=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *=

This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions.
These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook
(other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are
making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions
applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before
proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at
https://www.fadedpage.com.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright
in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's
copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT
DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

_Title:_ Chika
_Date of first publication:_ 1922
_Author:_ Beatrice Redpath (1886-1937)
_Illustrator:_ Fergus Kyle (1876-1941)
_Date first posted:_ June 22, 2026
_Date last updated:_ June 22, 2026
Faded Page eBook #20260647

This eBook was produced by: John Routh & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net




                          [Cover Illustration]

                                 CHIKA
                         _By_ BEATRICE REDPATH

                        DRAWINGS BY FERGUS KYLE


Herron himself recognized it as no ordinary ambition. From the earliest
time it had governed and controlled him. His days had been mapped out to
fulfil it, and to that end he had shackled his impulses, until they had
died down and withered. He had seen too many careers broken by the hot
hand of desire; he would be master of his emotions—lord of his own
soul. Thus it was with him when he went to the East to take charge of a
branch of the Eastern Trading Company. But he had been there only six
months when Chika walked into his life. He had paid very little
attention to the natives, regarding them much in the light of a curious
breed of animal, and looking with distaste at their dwellings, without
any curiosity concerning them. The offices and the bungalows of the
Company were separate, built down close to the pier, while the native
shacks sprawled their hideous way up to the very edge of the forest.
Some of the natives, it was true, had better dwellings, and some of them
he ran across in the Company’s offices. A few of them had grown rich,
but felt a resentment towards the Company, even though they subsisted
through and by it.

Chika was the daughter of one of the most prosperous of the natives, and
was in the employ of the Company. She would come with messages from her
father for Herron, and stood in the doorway in an indolent graceful
pose, her dark eyes fastened upon him with an unswerving steadiness, as
she gave him her messages in a soft voice that slurred the English words
and made them seem unfamiliar and strange. Her tawny colored skin had
the pure beauty of tinted ivory. She wore strange barbaric garments, a
short skirt of scarlet with a striped bodice, which was hung with chains
of gold and of colored beads.

Herron began to look forward to her coming, and to listen for the jingle
of her beaded chains, look for the glimmer of her scarlet skirt through
the foliage that draped the front of the bungalow with heavy hanging
vines. Gradually her visits became more frequent. Herron would question
her, half for the curiosity of hearing her naïve remarks, uttered in
those slow halting monosyllables, and half to watch the vivid beauty of
her face. He thought that she was like some curious golden blossom,
rare, luxuriant, and strange.

[Illustration: “_Sometimes she would slip down to her knees in the
doorway._”]

Sometimes she would slip down to her knees in the doorway, and stay
there for hours at a time, a patch of brilliant color against the cruel
blaze of out of doors. Herron liked to have her there, while he sat
inside at some work which he had brought from the office to finish; she
would sit still and impassive, only the lights in her eyes changing from
shine to shadow, her hands delicately tinted as an iris bloom, clasped
on the scarlet of her brief skirt.

Herron’s assistant, White, found her crouched there one day. She rose as
he came up the steps and slipped down into the sunlight, graceful as an
animal of the forest.

“Making herself a nuisance to you?” White remarked. “Those natives have
to be kept in their place. Don’t hesitate to tell her to get out. Her
father thinks himself no end of a swell. There’s a strain of white blood
somewhere, and it makes them impossible. I’m always having trouble with
him. They have to be kept down.”

Herron was amazed at the sudden swift anger he felt towards White. He
felt inclined to tell him to mind his own business. It was with
difficulty that he restrained himself. He told himself that it was
because he detested to be disturbed in his work. He was in the midst of
making out some estimates, and White’s arrival had upset everything.
Chika did not disturb him. He could work better in fact when she was
there. He liked to see her sitting still and beautiful and silent,
whenever he lifted his eyes from his work. He wished that White had not
come in and driven her away. He felt a curious impulse to go to the door
and call after her to come back; but he controlled this temptation.
White would not understand.

“She doesn’t make a nuisance of herself,” he said, “she has more sense
than any white girl I have ever known. She makes them all seem
colorless, insignificant and uninteresting. She comes and sits there
without moving if I am busy. I like to have her around,” he added with a
touch of defiance for White’s expression.

“Look here, old man,” White leaned forward on the table above Herron’s
mass of papers, “keep out of that sort of thing. Some men do it and keep
intact. You can’t. You only have a few more months out here. Remember
that career you are always talking about . . . . keep to your straight
road ahead.”

“Damn a career,” exclaimed Herron, and then pulled himself up, startled
at his own fierceness. “Chika has nothing to do with it at any rate,” he
added with more coolness, “it’s not going to hurt my future to let the
girl come here occasionally, is it?”

“You’re human, Herron,” White said slowly, “in spite of the fact that
you have tried to turn yourself into a machine all your life. For that
very reason, because you have dammed back every impulse you have ever
felt, if once you gave way, I don’t know what the result would be. Chika
is not like the other native girls. My advice to you is to let her
alone.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry your head on my account,” Herron said with
a short laugh, “as I’ve often told you. . . . nothing is going to stand
in the way of my success.”

