Part 10

He passed a troubled night; he felt he had made a mean capitulation, and, try as he would, he was unable to gloss the matter to his conscience. He was stung by the conviction of his cowardice and disloyalty, and yet his common sense told him that he was powerless in his wife’s hands. He could never outlive the scandal of her desertion, or explain away those letters which would write him down a pervert. In the morning Wesley timidly expostulated with his wife, quoting all the texts he could remember that bore on charity and forgiveness. This was a course little calculated to allay Mrs. Cook’s wrath. She burst out upon him with a fury that completely crushed his last effort at intercession. She stood over him as he wrote the letter in which, with smooth and nicely balanced sentences, interspersed with religious commonplaces and trite expressions of regret, he raised a wall of words between himself and the old man he had called his friend. He knew, he said, that Father Zosimus could have had no intention to offend, but Mrs. Cook had taken the matter of overnight in such a way that he felt unable to resume an intimacy which had been very precious to him. No apologies or explanations could avail, and he begged that none be offered; but he trusted, he need not say how earnestly, that in some future time (D. V.) the dark clouds would roll away, and with them all memories of this unhappy misunderstanding.

The letter was brought to Father Zosimus in the garden, where he was digging furiously to drive away the devils that beset him. He tore it open with his grimy hands, and read it with a feeling of despair. The few kindly allusions brought tears to his eyes, and his first resentment against Tutumanaia passed away as he re-read them; but against Mrs. Cook, the author of his humiliation, his whole nature rose in arms. Disciplined though he was by seven and forty years of abnegation, the old Adam in him lay still fiery and untamed. He was consumed with bitterness towards the woman who had so cruelly wronged him. What had he to hope “in some future time (D. V.),” old and broken man that he was? In the fierceness of his indignation he called down the vengeance of God upon her until contrition overpowered him, and he threw himself on his knees.

“Oh, Zosimus,” he said, “so old and still so foolish!”

After such a blow it was hard to pick up the threads of life once more, and interest himself in the recurring tasks which rounded out each day. But in Father Zosimus there was the stuff of which martyrs are made. Sore of heart though he was, and spent of body, his unremitting energy and indomitable faith drove him to work and pray as he had never worked or prayed before. His lacerated feelings found an outlet in dazzling garden-beds, trellises of bamboo, and in the stone wall he had so often planned and as often given up, which was to inclose the seaward side of his little plantation. And in these tranquil and unexciting occupations, which kept the hands busy while the mind was free to rove, a certain scheme unfolded itself which found increasing favour in his eyes; the means, in fact, by which he might score a triumph over Mrs. Cook, and restore himself once again in her good graces. Not that he had forgiven her for the part she had taken against him; his anger still smouldered beneath the blanket of Christian charity with which he had sought to smother it; but were he to gain again his footing in that household on the hill; were he to renew the intimacy that was the very salt of his life; he must needs pay toll to the woman who held the key of his happiness. As he dug, or weeded, or carried stones to his wall, or climbed the ladder beside the shining trellis-work, the old priest was never far from a sheet of paper and a pencil. Sometimes it was a hammer that kept these things in place, sometimes it was the well-worn shovel-hat that guarded them from the puffs of the trade or chance cat’s-paws from the mountains, while Zosimus, his head economically wrapped in banana-leaves, seized many an occasion during the course of his labours to scribble another word on the anchored sheet, or erase something already written. It was a list of such delicacies as the limited markets of Apia afforded, for which the old man was intending to lay out the savings of a year.

It must not be supposed that the Rev. Wesley Cook was having a particularly pleasant time of it during the days that followed the breaking off with Father Zosimus. For half a week, indeed, his wife exerted herself to supply the old man’s place, and had never before shown herself so agreeable or so helpful. She interested herself in Wesley’s legends, listened patiently to the story of Sopo’s misdoings, of the brilliant possibilities that lay in Popo would he only apply himself in earnest, or lamented with her husband the bad influences which were undermining the character of a gentleman named O; she wrote to his dictation a little essay on the “King-names of Samoa,” which Cook intended sending to the Polynesian Society of New Zealand; and, in fact, proved herself a zealous, clever, and indefatigable comrade. All thought of Father Zosimus would soon have slipped from Wesley’s memory had this new-found companionship been destined to endure; but it was nothing more than a flash in the pan, due half to remorse, half to policy, a means to gain time for the breach to widen irrevocably between her husband and the priest.

