Beatriz was once more at her home by the seaside. Liliha was always near her. Since their first meeting the loving forest-girl had grown still dearer to her. When her father claimed her, she pleaded so hard and showed so much distress at the thought of leaving her white sister that he consented she should remain for the time being. Kiana and the high-priest were at peace. The latter had more than once visited Olmedo, for the double purpose of talking with him and seeing his daughter. By this interchange of civilities and the impression which the superior condition of Kiana’s people made upon him, added to the more enlarged views derived from his intercourse with the Spaniards, Hewahewa became, if not a believer in any creed, a more humane and wiser man. By his influence, backed as it always was when necessary with the arms of Kiana, his people partially gave up their predatory habits, and paid more attention to their fisheries and the culture of their soil. It was great gain also to establish an amicable intercourse between tribes so long bitterly hostile to each other. Instead of warlike expeditions to secure prisoners for sacrifice and to plunder, Hewahewa’s people now came often to trade. A commerce was growing up, which later led to the establishment of regular fairs, the principal of which was held at stated intervals on the banks of the Wailuku river, in the territory of Kiana. Here the products of the soil and the manufactures of the several districts of Hawaii, each of which from peculiarity of soil or climate, or from the skill and industry of its inhabitants, could claim some local advantage, were brought and interchanged. A paid police preserved order, and public inspectors decided upon the qualities of the merchandise, or acted as arbitrators in case of dispute, while the numerous pedlars by their cries and importunity would not have discredited their brethren of Europe.

But this fact is foreign to my story, except so far as showing how soon and rapidly commercial industry supplants the fighting principle, if it be allowed a fair chance, even among the passionate and sensuous aborigines of Polynesia.

Beatriz looked wan and feeble. More than a month had gone by since her rescue. Before her capture she had been gradually failing, but almost imperceptibly and with such an increased delicacy of outline and purity of complexion, that while Olmedo and Juan had praised her increasing beauty, neither had noticed that it was sapping her life. The exposure and excitement consequent upon the violence of Tolta, acting upon an already enfeebled frame, had at last brought her very low. Daily since her return had she been compelled to shorten her walks. At the same time her voice grew weaker, but gained ever in sweetness, and the flush upon her face became deeper. Still so long as she could go out she went, leaning upon Liliha or Olmedo, to look upon the scenery she so loved, and to breathe the balmy sea air beneath the palms. Juan clung to her as to a life-buoy. Careless and impetuous as he had always been, he loved his sister fervently. To see her pine day by day, her flesh wasting as disease claimed it, the rich blood fading from her cheek never to return, each embrace growing more languid as life ebbed, well nigh drove him mad. Bitterly he blamed himself for his absence on that fatal day. Even the horror of Tolta’s death did not check his curses upon him. To Olmedo he would listen in deference as he talked of the consolations of religion, but escaping to the woods, he would there sit hours in silent agony brooding over his coming loneliness, and fiercely resenting any intrusion. Liliha alone could quiet his grief. Knowing his habits, she would sometimes steal from the side of Beatriz and go after him. Taking his hand, without speaking, she would lead him to his sister, and the two would sit by her in sympathetic sadness, watching her every motion, and endeavoring to anticipate every want. While thus occupied he was in some degree soothed. His sister was still with him. The Blessed Mother of God might yet restore her. He would be so lonely when she was gone. Never until now had he felt how large a portion of his happiness was derived from her presence; how much he needed her calm sustaining spirit, her untiring kindness, and above all her exhaustless fountain of forgiveness. Was all this so soon to be taken away? Cold shudders passed through his heart as the gloom of certainty shut down upon him, and starting up abruptly he would go back to the forest. Giving time for the paroxysm to subside, Liliha at a sign from Beatriz would again bring him back. “My dear brother,” she would say, “sorrow not so, I may yet live; I feel stronger to-day. Take my hand; see! it is not very thin; and my face, is it not a little fuller? It seems so to me. Once you know, before we left Spain, I was as ill, but I got well. Kiss me and stay by me while I sleep a little. When I wake we will talk more. I have much to say, and yet I cannot speak it, when you are so sad. Another kiss, dear Juan; you have ever been a kind brother to me.” Thus she would cheer him with a hope that at times dawned upon herself, in spite of her rapid decline.

Often Kiana came in, and sat gazing at her until the big tears followed one another down his cheeks. Seemingly unconscious of them, he would remain without uttering a word for hours, striving only to give some order which he thought might promote her comfort. To him the fading away of the maiden was like the loss of sunlight to the landscape. The earth was all there, but its joy and glory were alike gone.

