One day Tauti, coming up alone from the fishing and taking a byway
through the trees, came across a girl crouched beneath the shelter of a
bread fruit whose leaves were so great that one of them could have
covered her little body.
It was Kinei, the daughter of Sikra the basket maker, and she was
stringing flowers which she had plucked to make a chaplet. He knew her
well, and he had often passed her; she was fourteen, or a little more,
and had for nickname the “Laughing One,” for she was as pleasant to look
at as the sunshine through leaves on a shadowed brook. She was so young
that he had scarcely thought of her as being different from a man, and
she had always, on meeting him, had a smile for him, given openly as a
child may give a pretty shell in the palm of its hand.
But to-day, as she looked up, she had no smile for him. He drew near and
sat down close to her and handed her the flowers for her to string.
Then, as he looked into her eyes, he saw that they were deep as the
deepest sea, and full of trouble.
He made inquiry as to the cause of the trouble and Kinei, without
answering him, looked down. He raised her chin and, looking at him full,
her eyes filled with tears. Then he knew. He had found Love, suddenly,
like a treasure, or like a flower just opened and filled with dew.
On leaving her that day he could have run through the woods like a man
distracted and filled with joy, but, instead he sought his own house,
and there he sat down to contemplate this new thing that had befallen
him.
Now, in the past, when any good had come to Tauti, no sooner was it in
his hand than he carried it to Uliami to show; and his eyes now turned
that way. But, look hard as he would, he could not see Uliami, for there
was now no one else in the world for him but Kinei.
He could not tell his news, but hid it up, and when Uliami met him and
asked him what was on his mind, he replied “Nothing.” And so things went
on, till one day Uliami, walking in the woods, came upon Kinei with
Tauti in her arms.
He would sooner have come upon his own death, for he, too, had learned
to love the girl, but his love for her had made him as weak as a maiden
and as fearful as a child in the dark of the high woods, when there is
no moon. Love is like that, making some men bold as the frigate bird in
its flight, and some timorous as the dove, and the strongest are often
the weakest when taken in the snare.
Uliami, having gazed for two heartbeats, passed away like a shadow among
the trees and sought his own house and sat down to consider this new
thing that had come to him. Any bad fortune of the past he had always
carried to Tauti to share it with him, and his eyes turned toward Tauti
now, but not with that intent.
At first, and for some time covering many days, he felt no ill will--no
more than a man feels toward the matagi that blows suddenly out of a
clear sky, driving him off shore to be drowned.
Then came the marriage of Tauti to Kinei, and a year that passed, and a
son that was born to them.
And then slowly, as the great storms rise, the storm that had been
gathering in the heart of Uliami rose and darkened, and what caused that
storm was the fact that Tauti, in his happiness, had forgotten their
old-time bond of brotherhood, and was so happy in his wife and his
little affairs that Uliami might as well not have been on that island.
Tauti had robbed him not only of Kinei but of himself; Kinei had robbed
him not only of herself but of Tauti--and they were happy. But the storm
might never have burst, for Uliami was no evil man, had he not one day
discovered that Kinei was no longer faithful to Tauti. She was of that
sort, and the devil, who knows all things, did not leave the matter long
to rest, but took Uliami by the ear and showed him the truth.
Now what the devil does to a man that man does often to another. Uliami
showed Tauti the truth, and in such a manner that Tauti struck him on
the mouth.
“So be it,” said Uliami, wiping his mouth. “All is ended between us, and
now I will kill you--not to-day, but to-morrow, and as sure as the sun
will rise.”
Tauti laughed.
“There are two to that game,” said he. “As you say, all is ended between
us, and to-morrow I will kill you as sure as the sun will set.”
Then they each went their ways, not knowing that their words had been
overheard by Sikra, the father of Kinei, who had been hiding in the
bushes by the path where they had met.