When at length I realised the truth of everything, I was in a fearful state of mind. What would Waylao think of my sudden absence? Would she think that I had given her the slip—left her to her fate after all my tender expressions, all that I said beneath those coco-palms on Suva Parade?
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The Pinks in their True Colours—A Charitable Community—Waylao thrown out—I return Too Late—Punishment for the Pinks
I WILL do my best to record all that happened to Waylao after I was stricken down.
It appeared that she waited and waited my return in absolute faith that it was no fault of mine that I had not turned up. I cannot describe her feelings as the days went by and I did not put in an appearance. But I can easily imagine a good deal from all I heard, not only from the people that resided in and around Pink’s establishment, but from Waylao’s lips. It was a long time, though, ere we met once more, ere she came like a stricken wraith out of the night to Father O’Leary and I, before she again went away into the darkness.
Mrs Pink was devoutly religious and a typical chapel-goer. She had even got old Pink to pay for a special pew in the wooden chapel at H——. So it is not surprising that when the next week’s rent was due she became extremely suspicious and fearfully pious.
Each morning she would put her head through Waylao’s doorway and, glaring fiercely with one eye, say: “Hi say, miss, ’e ain’t returned yet, ’as ’e?”
Then the old bitch (forgive me, reader, you don’t know Old Mother Pink as I do) would hand her the bill, stand with her arms akimbo across her wide hips, sneer and say: “Where’s yer money? You’re a fine old miss, with yer missionarrry, yer pink sash an’ yellow boots!”
Waylao pleaded with the woman, assured her that I would return, that I must have met with an accident and had been delayed.
“Met with a haccident! It’s _you_ what’s met with the haccident. I don’t like the looks of it. It’s a plant, that’s what it is. ’Im a-going ter re—turn! _I knows! I knows!_” So did Mrs Pink rave on as the days went by, appealing also to the neighbours who lived in the little wooden houses scattered round that part. They already knew about the pretty girl who was lodging in the Pinks’ front room, brought there by a young missionary—who had deserted her—and she like _that_, too! The delight of that motley crew was immense. The little village homes buzzed like bee-hives full of humming scandal. It was not unlike a native village at that spot, only instead of tawny faces and frizzly heads poking out of the little doors, they were pimply, dough-coloured faces with tawny wisps of hair and blue, glassy eyes expressing their shocked disapproval of the affair. Old women who had been fierce enemies, and not spoken to each other for months, fell into each other’s arms. A kind of heathenistic carnival commenced: the whole of the population assembled beneath the palms and started to dance. “Kick ’er out! Kick ’er out! The faggot!” they yelled. The natives hard by heard the noise and crept under the bread-fruit trees, then joined in the procession. It must have been a wonderful sight. Tawny old women, full of wrath, fat old women, short legs, long legs, brown legs, fierce-looking, tattooed creatures, some semi-heathens, others Christianised, wearing spectacles as they searched the books—their Bibles—and shouted forth the Commandments—all bunched there outside Pink’s stores, staring up at Waylao’s window.