The sour, capricious woman could not long brook the task she had set herself to perform; her spirit soon flagged in the dull round which made up her husband’s life, and her new part in it grew daily more intolerable. She slowly lapsed again into the dark humour which was fast becoming her second nature, and took no further trouble to conciliate her husband. Cook was slow to realise the change, but when at last it dawned upon him that she listened with unconcealed indifference to the tale of the day’s doings, and made no further pretence of caring either for his work in Fangaloa or for the literary labours which were his only relaxation, he, too, grew gloomy and dispirited. The essay languished; the “Peep o’ Day” stood still; and he spent solitary hours in his study in a kind of stupor. A thousand times his heart turned towards his old friend, and he longed to throw himself at his feet and say, “Father, comfort me! I am weak of spirit and sore distressed.” But loyalty to the overwrought and nigh crazy woman he called his wife, as well as the timidity which was constitutional in the man, forbade an open reconciliation, and he shrank from the thoughts of a clandestine one. So he went his lonely way, bearing his cross as best he might.

At last the time grew near for the execution of the plan which had cost Father Zosimus so much trouble and calculation, not to speak of many dollars from his scanty hoard.

On Christmas morn, as the cannon at Faleapuni pealed along the shore and roused the villages with its joyful reverberations, Father Zosimus hastened to transform his dwelling into a bower of ferns and flowers. With Filipo to assist him, and _’afa_ enough to have built a chief’s house, the pair worked unceasingly until there remained not an inch without its flower nor a post unentwined with brilliant creepers and fragrant _moso’oi_. He drew a breath of satisfaction when it was all finished to his liking, and while Filipo swept out the litter he sat down and wrote the following letter:

FANGALOA, December 25, 186-.

MY DEAR CHILDREN: On this blessed morning no Christian can harbour any unkindness in his heart, nor cast up another’s shortcomings against him. I am an old and a failing man; the day of my release is close at hand, and you both must be generous to me as one so soon to stand before his God. And if I have unwittingly offended you,--as I know I have done,--I pray you to forgive me for the sake of Him who was born to-day. I have ventured to prepare a little feast in your honour, with which I hope we may celebrate, in innocent gaiety, the renewal of our friendship. At twelve o’clock I shall expect you both.

I remain, my dear children, with heartfelt wishes for your good health and continued prosperity,

Your old friend, ZOSIMUS, S. J.

He read the note several times to himself before putting it into an envelope and addressing it to Mr. and Mrs. Cook. Filipo was at hand, garlanded with red _singano_ and elegantly garbed in white, prepared to make a good appearance before the young ladies of the mission. He trotted off with the note carefully wrapped in a banana-leaf, that it might be delivered in all its virgin purity. Father Zosimus lit a pipe and impatiently set himself to await his messenger’s return.

“_Se’i ave le tusi lea ia Misi_,” said Filipo to the young lady that met him at the door. “_Ou te fa’atali i’inei mo le tali._” (“Give this letter to Misi. I will wait here for the answer.”) Now, in Samoa, the word “Misi” is used to designate and address Protestant missionaries of either sex, and the maid carried the letter, not to Wesley Cook in his study, but to Mrs. Cook, who was listlessly lolling in the sitting-room. She tore it open, read it with attention, and putting it hastily in her pocket, bade the girl send Filipo away. “Tell him Misi says there is no answer,” she said.

The old catechist skipped down the hill, and repeated to his master the message that had been given him.

Father Zosimus was painfully overcome.

“Filipo,” he said, “did you see the minister with your very own eyes?”

“_Ioe_,” answered the catechist, cheerfully; “he was writing in his room, and I saw him through the window, looking very sad, and eating his pen like a cow at a breadfruit-tree.” Filipo mimicked the action on his finger.

