Such was the practice of the followers of Islam in the South Seas, and probably closely resembled the marriage service that had brought Waylao in fright and remorse to Father O’Leary’s mission-room. I remember that Waylao was considerably cheered up after she had received the priest’s blessing.
That same night, as I played the violin and the Father accompanied me on the harmonium, she returned and sang to us. She seemed to want to haunt the father’s presence. The old priest was as pleased as I to see her again. She had a sweet, tremulous voice.
I suppose I was happy that night, for it is all very clear to my memory after many years.
We sat outside beneath the palms. Far away between the trunks of the giant bread-fruits we could see the moonlight tumbling about on the distant seas. Father O’Leary had been speaking of his native land. I was deeply interested, and surprised to hear much that he said. It was somehow strange to me to find that an old Catholic priest had once been a romping, careless boy.
I cannot tell how the conversation turned to the subject of emigrant Indians, but it certainly did do so. Probably it was a subject that deeply interested Waylao.
To the priest’s surprise and mine, Waylao looked up into the old man’s face and said in this wise:
“Father, why do you call these strange men, who come from other lands than your own, infidels?”
The old priest was suddenly struck dumb with astonishment.
Even I noticed that something had happened that he had never expected to hear in his lifetime from that girl’s lips. For a moment he was silent, like to a man who sees a multitude of meanings behind one remark. His high, smooth brow creased into lines of thought. Then he laid his hand upon Waylao’s shoulder and said, in his rich, kind voice, the following:—
“My child, there are many paths that lead to many heavens, for that which is heaven to one man is hell to another. But, believe me, there is only one path to the reward of righteousness and a clear conscience.”