The Great Taboo | Page 2

lingered late on deck that night to see the last of that
coral-girt shore, which was to be their final glimpse of land till they
reached Honolulu, en route for San Francisco.
Bit by bit, however, the cocoanut palms, silhouetted with their graceful
waving arms for a few brief minutes in black against the glowing

background, merged slowly into the sky or sank below the horizon. All
grew dark. One by one, as the trees disappeared, the passengers
dropped off for whist in the saloon, or retired to the uneasy solitude of
their own state-rooms. At last only two or three men were left smoking
and chatting near the top of the companion ladder; while at the stern of
the ship Muriel Ellis looked over toward the retreating island, and
talked with a certain timid maidenly frankness to Felix Thurstan.
There's nowhere on earth for getting really to know people in a very
short time like the deck of a great Atlantic or Pacific liner. You're
thrown together so much, and all day long, that you see more of your
fellow-passengers' inner life and nature in a few brief weeks than you
would ever be likely to see in a long twelvemonth of ordinary town or
country acquaintanceship. And Muriel Ellis had seen a great deal in
those thirteen days of Felix Thurstan; enough to make sure in her own
heart that she really liked him--well--so much that she looked up with a
pretty blush of self-consciousness every time he approached and lifted
his hat to her. Muriel was an English rector's daughter, from a country
village in Somersetshire; and she was now on her way back from a long
year's visit, to recruit her health, to an aunt in Paramatta. She was
travelling under the escort of an amiable old chaperon whom the aunt
in question had picked up for her before leaving Sydney; but, as the
amiable old chaperon, being but an indifferent sailor, spent most of her
time in her own berth, closely attended by the obliging stewardess,
Muriel had found her chaperonage interfere very little with
opportunities of talk with that nice Mr. Thurstan. And now, as the last
glow of sunset died out in the western sky, and the last palm-tree faded
away against the colder green darkness of the tropical night, Muriel
was leaning over the bulwarks in confidential mood, and watching the
big waves advance or recede, and talking the sort of talk that such an
hour seems to favor with the handsome young civil servant who stood
on guard, as it were, beside her. For Felix Thurstan held a government
appointment at Levuka, in Fiji, and was now on his way home, on leave
of absence after six years' service in that new-made colony.
"How delightful it would be to live on an island like that!" Muriel
murmured, half to herself, as she gazed out wistfully in the direction of

the disappearing coral reef. "With those beautiful palms waving always
over one's head, and that delicious evening air blowing cool through
their branches! It looks such a Paradise!"
Felix smiled and glanced down at her, as he steadied himself with one
hand against the bulwark, while the ship rolled over into the trough of
the sea heavily. "Well, I don't know about that, Miss Ellis," he
answered with a doubtful air, eying her close as he spoke with eyes of
evident admiration. "One might be happy anywhere, of course--in
suitable society; but if you'd lived as long among cocoanuts in Fiji as I
have, I dare say the poetry of these calm palm-grove islands would be a
little less real to you. Remember, though they look so beautiful and
dreamy against the sky like that, at sunset especially (that was a heavy
one, that time; I'm really afraid we must go down to the cabin soon;
she'll be shipping seas before long if we stop on deck much later--and
yet, it's so delightful stopping up here till the dusk comes on, isn't
it?)--well, remember, I was saying, though they look so beautiful and
dreamy and poetical--'Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple
spheres of sea,' and all that sort of thing--these islands are inhabited by
the fiercest and most bloodthirsty cannibals known to travellers."
"Cannibals!" Muriel repeated, looking up at him in surprise. "You don't
mean to say that islands like these, standing right in the very track of
European steamers, are still heathen and cannibal?"
"Oh, dear, yes," Felix replied, holding his hand out as he spoke to catch
his companion's arm gently, and steady her against the wave that was
just going to strike the stern: "Excuse me; just so; the sea's rising fast,
isn't it?--Oh, dear, yes; of course they are; they're all heathen and
cannibals. You couldn't imagine to