Father Zosimus sat for a long time in a kind of dream. A glass of wine served to rouse and strengthen him, and the unaccustomed stimulant put him in some sort of trim to carry on the duties of the day. But a recurring dizziness and a sinking at the heart soon drove him to take an enforced rest. He told Filipo he did not care to eat, bidding him put away the wine, and call Iosefo and his family to the feast that had been made ready for such different guests.

With the passing of Christmas Father Zosimus began to work harder than ever in his garden; early and late he could be seen in the midst of its blooming flower-beds, digging, weeding, or transplanting with passionate intensity. A loutish fellow from the westward, a heavy-featured son of Wallis Island, had been engaged to divide the burden of these tasks, and for a wage infinitesimally small toiled and sweated under the father’s eye. To guard this creature from the prattle of the passers-by, and to check his tendency to gaze dreamily into the sun; to stifle his inclination to drink, to smoke, to chatter, to explain how much better they did things in Wallis Island; to keep his fat face, in fact, on the weeds in front of him, became, indeed, Father Zosimus’s constant study. Day by day, he stood sentinel over his Uvean, applied the man’s clumsy force to profitable ends, and kept his own unconquerable heart from breaking.

It was not every day he could pursue the occupation he loved best, and watch his plans take shape with slow but appreciable success. January falls in the depth of the wet season; furious rains and long stretches of boisterous weather often interrupted the Uvean’s labours, driving both him and his taskmaster to the enforced idleness of the house--the former to sleep on the floor or to smoke interminable _suluis_ with Filipo: the priest to read his breviary by dim lamplight as the deluge pounded on the roof. It was during one of these black days, when all the world was awash outside, and a wild westerly wind was tearing through the trees, bombarding the village with crashing boughs and cocoanuts, that the priest’s ancient barometer sank to 29°, and gave a quivering promise of worse to follow. He was looking at the mercury, and setting the gauge, when Filipo appeared in the passage, his face bright with news.

“The partner of Tutumanaia is known to your Highness?” he began, with a question that might well have appeared superfluous.

Father Zosimus turned instantly.

“God is high-chief angry with her rock-like heart,” went on Filipo, with the calm intonation of one vindicated. “She was presumptuous and beautiful like an angel; now she is pig-faced and torn of devils; and her man, oh, he weeps like an _aitu_ in the wilderness.”

“Whence didst thou get this _tala_?” asked the priest, mindful of past mare’s nests on his servant’s part.

“The _tala_ is a true one, Zosimus,” he said. “Even now the pastor of Faleapuni is praying with a loud voice in the room of the sick, tussling with the devil, while the family shrieks and is distracted. The hand of God lies heavy upon her, and they say she will die; her face scorches the touch like a hot lamp, and she talks constantly the words of devils.”

Zosimus made a gesture of annoyance; at any other time he would have reproved Filipo for retailing such heathenish fables, and reopened a discussion that had continued between them for upward of thirty years; but his solicitude for Wesley Cook monopolized every thought, and he allowed his servant’s words to pass unchallenged.

“But her sickness?” he demanded. “How first did it come upon her?”

“It was thus,” returned Filipo: “thy grieving heart was known of God, and when he looked down at that costly feast to which neither the minister nor his wife would deign to come--”

“Stop!” cried the priest. “This is the talk of an untattooed boy. Have I not told thee a thousand times that sickness has invariably a cause?”

“The maids say that last week she had a long talk with her husband,” said Filipo, “and together they quarrelled until she talked loud and fierce, like a German, and he cried and cried, and threw himself on the mats. Then she went out of the house, and to her there was neither umbrella nor coat, though it rained; and she walked, uselessly, all the way to Faleapuni, so burned her heart with anger; and when she returned she was trembling with the cold so that her teeth went thus. Then she went to bed, and vomited terribly, and every time she breathed, it hurt her chest so that she said, ‘Ugh! ugh!’ like a man sorely wounded on the field. Then the minister came to her and tried to talk and bedarling her; but she mocked at him, and said her heart was in the White Country. After that she began to talk the devil-stuttering which is not understandable of man.”