But when White had left him, Herron sat back in his chair and stared out
into the sunlight with narrowed eyes. Chika. . . . Chika. . . . he
wanted her . . . . back there in the doorway. . . . wanted to see those
dark eyes lighten and then deepen to softness as she watched him . . . .
still as an iris flower . . . . silent and beautiful—Chika.

White’s words pierced through him with a sudden pang of realization.
Only a few more months, that was all, that he was to be out here. Then
back to England again, and promised promotion, and all this would become
but the memory of a dream. Back to England on the road to his ambitions,
back to toiling work, to success. . . . oh, to superlative success.

And Chika! His iris flower! What of her?

God! Was he mad? A native girl?

How could she come into his life with any permanence? He picked up his
pen which he had thrown aside, and tried to work. But for once he could
not drive his mind, it escaped his control, it tore asunder the leash
that had held so taut, so firm. It refused to obey . . . . it escaped
again to thought of Chika.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Why do you come here, Chika?” he asked the next time that he found her
crouched there in the doorway, like a strange and beautiful bloom
dropped there by the wind.

“I am happy here,” she said, “the skies were gray, and then the sun
came, and Chika was happy. The sun will go away again, and then Chika
will go down to the waters, and will be no more.” And she turned her
large luminous eyes from Herron’s face to where the water rippled down
at the end of the pier blue and silver, blue and silver, endlessly,
eternally.

“Nonsense, child,” Herron said sharply, “you’re not to talk like that.
You’re not to think that way.”

“I don’t think,” Chika answered, “my heart but speaks to me, and I must
listen. How can I help it if my heart speaks of love?”

Herron rose and walked nervously across the floor of the bungalow, and
then back again, pausing in front of the girl, who raised her eyes
wonderingly to his face.

“Look here, Chika . . . . you’re not to come here any more. Do you
understand? It’s not right. In four months from now I must go away, and
you must marry one of your own people. This sort of thing is only going
to make you unhappy. I can’t stay here . . . . I have to go back . . . .
and I can’t take you with me. You must forget all about me and be happy
when I go.”

She smiled, as though at the absurdity of such an idea, but she rose
slowly to her feet, her eyes regarding him with a steady intense fixity.

“I shall go . . . . if you tell me to go,” she said with a touch of
pride, “and I shall not come again.”

She slipped silently away in her usual fashion, walking with graceful
free movements out into the sunlight and then into the shadows of green
foliage beyond, while Herron stood watching her, until the leaves
obliterated the last flicker of her bright skirt.

But the days that followed were empty, purposeless, without sense or
meaning to Herron. He tried in vain to throw himself body and soul into
his work, but it eluded him: he could not concentrate, he could not fix
his mind on anything. He would throw down his pen and start pacing up
and down, up and down, fighting against the desire that was in him, to
send for Chika to come back. Why not? There were four months. And yet
all the time he was aware, poignantly aware, that each day that passed
was making harder and harder the thought of leaving, the very idea of
going back.

And then would come the old dogged ambition, fighting down this new
thing of fire and moonlight, that was spreading so insidiously through
his soul. The old, old ambition that could not die easily, that could
not be put down. Success! Oh, how he had fought for it, toiled for it,
slaved for it, denied himself for it . . . . was he to fling it away now
like a thing of no value? And for what? Moonlight and flame . . . . love
and passion . . . . leaves upon the wind . . . . no . . . . life itself.

Yet . . . . a thousand times no. A native girl . . . . marry a native
girl . . . . stay out here . . . . bury himself . . . . never in this
world. He was going back at the end of his year as he had always
intended to do, going back to success, to achievement, to recognition
and prosperity. He would fight down this absurd obsession that had taken
hold of him, this ridiculous longing for a mere native girl . . . . for
the sound of her voice, the shine of her eyes . . . . the slow, slow
grace of her movements . . . . the beauty that was hers. An iris flower!
Was he to give up all his years of toil for this . . . . only this?
Never! Again and again, never, never, never!

Would Chika carry out her threat once that he was gone? That thought,
too, tormented him; and yet it tormented him even more to think of her
married to one of the natives, to one of her own people, her beauty worn
by hardship and child bearing, perhaps treated to blows, and worse. He
could not tolerate the idea. Better, oh almost better, wrapped by fold
on fold of blue and silver . . . . safe!

God! And he would start up and begin again that endless pacing too and
fro, racing against his desire that threatened to overtake him, that was
too strong and swift for him.

He met her one day crossing the clearing, drooping and listless. She
turned as though she would avoid him, and he called to her.

“Chika.”

She came at once, radiant, and stood waiting for him to speak.

“Come back,” he said, “Chika, come back. Come as before. I can’t do
without you.”

He did not see much of White these days. He avoided him purposely. He
felt he knew very well what White was thinking. White, he felt, was
sorry for him, pitied him for his weakness, was disappointed in him.
White would not be able to see that this was something out of the
ordinary. White would not understand. But it was none of his affair.
Herron did not encourage him to his bungalow. He wanted to be alone
. . . . alone with Chika.

