasant voyage, on a fair day
of the Trade Wind, and saw the reef with the surf breaking, and Motuiti with
its palms, and the schooner riding within- side, and the white houses of the
town low down along the shore among green trees, and overhead the mountains and
the clouds of Tahiti, the wise island.
It was judged the
most wise to hire a house, which they did accordingly, opposite the British
Consul's, to make a great parade of money, and themselves conspicuous with
carriages and horses. This it was very easy to do, so long as they had the
bottle in their possession; for Kokua was more bold than Keawe, and whenever
she had a mind, called on the imp for twenty or a hundred dollars. At this rate
they soon grew to be remarked in the town; and the strangers from Hawaii, their
riding and their driving, the fine holokus and the rich lace of Kokua, became
the matter of much talk.
They got on well
after the first with the Tahitian language, which is indeed like to the
Hawaiian, with a change of certain letters; and as soon as they had any freedom
of speech, began to push the bottle. You are to consider it was not an easy
subject to introduce; it was not easy to persuade people you were in earnest,
when you offered so sell them for four centimes the spring of health and riches
inexhaustible. It was necessary besides to explain the dangers of the bottle;
and either people disbelieved the whole thing and laughed or they thought the
more of the darker part, became overcast with gravity, and drew away from Keawe
and Kokua, as from persons who had dealings with the devil. So far from gaining
ground, these two began to find they were avoided in the town; the children ran
away from them screaming, a thing intolerable to Kokua; Catholics crossed
themselves as they went by; and all persons began with one accord to disengage
themselves from their advances.
Depression fell
upon their spirits. They would sit at night in their new house, after a day's
weariness, and not exchange one word, or the silence would be broken by Kokua
bursting suddenly into sobs. Sometimes they would pray together; sometimes they
would have the bottle out upon the floor, and sit all evening watching how the
shadow hovered in the midst. At such times they would be afraid to go to rest.
It was long ere slumber came to them, and if either dozed off, it would be to
wake and find the other silently weeping in the dark, or perhaps, to wake
alone, the other having fled from the house and the neighbourhood of that
bottle, to pace under the bananas in the little garden, or to wander on the
beach by moonlight.
One night it was
so when Kokua awoke. Keawe was gone. She felt in the bed and his place was
cold. Then fear fell upon her, and she sat up in bed. A little moonshine
filtered through the shutters. The room was bright, and she could spy the
bottle on the floor. Outside it blew high, the great trees of the avenue cried
aloud, and the fallen leaves rattled in the verandah. In the midst of this
Kokua was aware of another sound; whether of a beast or of a man she could
scarce tell, but it was as sad as death, and cut her to the soul. Softly she
arose, set the door ajar, and looked forth in the moonlit yard. There, under
the bananas, lay Keawe, his mouth in the dust, and as he lay he moaned.
It was Kokua's
first thought to run forward and console him; her second potently withheld her.
Keawe had borne himself before his wife like a brave man; it became her little
in the hour of weakness to intrude upon his shame. With the thought she drew
back into the house.
"Heavens!"
she thought, "how careless have I been--- how weak! It is he, not I that
stands in this eternal peril; it was he, not I, that took the curse upon his
soul. It is for my sake, and for the love of a creature of so little worth and
such poor help , that he now beholds so close to him the flames of hell--ay, and
smells the smoke of it, lying without there in the wind and moonlight. Am I so
dull of spirit that never till now I have surmised my duty, or have I seen it
before and turned aside? But now, at least, I take upon my soul in both the
hands of my affection; now I say farewell to the white steps of heaven and the
waiting faces of my friends. A love for a love, and let mine be equalled with
Keawe's! A soul for a soul, and be it mine to perish!"
She was a deft
woman with her hands, and was soon apparelled. She took in her hands the
change--the precious centimes they kept ever at their side; for this coin is
little used, and they had made provision at a Government office. When she was
forth in the avenue clouds came on the wind, and the moon was blackened. The town
slept, and she knew not whither to turn till she heard one coughing in the
shadow of the trees.
"Old
man," said Kokua, "what do you here abroad in the cold night?"
The old man could
scarce express himself for coughing, but she made out that he was old and poor,
and a stranger in the island.