Father Zosimus’s jaw fell, and he looked about him like a man on the brink of some great resolve.

“She was never the same after the day of the feast,” said Filipo.

The priest put on his yellow oilskin, and placing a bottle of brandy in one pocket, he grasped the bunched umbrella that was his inseparable companion. Thus prepared to face the elements and carry succour to the sick, he made his way into the open and ascended the hill towards the mission-house. His face tingled under the lash of the wind and rain as he struggled on, dodging the nuts that occasionally shot across his path like cannon-balls; and when at last he reached his goal in safety, he was surprised to see the curtains pulled down within, and to find no one to answer his repeated knocks.

He was emboldened to turn the knob and enter, which he did hesitatingly, not knowing what reception awaited him. At the end of the hall a half-open door let out a flood of lamplight, betraying one room, at least, in which he might expect to find some member of the household. On the bed beside the wall Mrs. Cook lay in disordered bedclothes, her glassy eyes upturned in delirium, her face yellow and pinched almost beyond recognition, one thin arm on the pillow beneath her head, the other thrown limply across the sheet. Not far from her, in shabby dressing-gown and slippers, Wesley himself was asleep in a canvas chair, sunk in the deep oblivion that follows an all-night watch. On the floor two native girls slumbered in boluses of matting, their heads side by side on a bamboo pillow. The priest stole softly to the bed and looked down on Mrs. Cook’s face; but there was no understanding in the bright, troubled glance that met his own, no coherence in the whispered words she repeated to herself. He was angered to think of his own ignorance and helplessness as he stood the brandy on the littered table beside the copy of “Simple Remedies for the Home,” and studied the woman with renewed anxiety. In truth, she looked grievously ill. Sixty miles of wild water and mountainous seas separated them from Apia and the only doctor in the group; he shivered as he caught the wail of the wind without, and saw in mind the breakers that were thundering against their iron coast.

He fell on his knees and prayed, and then went out into the air again, his mind made up to a desperate measure. He now took another path, one that led him across the village to Tuisunga’s stately house. It was nearly filled with chiefs and speaking-men, ranged round in a great circle, and the high-pitched, measured periods of an orator could be heard above the wind and the pelting rain. On his approach there burst out a chorus of “_Maliu mai, susu mai, ali’i Zosimo_”; and he bent under the eaves and made his way, half crouching, to a place by Tuisunga’s side. The eyes of all the party turned on him with surprise, and there was a little burst of expectation, broken only by the embittered hawking of the interrupted orator.

“Your Majesty Tuisunga, chiefs, and speaking-men of Fangaloa,” began Zosimus, “be not angry with me for disturbing this meeting. I have just come from the house of mourning, where God’s hand lies heavy upon your pastor’s wife, so that she is like to die. It is my thought that we take a boat and go with all expedition for the German doctor in Apia.”

“Chief Zosimus,” answered Tuisunga, “the gentlemen you see before you have been discussing this very matter. We are agreed that if the lady is to live, we must seek help at once from the wise white man in Apia, though the storm is heavy upon us, and the risk more than bullets in the fighting line. But what boat can live in such a gale, save one that is strong indeed, and well wrought? Our man-of-war that pulls forty oars is with Forster to be mended; my own whaler is too old and rotten for so bold a _malanga_; the others we possess are small and useless.”

“There is Ngau’s boat,” said the priest, with a flash of his eyes towards a sullen-looking old chief. “It is new, and strong like a ship of two masts.”

Ngau’s withered face hardened. A titter ran round the assembled chiefs.

“That is the knot,” said Tuisunga; “it is not the will of Ngau to give his boat, lest it be cast away.”

“Not to save the life of a dying woman?” demanded Father Zosimus.

“Ngau is accustomed to the white man’s way,” said Tuisunga. “He is mean, and his heart is like a stone.”

All eyes turned to Ngau, who stared back, defiant and unabashed.

“If he has a white man’s heart, we will treat him to the white man’s law,” cried Zosimus. “We will take his boat by force.”

“But it is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga.

“It is Ngau’s boat,” echoed the chiefs.

“And thou wilt let the woman die?” cried Father Zosimus.

