“That’s what I’m telling you, son,” Mr. Stanley answered. “You can sleep easy and not worry about me. That Jap has been here asking about Hitchings Plantation, not an hour ago.”
“What Jap?” asked Wilson.
“You know it already, son,” said Mr. Stanley, gently. “A guy named Mr. Moto, and he didn’t get a damn word out of me. It’s all right, son, go home and go to sleep. I’m not talking, understand? Good night.”
“Good night,” said Wilson, and he walked out to the street. Mr. Stanley’s manner, the whole conversation, puzzled him; but one thing had stopped him asking more. There was only one thing he understood—that Mr. Moto had been very busy, and he could not tell why. He decided to keep the matter to himself until he found out why. He decided not to tell his uncle. He had been told to do the job himself. There was one implication that had been clear enough. For some reason that he did not know as yet, Mr. Stanley had thought he was completely conversant with a situation which he had only heard of that evening. His Uncle William had been right again. There was something wrong with Honolulu. He was sure of it that night. . . .
3
SINCE WILSON HITCHINGS had been taught to be methodical in dress and in thought and in action, he approached the problem before him methodically. The first thing he did the morning he landed in Honolulu was to call on Mr. Joseph Wilkie, the Manager of the Hitchings Brothers Branch. He walked up a broad street slowly, dressed in tailored white, like a traveler accustomed to the tropics, but he looked around him curiously because it was the first time that he had seen these Islands. They had seemed from the ship like a background of a stage. Even when he was safe on land, walking through the warm bright sunlight, the place did not seem any more real than his errand. He still carried in his mind his first view of the city, from the water, with the serrated ridges of volcanic mountains behind it. He could remember the soft fresh spring-like tones of green, the blueness of the water, the bronze bodies of boys swimming beside the slowly moving ship, the giant pineapple rising above a canning factory on the waterfront, and the civic tower with the word “Aloha” written on it and the notes of the band playing Hawaiian music. The docking of the ship had been arranged with a theatrical skill which was characteristically American, but there was more than that. There had been something of the old spirit of the Islands in that landing. When the first ships had entered the harbor natives must have been swimming beside them, and there must have been music; there must have been flowers. He could never forget that impression of flowers which stout Hawaiian women in gingham dresses were holding out for sale. A trade wind was blowing, moving through coconut palms, and the waterfront was clean and beautiful.
The offices of Hitchings Brothers were in a new yellow stucco building, with palm trees growing in a plot of strange stiff grass beside the door. Inside, the offices were cool and airy and no one seemed in a hurry, not even when Wilson Hitchings handed his card to a man of his own age, also dressed in white.
“Does Mr. Wilkie expect you?” the man asked.
“No,” said Wilson. “I don’t think he knows I’m coming.”
The manager’s room was comfortable, like the managers’ rooms in all the Hitchings’ branches. There was a homelike familiarity in the decoration as far as Wilson Hitchings was concerned that made him feel pleasantly sure of himself; but the assurance left him when he examined the man who was waiting for him there. On the trip out, with the meager information at his disposal, Wilson had tried to construct an imaginary Mr. Wilkie—a bad practice, he learned in later times, since imagination hardly ever coincided with fact. His uncle had told him to watch Mr. Wilkie, and he watched; but his first glance showed that Mr. Wilkie was different from anything he anticipated. Wilson could perceive no sinister traits in the man before him—in fact nothing to attract his attention. There was only one thing which particularly impressed him. It had been his uncle’s idea that Mr. Wilkie should receive no warning of his visit, and it was clear that Mr. Wilkie was surprised and upset, almost unduly upset for such a circumstance, although his lack of composure seemed due largely to hurt pride.
“Good morning, sir,” said Wilson. “My uncle said there was no need to cable.”