"Will you do
me a service?" said Kokua. "As one stranger to another, and as an old
man to a young woman, will you help a daughter of Hawaii?"
"Ah,"
said the old man. "So you are the witch from the eight islands, and even
my old soul you seek to entangle. But I have heard of you, and defy your
wickedness."
"Sit down
here," said Kokua, "and let me tell you a tale." And she told
him the story of Keawe from the beginning to the end.
"And
now," said she, "I am his wife, whom he bought with his soul's
welfare. And what should I do? If I went to him myself and offered to buy it,
he would refuse. But if you go, he will sell it eagerly; I will await you here;
you will buy it for four centimes, and I will buy it again for three. And the
Lord strengthen a poor girl!"
"If you
meant falsely," said the old man, "I think God would strike you
dead."
"He
would!" cried Kokua. "Be sure he would. I could not be so
treacherous--God would not suffer it ."
"Give me the
four centimes and await me here," said the old man.
Now, when Kokua
stood alone in the street, her spirit died. The wind roared in the trees, and
it seemed to her the rushing of the flames of hell; the shadows tossed in the
light of the street lamp, and they seemed to her the snatching hands of evil
ones. If she had had the strength, she must have run away, and if she had had
the breath she must have screamed aloud; but, in truth, she could do neither,
and stood trembled in the avenue, like an affrighted child.
Then she saw the
old man returning, and he had the bottle in his hand.
"I have done
your bidding," said he. "I left your husband weeping like a child;
tonight he will sleep easy." And he held the bottle forth.
"Before you
give it me," Kokua panted, "take the good with the evil--ask to be
delivered from your cough."
"I am an old
man," replied the other, "and too near the gate of the grave to take
a favour from the devil. But what is this? Why do you not take the bottle? Do
you hesitate?"
"Not
hesitate!" cried Kokua. "I am only weak. Give me a moment. It is my
hand resists, my flesh shrinks back from the accursed thing. One moment
only!"
The old man
looked upon Kokua kindly. "Poor child!" said he, "you fear; your
soul misgives you. Well, let me keep it. I am old and can never more be happy
in this world, and as for the next--"
"Give it
me!" gasped Kokua. "There is your money. Do you think I am so base as
that? give me the bottle."
"God bless
you, child," said the old man.
Kokua concealed
the bottle under her holoku, said farewell to the old man, and walked off along
the avenue, she cared not whither. For all roads were not the same to her, and
led equally to hell. Sometimes she walked, and sometimes ran; sometimes she
screamed out loud in the night, and sometimes lay by the wayside in the dust
and wept. All that she had heard of hell came back to her; she saw the flames
blaze, and she smelt the smoke, and her flesh withered on the coals.
Near the day she
came to her mind again, and returned to the house. It was even as the old man
said-- Keawe slumbered like a child. Kokua stood and gazed upon his face.
"Now, my
husband," said she, "it is your turn to sleep. When you wake it will
be your turn to sing and laugh. But for poor Kokua, alas! that meant no
evil--for poor Kokua no more sleep, no more singing, no more delight, whether
in earth or heaven."
With that she lay
down int he bed by his side, and her misery was so extreme that she fell in a
deep slumber instantly.
Late in the
morning her husband woke her and gave her the good news. It seemed he was silly
with delight, for he paid no heed to her distress, ill though she dissembled
it. The words stuck in her mouth, it mattered not; Keawe did the speaking. She
ate not a bite, but who was to observe it? for Keawe cleared the dish. Kokua
saw and heard him, like some strange thing in a dream; there were times when
she forgot or doubted, and put her hands to her brow; to know herself doomed
and hear her husband babble, seemed so monstrous.
All the while
Keawe was eating and talking, and planning the time of their return, and
thanking her for saving him, and fondling her, and calling her the true help er
after all. He laughed at the old man that was fool enough to buy that bottle.
"A worthy
old man he seemed," Keawe said. "But no one can judge by appearances.
For why did the old reprobate require the bottle?"
"My
husband," said Kokua, humbly, "his purpose may have been good."
Keawe laughed
like an angry man.
