So did the superstitious Samoan girls argue as they listened to Waylao as she sang to drown the bitterness of her misery.
It appeared that she had become very attached to those pretty children of the forest. Indeed they too had come to love her in the little while that she stayed amongst them. As she sang they crept up to the hut, lifted her hands and knelt by her and placed hibiscus blossoms in her hair. Indeed Matafa’s hut had become a sort of Mecca of romance.
While I was with the Matafas, a native fau va’a (canoe builder) suddenly called on the old chief and told him that a canoe was missing from the beach for quite three weeks. It was this bit of news that upset the lot of us, for we all felt certain that the culprit who had taken the little craft was Waylao. And when the news came to that little primitive household, Mrs Matafa wailed. I, too, felt heavy at heart and Matafa, who had never tired of searching and inquiring, was as much upset as his wife, while Tamafanga squatted on his mat, put his handsome chin on his knees and cried like an infant.
I tried hard to cheer them up, but it was a wretched, futile effort on my part, for I felt sure that Waylao had drifted away to sea and perished. Whether she had gone off deliberately or not, I could not tell then, but, soon enough, the reader shall know exactly what occurred. Indeed I heard the whole matter from the girl’s lips when——. But it is not here that I must tell that sad tale.
When Matafa saw my grief he gazed at me intently; then he arose from his mat and, giving me a gentle nudge, passed out into the night. In a moment I followed the chief out into the brilliant moonlight. As I stood by him, leaning against a coco-palm smoking, he looked about him carefully, to see that no eavesdroppers were near.
This secretive manner caused a great hope to spring up in my breast that perhaps he knew something about Waylao and was about to divulge it. Then the old chief sidled up to me and looked about once again, as my heart beat high with hope. Inclining his head, he whispered into my ear: “Master, O great Papalagi, art thou sorry for the girl?”
“I am,” said I most fervently, not comprehending the meaning of Matafa’s mysterious manner. Then he continued:
“You say nothing, but I understand, O Papalagi, allee samee! You now very sorry. ’Tis you, O white mans, who would ask the beautiful girl whom we have lost to forgive you—and be your fafaine [wife]?”
In a flash I saw through the old native’s meaning.
“It is not that way that the wind blows, O great O Le Tui Atua,” I said sternly, as the chief regarded me interrogatively. Then I proceeded: “I am a white man. Do you think that one of my race would be guilty of that which you have so vilely insinuated?” Though I said this, I felt sadly amused at the old fellow’s suspicions. But he took my reply seriously, my manner convincing him of his mistake.