Mr. Wilkie was standing up in the cool shady room. He was a thin iron-gray-haired man, dressed in tropical white. His face was deeply tanned; his eyes were brown. Something about him indicated an emphasis on dress that came of a preoccupation with personal appearance. There seemed to be a fussiness in his manner, the rather provincial fussiness of a man conscious of his position. There was an effort at facade that went with his clothes and with William Hitchings’ account of Mr. Wilkie’s cruising boat. It seemed to Wilson that the older man was making a distinct effort to conceal an emotion of annoyance, but annoyance was written in the curve of his close-cut gray mustache. He seemed to be saying silently: “I’m an important man, in an important position. You had no right to come here without telling me. This upsets me very much.”
It was largely that annoyance which Wilson noticed, combined with surprise, but there might have been something else.
“It’s a great pleasure to see you, of course,” Mr. Wilkie said, “the very greatest pleasure. There’s nothing like a surprise, is there? A pleasant surprise? How are your uncle and your father? You look like them, Mr. Hitchings. If I had known that you were coming, I should have arranged to have you stay at my house, of course. You’ll excuse my not asking you now, won’t you? I can’t imagine why no one sent me word.”
“They thought it wasn’t necessary,” said Wilson smoothly, and he saw Mr. Wilkie raise his eyebrows. “My uncle asked me to give you this letter. He said it would explain everything.”
Mr. Wilkie read the letter attentively, holding it between his carefully tended fingers, while Wilson sat and watched him. As Mr. Wilkie read, his lips tightened, as though repressing an exclamation, and Wilson heard him catch his breath. Then Mr. Wilkie glanced at him curiously and smiled.
“So they’re still worried about poor Eva’s plantation,” he remarked. “I hoped I had made my position clear about it, but I’m afraid I didn’t. This has been embarrassing for me, Mr. Hitchings. I can hardly tell you how embarrassing. It hurts to be considered so inefficient in a negotiation that a younger man is sent out; but perhaps it’s the best way. I’m very glad to wash my hands of it, Mr. Hitchings, and leave it all to you.”
“I’m sure no one meant to offend you,” Wilson said. He was thinking even as he spoke that there was something devious in Mr. Wilkie’s glance. His intuition was telling him something. It was like his uncle’s thought that something was not right. “I didn’t ask for this job myself. The whole thing is new to me.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilkie, “I suppose it is. I’ll be glad to discuss your plans with you. I’m here to do anything I can to help. I suppose you’ll want to see Eva this afternoon.”
Wilson sat impassively while Mr. Wilkie spoke. When he answered, he was still trying to read what was in Mr. Wilkie’s mind. Although he could put his finger on nothing definite, there was something strange in the air. It occurred to him that no one was natural when Hitchings Plantation was mentioned. Mr. Wilkie was smiling faintly.
“You’ll know her better when you’re through,” he added.
“I’m sure I will,” said Wilson slowly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilkie with the same faint smile, “I’m sure you will.”
There was a pause, and then Wilson spoke deliberately.
“It sounds as though you’d like a ringside seat when I see her. Would you, Mr. Wilkie?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilkie. “You’ll excuse me. It’s not personal; but, frankly, I should rather enjoy it.”
Wilson sat impassively, because he found that impassiveness helped in any interview, and he watched Mr. Wilkie carefully.
“I think I should rather see the Plantation first,” he said. “I suppose it will be running tonight? Could you arrange that I get a card? I should rather go there without anyone’s knowing who I a
m.”
Mr. Wilkie smiled again, and his smile was polite but not reassuring.
“Nothing is easier than a card, Mr. Wilson,” he said, “though I am afraid that Eva will know exactly who you are.”
“Why?” asked Wilson. “Unless someone tells her?”
“No one will need to tell her,” Mr. Wilkie said. “She will only need to look at you. You are the image of her own father when he first came to the Islands. You have the same narrow face, the same eyes, the same build, the same hands. Anyone would know you for a Hitchings.”
“Thanks,” said Wilson. He kept his glance concentrated steadily, rather disconcertingly, on Mr. Wilkie’s face. “Now you’d better tell me something else.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Wilkie, “anything I can.”
Wilson leaned forward in his chair. His Uncle William had been a good teacher and he endeavored to imitate his Uncle William’s urbanity.