She was back there again now, glowing with a more assured beauty, since
she knew that he could not do without her. She did not speak of the time
when he must go, and he pushed it out of his mind, away from him. He was
happy as he had never been happy, content in the present moment, not
looking forward or back. Except sometimes in the long still nights,
wakened by the eerie notes of a bird, he would lie sleepless for hours,
tormented by the discord of his desires, which grappled and which
threatened to rend him asunder. His work, his ambition, that goading
ambition that seemed somehow to be drying up like a weed in the sun,
shrivelling as he had seen green weeds shrivel in the hot, hot blast of
a south wind. His ambition, blown upon by passion, was slowly dying,
shrivelling, drying up, till he felt that it would someday crumble away
like so much dust.

And the vision of Chika would rise before him, floating towards him,
through the deep blue fathomless night, glowing beautiful, golden. He
would feel again the warm pressure of her lips, the touch of her golden
hand, the dark mysterious beauty of her eyes would look down, down, down
into his soul. Into that soul where ambition was grappling with desire.

Chika! He would lie motionless in the dark, murmuring her name, glorying
in her beauty, scorched by the flame of her passion . . . . her passion
mingling with his own. Chika . . . . life was glowing . . . . wonderful
. . . . a thing of flame and moonlight! And then he would start up in
the darkness, remembering with a sudden sharp misery that tore at his
heart, just what was before him. Work . . . . dry, toiling work . . . .
success, achievement . . . . loneliness . . . . but ambition fulfilled.

Oh, ambition was dry as dust in his mouth these velvet nights. It was
dry as dust on the roadway along which he must go alone . . . . always
alone . . . . and Chika . . . . his golden iris flower . . . . must fade
. . . . must die . . . . also . . . . alone.

But ambition would not be beaten down. In the day time it would rear
itself again, and he would strain at his work, he would go back to it
with the old keen eagerness. The days were few now until his return. He
had accomplished a great deal in the year that was ended. The Company’s
standing was more assured, he had straightened out a mass of detail, he
had brought order from chaos. The Company were pleased with what he had
done. They showed it by the words of satisfaction at the end of their
letters, which Herron knew would mean a step up on his return. He was
gratified, he had done what he had intended to do. He had taken a leap
forward towards his goal. But the thought of what was before him wrung
his soul.

The boat had arrived. It was down at the end of the pier. The natives
were loading her with bales of merchandise. She would leave that night.
Herron had not spoken of his departure to Chika, and neither had she
mentioned it to him. His trunks were packed and locked. He had brought
his mind down to a little point of fixity. He must only allow himself to
think of what must be done, of what orders must be given, of what was
ahead. He could not bear the thought of what was to be left behind.

He could not trust himself even to speak to her. She sat on the floor,
motionless, leaning her head against the leg of the table, watching his
every movement, but silent . . . . without a word or a gesture to
indicate the agony that was hers.

“Well, Chika,” he said at last, when it could not be put off any longer,
“it’s good-bye,” and he drew her to her feet and took her in his arms.

                 *        *        *        *        *

He was running, running, running, through the blue pit of the night,
down towards where the lights of the ship twinkled and shone. If he did
not run fast, too fast for thought, he knew that his limbs would refuse
to go forward. Back there in the bungalow Chika was sobbing on her
knees, a broken iris flower. Oh, he had never known that it would be
like this . . . . even in his worst moments he had never known . . . .
quite this. But he must go forward without thought . . . . forward
. . . . to where success awaited him. He must reach the goal of his
ambitions . . . he must win.

He had said good-bye to White and had seen that White was almost glad to
see that he was leaving, that his fears for him had come to nothing.
White had not mentioned Chika again.

“I wish you success,” he had said, wringing his hand . . . . “there is
no doubt that you will succeed.”

No. There was no doubt now. He must go on and on until he had reached
the very summit of his desire. On and on and on. What else was there for
him? Oh, if he but paused for a moment, if he stopped even to think, he
would go back . . . . back to that darkened bungalow where a broken iris
bloom lay across the floor. He had only enough resistance left to reach
the ship. Once on board he was safe from his weakness. A broken iris
bloom!

He stumbled . . . . pitched forward . . . . fire across his forehead
. . . . a vision of Chika floated up to meet him as he fell down . . . .
down . . . . down . . . . into darkness. A vision of Chika . . . .
golden . . . . wonderful.

                 *        *        *        *        *

That she was there above him when he opened his eyes was only to be
expected.

“I found you . . . . fallen here in the bushes . . . . unconscious,” the
slow, slow familiar tones. “The boat has gone.”

So . . . . after all his struggle, a pebble on the roadway, a stone in
his path had defeated him, had flung him back into her arms, and he had
no longer the will for another effort. He had no more strength to put
forth.

And suddenly, he was enveloped, body and soul, in wave upon wave of
inexplicable happiness, of resignation, and of complete abandonment to
the fate that was overtaking him. Ambition . . . . success . . . . the
dust under his hand . . . . passion and love . . . . the flame that was
Chika.




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

Illustrations have been relocated due to using a non-page layout.

A cover which is placed in the public domain was created for this ebook.

                [The end of _Chika_ by Beatrice Redpath]