"Fiddle-de-dee!"
cried Keawe. "An old rogue, I tell you; and an old ass to boot. For the
bottle was hard enough to sell at four centimes; and at three it will be quite
impossible. The margin is not broad enough, the thing begins to smell of
scorching--brrr!" said he, and shuddered. "It is true I bought it
myself at a cent, when I knew not there were smaller coins. I was a fool for my
pains; there will never be found another: and whoever has that bottle now will
carry it to the pit."
"O my
husband!" said Kokua. "It is not a terrible thing to save oneself by
the eternal ruin of another? It seems to me I could not laugh. I would be
humbled. I would be filled with melancholy. I would pray for the poor
holder."
Then Keawe,
because he felt the truth of what she said, grew the more angry.
"Heighty-teighty!" cried he. "You maybe filled with melancholy
if you please. It is not the mind of a good wife. If you thought at all of me,
you would sit shamed."
Thereupon he went
out, and Kokua was alone.
What chance had
she to sell that bottle at two centimes? None, she perceived. And if she had
any, here was her husband hurrying her away to a country where there was
nothing lower than a cent. And here--on the morrow of her sacrifice--was her
husband leaving her and blaming her.
She would not
even try to profit by what time she had, but sat in the house, and now had the
bottle out and viewed it with unutterable fear, and now, with loathing, hid it
out of sight.
By-and-by, Keawe
came back, and would have her take a drive.
"My husband,
I am ill," she said. "I am out of heart. Excuse me, I can take no
pleasure."
Then was Keawe
more wroth than ever. With her, because he thought she was brooding over the
case of the old man; and with himself, because thought she was right, and was
ashamed to be so happy.
"This is
your truth," cried he, "and this your affection! Your husband is just
saved from eternal ruin, which he encountered for the love of you--and you take
no pleasure! Kokua, you have a disloyal heart."
He went forth
again furious, and wandered in the town all day. He met friends, and drank with
them; they hired a carriage and drove into the country, and there drank again.
All the time Keawe was ill at ease, because he was taking this pastime while
his wife was sad, and because he knew in his heart that she was more right than
he; and the knowledge made him drink the deeper.
Now there was an
old brutal Haole drinking with him, one that had been a boatswain of a whaler,
a runaway, a digger in gold mines, a convict in prisons. He had a low mind and
a foul mouth; he loved to drink and to see other drunken; and he pressed the
glass upon Keawe. Soon there was no more money in the company.
"Here,
you!" says the boatswain, "you are rich, you have been always saying.
You have a bottle or some foolishness."
"Yes,"
says Keawe, "I am rich; I will go back and get some money from my wife,
who keeps it."
"That's a
bad idea, mate," said the boatswain. "Never you trust a petticoat
with dollars. They're all as false as water; you keep an eye on her."
Now, this word
struck in Keawe's mind; for he was muddled with what he had been drinking.
"I should
not wonder but she was false, indeed," thought he. "Why else should
she be so cast down at my release? But I will show her I am not the man to be
fooled, I will catch her in the act."
Accordingly, when
they were back in town, Keawe bade the boatswain wait for him at the corner, by
the old calaboose, and went forward up the avenue alone to the door of his
house. The night had come again; there was a light within, but never a sound;
and Keawe crept about the corner, opened the back door softly, and looked in.
There was Kokua
on the floor, the lamp at her side, before her was a milk-white bottle, with a
round belly and a long neck; and as she viewed it, Kokua wrong her hands.
A long time Keawe
stood and looked in the doorway. At first he was struck stupid; and then fear
fell upon him that the bargain had been made amiss, and the bottle had come
back to him as it came at San Francisco; and at that his knees were loosened,
and the fumes of the wine departed from his head like mists off a river in the
morning. And then he had another thought; and it was a strange one, that made
his cheeks to burn.
"I must make
sure of this," thought he.
So he closed the
door, and went softly round the corner again, and then came noisily in, as
though he were but now returned. And, lo! by the time he opened the front door
no bottle was to be seen; and Kokua sat in a chair and started up like one
awakened out of sleep.
"I have been
drinking all day and making merry," said Keawe. "I have been with
good companions, and now I only come back for money, and return to drink and
carouse with them again."
Both his face and
voice were as stern as judgement, but Kokua was too troubled to observe.
"You do well
to use your own, my husband," said she, and her words trembled.