How was Olmedo? Calm. Never had Beatriz appeared to him so lovely as now. He had seen too many death-beds not to know that she was shortly to pass away. Every change in her aspect was closely watched, and all that his experience could suggest done to postpone, if it could not avert, her death. But he neither sought to deceive himself nor her. If Juan felt himself alone, how much more must he whose soul was so interwoven with the dying woman’s! Tenderly and truly had their love and faith kept pace in all the eventful scenes they had passed through. Tempted, they had conquered. Their hearts had recognized their inalienable birthright—to love—yet they had not sinned. Now the spiritual was triumphing over the material. As the body grew more helpless, the spirit became indeed stronger. This he saw. How could he then sorrow; when, with the eye of faith, he beheld infinite joy expanding in her soul? Mourn for himself, left so solitary in his earthly pilgrimage, he must, and did, but he rejoiced for her. At no time had he been more earnest in his religious duties than during her illness. A solemn responsibility rested upon him to be even more faithful to her pure aspirations and gentle faith. He was with her also more than ever. As she drew nigh her departure, every trace of the harsher doctrines of her church passed from her mind, as the dead leaves of autumn give way to the living growth of spring. Fed by the vital currents of faith and love that flowed into her soul from that world her spirit was now piercing, his mind grew likewise, and he perceived how that separation in body could prove union in spirit. Thus he was comforted and sustained. He now felt that divine wisdom and love were given in some degree to all men; that all nature was imbued with their principles; that both nature and man were working out the great problem of happiness, through a slow and laborious progress, governed by universal laws existing from a beneficent and impartial deity. Polemical creeds were the shackles of intellect and the graves of the soul. There was but one creed, viz., that God made all men, and none had a right to arrogate to themselves the way of salvation. Of him to whom much was given, it was true that much would be required. God was always revealing himself to the inquiring soul. No age or race had a right to claim a final revelation or a monopoly of inspiration. Truth was as free as the air to all who could or would receive it, but it was like gold in the mine, dark and hidden until labor brought it to the sunlight, stamped it with the die of reason, and put it into circulation. All new coin was looked on with suspicion, but when made familiar became as current as the old. All truth was partial, because its degree depended upon the quality and capacity of the individual mind. Perfect truth is the divine atmosphere. No man can breathe that now, but might hope to attain it through infinite progress. Hence among men universal toleration of opinions should prevail. The best minds here were but infants in knowledge. Striving there should be, but it should consist in mutual charity and forbearance; the patient waiting of each soul, and patient working out of its duties in faith, for individual and general life were linked together for a harmonious end. If disappointment to him were needful for another’s good, he was ready to bid it welcome, and from out of self-sacrifice to rise the stronger man. He saw in Beatriz’s death her spiritual promotion. In strengthening her to meet it, he was best preparing himself for those consolations which as necessarily result from moral laws as does gravitation from the physical. Therefore Olmedo looked upon the present trial as the beautiful working out of the final happiness of Beatriz and himself. To him she was the divine messenger through whom life and light had come. Talk not of the power of passionate love! Its selfish flame burns itself out, leaving nothing but ashes. Olmedo loved Beatriz, but it was now with a love in which passion was sublimated into purity; strengthened by self-sacrifice and made immortal by faith. What, then, were a few years of time to him who already saw into eternity!

One day Beatriz felt so much stronger that she asked to be carried to the spot in the forest, where she and Olmedo had met when they were taken off by Tolta. Besides her litter-bearers and women, who retired a little way after making up for her an easy couch, she was alone with him. It was the loveliest hour of the twenty-four, drawing towards sunset, just as the sun’s rays, becoming mellow, were casting a veil of soft and purple light, tinged with golden radiance, over sea and land. The air was as warm and healthful as an infant’s breath.

Beautiful as was the place, it had never looked so beautiful to her as now. The birds were twittering in their leafy homes, and, coming close to her as to an old friend, warbled a welcome before they bade good night to the sinking sun, or from the topmost branches sang their vespers. All old memories came back to her, save only the sad one connected with Tolta, which she seemed now to have forgotten. She thought only of the many talks they had had here, on subjects dear to both; their mutually expressed longings for the familiar faces and scenes of their native land, and their plans and hopes when forced to feel that they would no more see them; the sadness that stole over her spirit as she realized that she must live and die upon the island without one of her sex, born of her race, to share her solitude; how the good father comforted her with holy words, and finally her love spoke and his spoke, and they each knew the heart’s secret of the other, and both trembled, but grew stronger from prayer and faith, and now could look back upon their past without a blush, and forward with hope in an eternal union; all this, and much else that was endeared to her, came bright and joyful to her recollection. She recalled to Olmedo scenes and words full of gladness to both. Her voice was much clearer and stronger, and her manner so cheerful, that he was borne away on the pleasant tide, and thought only of their present happiness, without heeding that it was the illumination of a mortal on the confines of the spirit-world.

