Many times did I visit that magical homestead of the mountains. And many times, while on tropical nights the stars sighed over the mountain trees, Pokara and I would listen as the exile told us his sorrows, while pretty Aloa murmured, “Aue! Aue!” stroked her lover’s face, and kissed his hand, tears coming into her eyes to think he had suffered so much. As I watched that strange scene of secret domestic grief and happiness, Pokara touched me gently on the shoulder and whispered:
“Ah, Masser, we all good peoples here. For I did fetch priest, kackerlick (catholic), for my Aloa’s sake, and he did marry them. He good priest and say nothings, good man he, because he like God and God like him!”
So spake Pokara, thus giving me this utmost satisfaction of recording the fact that my goddess had entered the holy bonds of matrimony according to the modern mythology of the Christian era.
“Wail! O wail! O jug! jug! too ee wailo,” came the plaintive strain of the South Sea nightingale as it serenaded its mate during the intervals of my violin-playing. It was no nightingale to Pokara and pretty Aloa; it was simply a tiny, feathered cavalier, robed in a crimson [woolly] gown of enchantment, singing to its long-dead lover, pouring forth passionate melody over old memories of that time ere the gods disguised it as a bird, when it was a brave Tahitian chief! Though I had had many weird, dream-like experiences in my travels on sea and land, I was greatly impressed by the human note of that forest drama. And, as I listened and watched, drinking in each incident like a child at its first pantomime, the fragrant odours of the dying forest flowers and mellowing mountain fruits, wafted by the warm zephyrs over that secret homestead, made the scene seem strangely dream-like. But it was all real enough for, when I placed my violin to my chin and played the strains of the “Marseillaise,” Reveire’s eyes filled with tears over some memory of his far-off La belle France that he would never see again. But thanks to the inscrutable kindness of Providence, a small portion of the wistful soul of chivalrous France came to him, and all seemed well in the end. For, ere I bade Pokara good-bye, I went with him for a last trip up into the mountains to visit that fairy-like secret homestead. Reveire had quite forgotten his home-sick sorrows. He was laughing like a big schoolboy. As for Aloa, she was gazing up into his face, delight sparkling in her eyes, as in her arms she held up another little Frenchman who was just one week old—and who had bravely crossed the Infinite Seas to keep Reveire company.
After losing sight of Pokara, who went on a prolonged visit to some native friends in a neighbouring isle, I secured a position as violinist in the Presidency orchestra at Papeete. But, alas! one night when the sea wind was moaning in the mountain palms near my wooden homestead, I again heard the call of the wild, and plunged into a life of vagabond adventure and madness, as will be seen in the next chapter.
CHAPTER V. FAE FAE
I meet O’Hara—The Emotional Irish Temperament—The Tahitian Temperament—O’Hara and I go Pearl-hunting—Tapee, the Old-time Idol-worshipper.
PONDERING over my experiences of idol-worship and my further adventures in Tahiti, the incidents connected with the whole matter seem sufficiently interesting for me to give the story in detail. Not the least important part of the matter was the headstrong Irish youth, my companion; indeed, I might say that he was the prime mover in the whole business.