The sour, capricious woman could not long brook the task she had set herself to perform; her spirit soon flagged in the dull round which made up her husband’s life, and her new part in it grew daily more intolerable. She slowly lapsed again into the dark humour which was fast becoming her second nature, and took no further trouble to conciliate her husband. Cook was slow to realise the change, but when at last it dawned upon him that she listened with unconcealed indifference to the tale of the day’s doings, and made no further pretence of caring either for his work in Fangaloa or for the literary labours which were his only relaxation, he, too, grew gloomy and dispirited. The essay languished; the “Peep o’ Day” stood still; and he spent solitary hours in his study in a kind of stupor. A thousand times his heart turned towards his old friend, and he longed to throw himself at his feet and say, “Father, comfort me! I am weak of spirit and sore distressed.” But loyalty to the overwrought and nigh crazy woman he called his wife, as well as the timidity which was constitutional in the man, forbade an open reconciliation, and he shrank from the thoughts of a clandestine one. So he went his lonely way, bearing his cross as best he might.
At last the time grew near for the execution of the plan which had cost Father Zosimus so much trouble and calculation, not to speak of many dollars from his scanty hoard.
On Christmas morn, as the cannon at Faleapuni pealed along the shore and roused the villages with its joyful reverberations, Father Zosimus hastened to transform his dwelling into a bower of ferns and flowers. With Filipo to assist him, and ’afa enough to have built a chief’s house, the pair worked unceasingly until there remained not an inch without its flower nor a post unentwined with brilliant creepers and fragrant moso’oi. He drew a breath of satisfaction when it was all finished to his liking, and while Filipo swept out the litter he sat down and wrote the following letter:
Fangaloa, December 25, 186-.
My Dear Children: On this blessed morning no Christian can harbour any unkindness in his heart, nor cast up another’s shortcomings against him. I am an old and a failing man; the day of my release is close at hand, and you both must be generous to me as one so soon to stand before his God. And if I have unwittingly offended you,—as I know I have done,—I pray you to forgive me for the sake of Him who was born to-day. I have ventured to prepare a little feast in your honour, with which I hope we may celebrate, in innocent gaiety, the renewal of our friendship. At twelve o’clock I shall expect you both.
I remain, my dear children, with heartfelt wishes for your good health and continued prosperity,
Your old friend,
Zosimus, S. J.
He read the note several times to himself before putting it into an envelope and addressing it to Mr. and Mrs. Cook. Filipo was at hand, garlanded with red singano and elegantly garbed in white, prepared to make a good appearance before the young ladies of the mission. He trotted off with the note carefully wrapped in a banana-leaf, that it might be delivered in all its virgin purity. Father Zosimus lit a pipe and impatiently set himself to await his messenger’s return.
“Se’i ave le tusi lea ia Misi,” said Filipo to the young lady that met him at the door. “Ou te fa’atali i’inei mo le tali.” (“Give this letter to Misi. I will wait here for the answer.”) Now, in Samoa, the word “Misi” is used to designate and address Protestant missionaries of either sex, and the maid carried the letter, not to Wesley Cook in his study, but to Mrs. Cook, who was listlessly lolling in the sitting-room. She tore it open, read it with attention, and putting it hastily in her pocket, bade the girl send Filipo away. “Tell him Misi says there is no answer,” she said.
The old catechist skipped down the hill, and repeated to his master the message that had been given him.
Father Zosimus was painfully overcome.
“Filipo,” he said, “did you see the minister with your very own eyes?”
“Ioe,” answered the catechist, cheerfully; “he was writing in his room, and I saw him through the window, looking very sad, and eating his pen like a cow at a breadfruit-tree.” Filipo mimicked the action on his finger.