It was on the third day that she left us for ever, the victim of a tragedy that had left her a dying wreck at seventeen years of age.
I was obliged to clear out of that mission-room when the priest murmured prayers by the coffin. I felt too weak and sick at heart to watch that Calvary of stricken hopes and aspirations—betrayed by the Judas of hypocritical manhood.
I hated to see the world so beautiful outside, as she slept on. The mano-bird was singing in the banyans, the sunset fired the seas, and from far came the sounds of drums that were beating the stars in up in the mountain villages.
It was now that the Father went on his knees by that silent form for the last time. It all seemed unreal to me, as he took the image of the Virgin, softly pulled back the folds of the shroud and laid it on the dead girl’s bosom. In that moment we both noticed the livid leprosy patch on the breast of the sleeping girl.
The Father quickly fastened the shroud folds together again. I believe trouble would have come to him had he been known to conceal a leper. Then he called softly—in they came, three hired men. They were rough-looking, almost villainous types, but even they looked deeply on that silent form ere they stooped and nailed the lid down—and hid her face for ever from the sight of men.
That same night I sat in the forest quite alone, like one in a dream. I think I must have slept beneath the silence of those giant bread-fruit trees that moaned sorrowfully over me as the wind swept in from the dark seas. Though I felt some strange fright at my heart, I felt glad as Pauline crept out of the cloistered shadows.
“I’m pleased you’ve come at last,” I said as I commenced to play a wondrous melody on my violin.
Her eyes seemed unearthly bright as she suddenly sprang into my arms. It was so unexpected. She was as cold as death and trembling.
“I shall come again,” she said.
“Must you go?” I responded, nothing seeming strange near Tai-o-hae.