“It is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga.

“What dost thou want for the boat?” demanded the priest.

“Five dollars and a tin of biscuit,” replied Ngau, promptly; “and if it be wrecked, one hundred and twelve dollars, a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as thick as a man’s thumb.”

“I will take it on myself,” said Father Zosimus. “I am poor; I belong to a faith that thou deridest; yet my heart is not weak and fearful like thine. I will answer for thy boat, Chief Ngau, before all these gentlemen as witnesses.”

“_O le tino tupe lava_ [hard money]” inquired Ngau, “to be put in my hand before the young men touch my boat?”

“I have not so much,” cried the priest. “I have not money in my house like drinking-nuts. It comes this month, and that a little at a time. But I tell thee truly, I will pay thee every _seni_.”

The owner of the boat shook his head.

“I want one hundred and twelve dollars,” he said, “a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as thick as my thumb.”

“Why dost thou call thyself chief of this village, Tuisunga?” demanded the priest. “The only chief I see here is Ngau. He speaks: we obey. It matters not what I want, or what thou wishest, or whether the pastor’s wife lies dying. It is his Majesty Ngau who is King of Fangaloa. Thy power is no stronger than that of an untattooed boy.”

“But it is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga, looking very black.

“Zosimus,” said Ngau, “they tell me thou hast costly things in thy church--cups of silver, two silver candlesticks, each heavy as a gun, and a silver cross on which there is the image of Jesus. Bring these to me, together with five dollars of hard money and the musical box that sounds so sweetly of an evening, and I will hold them for the price of my boat. If it be cast, thou shalt pay me, from time to time, one hundred and twelve dollars, a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as thick as a man’s thumb, and when the contract is finished I will give thee back the precious things. But if no harm befall the boat, I shall return them at once, and the price of it will be five dollars and a tin of biscuit.”

“Thou shalt have them,” cried Father Zosimus; “and if thou hadst said, ‘Zosimus, take an axe and strike off thy right hand,’ that also would I have done. A life is more to me than dollars in a bag, Chief Ngau. Of thee, Tuisunga, one only is the question I desire to ask: When I bring back my precious things according to the will of Ngau, how may I be sure, indeed, that thou wilt not claim another price for the crew?”

The chief hung his head. “We are not all like Ngau,” he returned.

In half an hour the priest was back, with Filipo at his heels, the arms of both filled with well-wrapped packages. Father Zosimus laid his burden on the floor, and began to pluck away the _siapo_ that enfolded it.

“Stop!” cried Tuisunga.

The priest desisted with a look of angry wonder, as though some fresh imposition were to be laid upon him.

“Zosimus,” said Tuisunga, “since thou left us, these gentlemen and myself have been looking down into our hearts. They are black and pig-like, and we feel ashamed before thee. It would be a mock and an everlasting disgrace to Fangaloa wert thou to sacrifice thy holy things to the meanness of the pig-face Ngau. We have taken counsel together in thine absence, and this is our decision: The boat shall be taken from Ngau, and not one _seni_ shall be paid him, nor shall a water-bottle be given, nor a coil of rope; and if his boat be cast away, well, it is God’s will. Furthermore, Ngau’s house shall be burned and his plantation destroyed for a punishment, and thou shalt have him (if thou shouldst so high-chief will) to make of him a Catholic; for Ngau has been expelled from the Protestant religion, and his communion ticket has been taken from him as one unworthy.”

Father Zosimus said nothing, but his eyes gleamed like coals of fire as he hurriedly put his treasures in order for their return; in a trice Filipo was scudding away with them down the hill, to the mirth of all the chiefs, some of whom shouted after him derisively to make haste.

“When are we to start?” asked the priest. “If it be thy high-chief will, the sooner the better.”

“But thou canst not go,” said Tuisunga. “Thou art old and unfit.”

“No man is too old to serve God,” returned the priest.

There rose a murmur of dissent from the assembled chiefs. The old man would be a dead weight in the boat; by carrying a priest they would infallibly bring down the anger of God upon them all; even the whites who cared for naught but money dreaded to sail with a _faifeau_.