“Mr. Wilkie,” he said, “since I have been here you have made me feel conscious of a certain reserve on your part. It surprises me a little. Your manner is not entirely friendly. I think you had better tell me why.”
Mr. Wilkie’s face grew red; for a moment he looked almost astonished.
“You are speaking rather frankly, aren’t you?” he said. “I haven’t the slightest intention to offend you.”
Wilson paused a moment before he answered, and he had the satisfaction of believing that Mr. Wilkie no longer looked upon him as wholly incompetent.
“I did not say you offended me,” he answered. “I said it seemed to me that your manner was unfriendly and then I asked you why. It still seems to me a fair question. We are both employed by Hitchings Brothers, Mr. Wilkie.”
Mr. Wilkie’s face grew redder.
“You Hitchingses think you own the earth, don’t you?” he inquired. The irritability was surprising to Wilson, but it told him what he wished to know—that Mr. Wilkie did not like the family. He felt himself growing cooler in the face of Mr. Wilkie’s anger.
“Not the earth, Mr. Wilkie,” he said, “but we do control the stock of Hitchings Brothers. That’s why you can’t blame me for being somewhat surprised.”
Mr. Wilkie shrugged his shoulders. Now that he no longer had to conceal his animosity, Mr. Wilkie seemed almost relieved. The lines in his tanned face relaxed as he leaned across the desk.
“You’ve never been here before, have you?” he asked. “Or you wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve lived here for thirty years, and Ned Hitchings was one of my best friends. I’ve always known Eva Hitchings, everyone has always known her, and everyone knows what his family did when Ned Hitchings lost his money. He was a fine man—everyone loved Ned; and you can get me fired if you want for saying it.”
Wilson Hitchings rose. “If you’d told me that in the first place, I wouldn’t have taken so much of your time,” he said. “You have a perfect right to your own views, Mr. Wilkie. If you had told my father he would not have held it up against you. But, under the circumstances, I think it would be better if I arranged matters by myself.” Mr. Wilkie arose also and his manner had changed.
“That’s very fair of you,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Wilson. “I hope you have always found us fair; at any rate that’s all I mean to be here. I mean to be fair to Eva Hitchings, too. You can tell her so if you want to.”
Mr. Wilkie cleared his throat.
“There’s one thing that you ought to know,” he said. “We’ve a rather small society here, and being so far away, we are a rather close corporation. Ned Hitchings was very popular. You’ll find that everyone takes his side here, and his daughter’s side. You will find the Hitchings Plantation is rather universally accepted if only because everyone feels that your family has been unfair.”
“I am glad to have you tell me so,” said Wilson. “You mean I won’t be very welcome?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Wilkie, “and Eva won’t close the Plantation because the Hitchingses want her to.”
“Well,” said Wilson, “don’t think of it further, Mr. Wilkie, and I’ll say nothing about it.”
Mr. Wilkie looked incredulous.
“You won’t?” he said.
“No,” said Wilson, “why should I? You have a perfect right to your own opinion.”
Mr. Wilkie looked at him hard.
“I guess,” he said, “they’ve sent a clever man out.”
“Don’t say that, Mr. Wilkie,” Wilson answered. “I only say what I think, that’s all.”
“Wait!” said Mr. Wilkie. “Don’t go. Won’t you stay for lunch at the Club?” Wilson Hitchings shook his head.
“No,” he answered, “thank you just as much. I’d better stand by my side of the family. That’s all that is worrying us—the family. I’ll settle this without troubling you again. Good-by, Mr. Wilkie.”
Wilson walked out into the bright street, but the sun no longer seemed warm or pleasant. He was not angry, but he was surprised—surprised because he was used to being treated cordially, yet here in one of the branches of the family’s office he had met with a curious reception. He had been told that he would not be liked because his family had been unkind to a girl named Eva Hitchings, and he, as a symbol of the family, was to take the blame for this unkindness. He walked back toward the pier where he had left his bags—solitary, puzzled. The sights on the street registered on his mind half mechanically; the faces he saw bespoke of a mixture of races from all sides of the Pacific Ocean; the flowers in the park by the waterfront, like the people on the streets, had been gathered from the ends of the earth to bask in that spring-like air. There was nothing which he saw that was not pleasant. Another time he might have enjoyed it more, but just then there seemed to be something sinister in the brilliance of the flowering trees, in the softness of the wind, in the scent even there in the city, of sea spray and of flowers.
