The great South Seas’ deities, Pulutu and Tama and Tangaloa (god of the skies), were words that ever came from his lips in the form of oaths whilst talking to me. He rejoiced in the title of O Le Tui Atua, which meant that he was an erstwhile chief of the highest and most sacred rank. His little hut home was not far from the native village of Satufa. I had seldom seen a finer or more majestic-looking chief than Matafa. When I first interviewed him, he rose from his squatting mat and stood erect before me. His chest swelled out to its full proportions, so that the armorial bearings of an elaborate tattoo were shown to their best advantage. As I told him the cause of my visit his face grew serious, his eyes gazed at me curiously. When he quite understood me, he went to his hut door and called out: “Tamafanga! Tamafanga!” In a few moments a handsome Samoan youth came rushing out of the little hut that was just opposite the Matafas’ homestead.
“Tamafanga, you read that and tell me what it say.”
Tamafanga, who had been taught English in the mission classes, took the note that had been given me by the boatswain of the H——, and slowly read it. When he had at length translated it into the Samoan tongue for the benefit of the old chief, Matafa’s manner completely changed. In a moment he was all attention and looked at me with deep respect.
“Alofa! Papalagi!” said he, at once offering me a squatting mat.
Evidently he and that old boatswain were good pals. Probably the former had promised a tip to Matafa and had told him also that I was a true friend of Waylao’s.
As soon as I had taken up a squatting position on the great high chief mat, the old man called out: “Fafine! Matafa!” Then for my special hearing he said aloud, in English: “Mrs Matafa! ’Tis I who calls you, I your husband the great chief, O Le Tui Atua!”
Ere the echoes of the old Samoan’s voice had died away, I heard a shuffling in the next compartment, that was separated from the main hut, then an old, but still handsome native woman toddled into the hut and obsequiously approached the great “O Le Tui Atua.”
Ah! she was a dear old soul, and though much wrinkled she still revealed in her tawny face the sad afterglow of her feminine beauty of other years. Though her eyes were sunken and weary-looking, they still retained much of the sweetness of the old light, the light that had long ago beamed on the face of her great chief, Matafa.
When the old chief had told her why I was there she lifted her arms to the roof and wailed. By the light of the small coco-nut-oil lamp I saw how genuine was her grief over the disappearance of Waylao. Though that old mouth was quite toothless, and the amorous curves that had once imparadised the heart of Matafa were shrivelled, still, I discerned the tremulous quiver of sincere emotion on her lips.
As I sat there with my legs crossed, and while the youth Tamafanga eyed me earnestly, the chief and his faithful wife told me their sad tale, how Waylao had come to them like some strange spirit girl out of the seas. Wail after wail trembled from their lips as they described how the girl had entered their desolate hearts and the great sorrow they experienced when they found that their beautiful visitor had flown.