When we got within sight of her hut on the outskirts
of the town, she would not let me go further. There was
sadness in her look when we parted. I made her understand (I
had picked up two or three words) that I would return to see
her. She at once shook her head with an expression of
something akin to fear. I too felt sorrowful, and worse than
sorrowful, jealous.
When the night fell I sought her hut. It was one of the
better kind, built like others mainly with matting; no doors
or windows, but with an extensive verandah which protected
the inner part from rain and sun. Now and again I caught
glimpses of Arakeeta's fairy form flitting in, or obscuring,
the lamplight. I could see two other women and two men. Who
and what were they? Was one of those dark forms an Othello,
ready to smother his Desdemona? Or were either of them a
Valentine between my Marguerite and me? Though there was no
moon, I dared not venture within the lamp's rays, for her
sake; for my own, I was reckless now - I would have thanked
either of them to brain me with his hoe. But Arakeeta came
not.
In the day-time I roamed about the district, about the TARO
fields, in case she might be working there. Every evening
before sundown, many of the women and some of the well-to-do
men, and a few whites, used to ride on the plain that
stretches along the shore between the fringe of palm groves
and the mountain spurs. I had seen Arakeeta amongst them
before the LOOHOU feast. She had given this up now, and why?
Night after night I hovered about the hut. When she was in
the verandah I whispered her name. She started and peered
into the dark, hesitated, then fled. Again the same thing
happened. She had heard me, she knew that I was there, but
she came not; no, wiser than I, she came not. And though I
sighed:
What is worth
The rest of Heaven, the rest of earth?
the shrewd little wench doubtless told herself: 'A quiet
life, without the fear of the broomstick.'
Fred was impatient to be off, I had already trespassed too
long on the kind hospitality of General Miller, neither of us
had heard from England for more than a year, and the
opportunities of trading vessels to California seldom
offered. A rare chance came - a fast-sailing brig, the
'Corsair,' was to leave in a few days for San Francisco. The
captain was an Englishman, and had the repute of being a boon
companion and a good caterer. We - I, passively - settled to
go. Samson decided to remain. He wanted to visit Owyhee.
He came on board with us, however; and, with a parting bumper
of champagne, we said 'Good-bye.' That was the last I ever
saw of him.
