“It was thus,” returned Filipo: “thy grieving heart was known of God, and when he looked down at that costly feast to which neither the minister nor his wife would deign to come—”
“Stop!” cried the priest. “This is the talk of an untattooed boy. Have I not told thee a thousand times that sickness has invariably a cause?”
“The maids say that last week she had a long talk with her husband,” said Filipo, “and together they quarrelled until she talked loud and fierce, like a German, and he cried and cried, and threw himself on the mats. Then she went out of the house, and to her there was neither umbrella nor coat, though it rained; and she walked, uselessly, all the way to Faleapuni, so burned her heart with anger; and when she returned she was trembling with the cold so that her teeth went thus. Then she went to bed, and vomited terribly, and every time she breathed, it hurt her chest so that she said, ‘Ugh! ugh!’ like a man sorely wounded on the field. Then the minister came to her and tried to talk and bedarling her; but she mocked at him, and said her heart was in the White Country. After that she began to talk the devil-stuttering which is not understandable of man.”
Father Zosimus’s jaw fell, and he looked about him like a man on the brink of some great resolve.
“She was never the same after the day of the feast,” said Filipo.
The priest put on his yellow oilskin, and placing a bottle of brandy in one pocket, he grasped the bunched umbrella that was his inseparable companion. Thus prepared to face the elements and carry succour to the sick, he made his way into the open and ascended the hill towards the mission-house. His face tingled under the lash of the wind and rain as he struggled on, dodging the nuts that occasionally shot across his path like cannon-balls; and when at last he reached his goal in safety, he was surprised to see the curtains pulled down within, and to find no one to answer his repeated knocks.
He was emboldened to turn the knob and enter, which he did hesitatingly, not knowing what reception awaited him. At the end of the hall a half-open door let out a flood of lamplight, betraying one room, at least, in which he might expect to find some member of the household. On the bed beside the wall Mrs. Cook lay in disordered bedclothes, her glassy eyes upturned in delirium, her face yellow and pinched almost beyond recognition, one thin arm on the pillow beneath her head, the other thrown limply across the sheet. Not far from her, in shabby dressing-gown and slippers, Wesley himself was asleep in a canvas chair, sunk in the deep oblivion that follows an all-night watch. On the floor two native girls slumbered in boluses of matting, their heads side by side on a bamboo pillow. The priest stole softly to the bed and looked down on Mrs. Cook’s face; but there was no understanding in the bright, troubled glance that met his own, no coherence in the whispered words she repeated to herself. He was angered to think of his own ignorance and helplessness as he stood the brandy on the littered table beside the copy of “Simple Remedies for the Home,” and studied the woman with renewed anxiety. In truth, she looked grievously ill. Sixty miles of wild water and mountainous seas separated them from Apia and the only doctor in the group; he shivered as he caught the wail of the wind without, and saw in mind the breakers that were thundering against their iron coast.
He fell on his knees and prayed, and then went out into the air again, his mind made up to a desperate measure. He now took another path, one that led him across the village to Tuisunga’s stately house. It was nearly filled with chiefs and speaking-men, ranged round in a great circle, and the high-pitched, measured periods of an orator could be heard above the wind and the pelting rain. On his approach there burst out a chorus of “Maliu mai, susu mai, ali’i Zosimo”; and he bent under the eaves and made his way, half crouching, to a place by Tuisunga’s side. The eyes of all the party turned on him with surprise, and there was a little burst of expectation, broken only by the embittered hawking of the interrupted orator.
“Your Majesty Tuisunga, chiefs, and speaking-men of Fangaloa,” began Zosimus, “be not angry with me for disturbing this meeting. I have just come from the house of mourning, where God’s hand lies heavy upon your pastor’s wife, so that she is like to die. It is my thought that we take a boat and go with all expedition for the German doctor in Apia.”
“Chief Zosimus,” answered Tuisunga, “the gentlemen you see before you have been discussing this very matter. We are agreed that if the lady is to live, we must seek help at once from the wise white man in Apia, though the storm is heavy upon us, and the risk more than bullets in the fighting line. But what boat can live in such a gale, save one that is strong indeed, and well wrought? Our man-of-war that pulls forty oars is with Forster to be mended; my own whaler is too old and rotten for so bold a malanga; the others we possess are small and useless.”