“There is something that isn’t right,” Wilson was saying to himself. He was not thinking of the city, because the city was beautiful; he was thinking rather of something in his own mind. There was an intuitive uneasiness in his thought, a sense not exactly of danger, but of impending difficulties.
Nevertheless he always remembered a good deal of that day with pleasure, although his thoughts kept obtruding themselves on what he saw. There was an automobile at the pier waiting to be hired, and he selected it because it was an open car. It was driven by a coffee-colored boy in his shirt sleeves, who wore a wreath of flowers around the band of his felt hat.
“I want to hire you for the day,” Wilson said. “I shall want to see the Island, but first I’ll go to the hotel.”
He went to one of the largest hotels on Waikiki Beach, whose name he had often heard travelers mention—a huge building, in a grove of ancient coconut palms, whose leaves rattled hollowly in the trade breeze. The clerk read his name carefully while he registered but he made no comment. It occurred to Wilson that after all the name of Hitchings was not necessarily peculiar.
“If there is anything we can do to help you enjoy yourself, sir,” the clerk said, “be sure to let us know, because that’s a part of our business. There’s the beach, of course, outside, and we can arrange to get you a car from the Golf Club. If there is anything else you want to do be sure to let us know.”
Wilson hesitated, looked at the clerk and smiled.
“I’ve heard there is another club, here,” he said, “called ‘Hitchings Plantation.’ If it isn’t asking too much, could you get me a card for that this evening?”
The clerk smiled back at him. “Certainly,” he said. “There will be a card waiting for you by dinnertime. Don’t mention it, the pleasure is all ours.”
Wilson motored through the city that afternoon and out into the hills, as thousands of other tourists have done before him. He was familiar enough with the Hitchings Brother’s history to know something of the history of the city, and he had enough imagination to see the past as it mingled with the present. It amused him as it had in Shanghai to re
alize that a Hitchings had been there in the beginning even before the wooden mission house had been set up on the spot where it still stood, close to the old coral stone church. That white clapboarded prim New England house had been carried in sections around Cape Horn in the hold of a sailing vessel. It had been, to all intents and purposes, the first house on the Islands, standing among the thatched huts of the natives. The huts were gone, but the mission house still stood and the palace of the Hawaiian kings faced it across the street, and there was the courthouse and the statue of King Kamehameha, with his spear and his feathered cloak, and then the buildings of a modern city with shaded streets of bungalows beyond them. The city was like its history, partly peaceful, partly exotic, partly tolerant, partly strange.
Wilson leaned forward and touched the driver on the shoulder.
“I should like to see Hitchings Plantation,” he said. “Will you drive past it, please?” The boy nodded and smiled. He had been talking, describing the sights as they moved by them, and Wilson listened idly to his words.
“King Street. . . . Post Office. . . . Library. . . . Chinese temple. . . . Alexandra Park. . . . Banyan trees. . . . Monkey-pod trees. . . . Shinto Temple. . . . Punch Bowl. . . . High School. . . . King’s graveyard. Kukui trees. . . . ”
The words moved by dreamily like the sights of the city. The road was leading into the hills and then into a valley bordered by high mountain peaks where rich green vegetation grew on black lava cliffs and ended above them in a mist of low hanging clouds. The valley itself was as rich and green as the Elysian Fields. The driver turned to him and smiled.
“Lovely place,” he said.
“Yes,” said Wilson, “lovely place.”
They were evidently passing through a rich residential section where houses stood on wide lawns behind hibiscus hedges. The car turned to the right down a narrow road and then the sun was gone. There was a light sprinkle of rain.
“Liquid sunshine,” the driver said. “We call it liquid sunshine. You see it stops so soon.” The car was slowing down. They had reached the end of the branch of the road and he was pointing straight ahead.
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