"O, I do
well in all things," said Keawe, and he went straight to the chest and
took out money. But he looked besides in the corner where they kept the bottle,
and there was no bottle there.
At that the chest
heaved upon the floor like a sea- billow, and the house span about him like a
wreath of smoke, for he saw he was lost now, and there was no escape. "It
is what I feared," he thought. "It is she who bought it."
And then he came
to himself a little and rose up; but the sweat streamed on his face as thick as
the rain and as cold as the well-water.
"Kokua,"
said he, "I said to you today what ill became me. Now I return to carouse
with my jolly companions," and at that he laughed a little quietly.
"I will take more pleasure in the cup if you forgive me."
She clasped his
knees in a moment; she kissed his knees with flowing tears.
"O,"
she cried, "I asked but a kind word!"
"Let us
never one think hardly of the other," said Keawe, and was gone out of the
house.
Now, the money
that Keawe had taken was only some of that store of centime piece they had laid
in at their arrival. It was very sure he had no mind to be drinking. His wife
had given her soul for him, now he must give his for hers; no other thought was
in the world with him.
At the corner, by
the old calaboose, there was the boatswain waiting.
"My wife has
the bottle," said Keawe, "and, unless you help me to recover it,
there can be no more money and no more liquor tonight."
"You do not
mean to say you are serious about that bottle?" cried the boatswain.
"There is
the lamp," said Keawe. "Do I look as if I was jesting?"
"That is
so," said the boatswain. "You look as serious as a ghost."
"Well,
then," said Keawe, "here are two centimes; you must go to my wife in
the house, and offer her these for the bottle, which (if I am not much
mistaken) she will give you instantly. Bring it to me here, and I will buy it
back from you for one; for that is the law with this bottle, that it still must
be sold for a less sum. But whatever you do, never breathe a word to her that
you have come from me."
"Mate, I
wonder are you making a fool of me?" asked the boatswain.
"It will do
you no harm if I am," returned Keawe.
"That is so,
mate," said the boatswain.
"And if you
doubt me," added Keawe, "you can try. As soon as you are clear of the
house, wish to have your pocket full of money, or a bottle of the best rum, or
what you please, and you will see the virtue of the thing."
"Very well,
Kanaka," says the boatswain. "I will try; but if you are having your
fun out of me, I will take my fun out of you with a belaying pin."
So the whaler-man
went off upon the avenue; and Keawe stood and waited. It was near the same spot
where Kokua had waited the night before; but Keawe was more resolved, and never
faltered in his purpose; only his soul was bitter with despair.
It seemed a long
time he had to wait before he heard a voice singing in the darkness of the
avenue. He knew the voice to be the boatswain's; but it was strange how drunken
it appeared upon a sudden.
Next, the man
himself came stumbling into the light of the lamp. He had the devil's bottle
buttoned in his coat; another bottle was in his hand; and even as he came in
view he raised it to his mouth and drank.
"You have it,"
said Keawe. "I see that."
"Hands
off!" cried the boatswain, jumping back. "Take a step near me, and
I'll smash your mouth. You thought you could make a cat's-paw of me, did
you?"
"What do you
mean?" cried Keawe.
"Mean?"
cried the boatswain. "This is a pretty good bottle, this is; that's what I
mean. How I got it for two centimes I can't make out; but I'm sure you shan't
have it for one."
"You mean
you won't sell?" gasped Keawe.
"No,
sir!" cried the boatswain. "But I'll give you a drink of the rum, if
you like."
"I tell
you," said Keawe, "the man who has that bottle goes to hell."
"I reckon
I'm going anyway," returned the sailor; "and this bottle's the best
thing to go with I've struck yet. No, sir!" he cried again, "this is
my bottle now, and you can go and fish for another."
"Can this be
true?" Keawe cried. "For your own sake, I beseech you, sell it
me!"
"I don't
value any of your talk," replied the boatswain. "You thought I was a
flat; now you see I'm not; and there's an end. If you won't have a swallow of
the rum, I'll have one myself. Here's your health, and goodnight to you!"
So off he went
down the avenue toward town, and there goes the bottle out of the story.
But Keawe ran to
Kokua light as the wind; and great was their joy that night; and great, since
then has been the peace of all their days in the Bright House.
