Though I have not been long in the South Seas, I feel that there is no denying that a pick-me-up after a modern tribal festival is essential. In the olden days, ere casks of rum and Bibles were imported on sister ships to the isles, such pathetic duplicity was comparatively unknown. It is the combination of the Old World’s sins with the New World’s sins that is so disastrous to the native’s nervous system. Indeed so disastrous has been the introduction of Bibles and rum to the sins of the Old World that many an isle is to-day perfectly virtuous—for the whole native population, devoid of human passions, lie silent and sinless in their graves.
As the priest stands before those rows of dusky, savage faces, droning forth in reverent monotones the morning prayers, I finish my job and creep out of the mission-room. I have mended his harmonium gratuitously. I like the old fellow and know he’s as poor as a church mouse. How else could he be but poor, since he was earnest in his belief?
Again I am out in the glorious sunlight. As I walk beneath the bread-fruit trees I recall my promise; for I have quite forgotten to fetch the new-laid eggs for my host, a white settler hard by who has kindly given me shelter till I get a ship. Up the slopes I go, hurrying on. The parrots shriek, flapping away from the topmost branches. In a few moments I reach my destination—old Lydia’s cottage. Her new-laid eggs are noted for size and cheapness. I stand in hesitation by the doorway. It is quite evident that I’ve called whilst a little domestic drama is in progress. I listen, for I too suffer from the great weakness of mankind. “Deary me am! Poor chiles, mitia—Awai, Talofa! My poor Wayee, you sick?—and so sleep late these morning? Poor chiles.”
As I listen to the foregoing I still hesitate beneath the coco-palms. I can see through the slightly opened doorway. Old Lydia is stirring scented poi-poi on the galley stove. It is for poor sick Waylao. Alas! that I must confess that as I watch the honour that should be mine is mesmerised by the scene before me. There stands Waylao in complete deshabille by her mother’s side. Her unloosened hair falls in tangled masses to her dimpled shoulders. She has evidently hastily attired herself in that silken blue kimono gown. Her feet are bare. Her old mother looks positively jealous as the girl, sitting down on a chair, commences to pull on the Oriental, silk, pink-striped stockings.
“Wheres you git ’em?” screams the native mother with delight, eyeing the stockings with vivacious, child-like approval.
Again I remember that I am an honourable white man. Why should I pry on such domestic innocence? I attempt to stride towards the door and make my presence known, but my steps are arrested by a cry of joy. I make a mighty effort to be blind to it all—then I look. Old Lydia stands entranced, her mouth wide open with delight, for lo! Waylao has succeeded in bribing the old mother’s curiosity as to where she’d been the night before—has given her a brilliant pair of pink, yellow-striped stockings!
Yes, there stands old Lydia; in a moment she had pulled the stockings on, and now before the big German mirror sways and swerves in the most grotesque postures as the green and yellow stripes reach above her dusky knees.
Knowing not what else might occur, I hastily shuffle, cough loudly and knock at the door! It opens wider. The old woman grins from ear to ear, as, puff!—Waylao leaps out of sight into the next room.
Native instinct is deep: old Lydia stares at me suspiciously. With the external politeness of Western guile I blow my nose and make an attempt to appear more serious than usual.
I purchase the eggs.