Suddenly a shadow passed over her features, and she told Olmedo that she would rest awhile. Closing her eyes, she sank into a gentle slumber that lasted for half an hour. Bright smiles chased each other in such quick succession on her face, that she seemed to her watcher to be already living in another sphere. As he gazed almost in awe upon a happiness that gave him a closer insight into the joys of a soul communing with its God, Beatriz awoke. Turning her eyes vacantly upon him, then looking around upon the scenery still lovely, for the brief twilight was in its prime, she was for a moment bewildered. “Where am I; is this earth,—am I back again? How dark it seems,” said she. “Give me your hand, Olmedo,—I see you now. I have had such a dream,—shall I tell it to you?”

Olmedo begged her not to exhaust herself, but to wait until she was more equal to talking. “No, Olmedo, I must tell it now. I am quite strong. Indeed a new life is in my veins, but something bids me be quick. When I closed my eyes it seemed to me I was dead. My spirit slowly left my body, and rested in the air above you, who were watching it so tenderly. How I wanted to embrace you and speak my love, but I could not. Soon a bright form came, so bright that my eyes were at first too dazzled to be able to look upon it. But as that wore off, I knew my sister Domitila, who you remember, died before we left Spain. She welcomed me to my new home, as she called it, and took me away with her. How we went I could not tell, but we were borne on without effort on our own part, by an unseen power, and yet it seemed to come from ourselves. Such scenery, such beauty, those loving faces crying, ‘welcome, dear sister.’ Would that I could describe them. Joy filled my heart. I was amid all things loveliest and best, such as of late you and I have so often faintly conceived as we talked of heaven. Oh! how real they now were! I was a spirit, yet I had a body and senses that gave me exquisite pleasure. Every emotion and effort was increasing happiness. How clearly my soul saw into divine wisdom and love. I thought it strange at first that I did not see the Holy Virgin and the Saints, and asked where they were. ‘Such as we are now they were,’ replied my sister; ‘they have passed on to greater glory through the sure operation of the laws of progress. Ye do wrong on earth to worship those who once were but human beings like yourselves,—whose sole claim to honor is, that they were obedient to the divine will, diligent to understand, and quick to practise. It is because you have lived on earth a blameless life, charitable and useful, enjoying existence, cultivating purity, seeking truth, actively good, and ever aspiring to know the divine will, patient and sincere, through doubt and ignorance trusting in the great good, that you now witness these mysteries. Soon they will be as much yours as mine. Go back to earth and tell your companion what you have seen. He will understand the message. Bid him be patient and zealous, for he has much earthly work yet to do, but for you, my sister, I shall soon return. I have watched over you as you will over Olmedo since we parted in form, striving to impress your heart with the love of our world. It was an easy task, and now it is finished, and we will kneel in future together at the feet of older spirits, to learn of them still further the way of truth and life.’ So saying, she floated away like a sunbeam, and I awoke.

“What think you of it, Olmedo? Was it not sweet? There is no death; joy! joy! Ever shall I watch over you with my sister until you too pass through the gate of heaven. Look! look! there she comes. Oh! how beautiful. Many others are with her now. I see their rainbow robes. I hear their voices,—they call me; oh! listen to the music. Seraphs are striking their harps,—the air is filled with harmony,—do you not hear it too? Where are you, Olmedo? Touch me. I do not see you, but I see them,—that white light,—how glorious all appears; how melodious their speech! I am here, dear sister,—quick,—take me,”—and thus her sweet spirit went home.

Olmedo was stupefied. Not a word had he lost, feebly and brokenly as the last words had been uttered. Yet to see her go from him as her spirit became so ravishingly beautiful, was more than even he could well bear. There she lay in death’s stillness. The sun had gone down, the wind was hushed, her maidens looked on in speechless grief, not a leaf stirred, all was silent,—silent as the grave! No! there is no silence in the grave to the believer.

Before him it is true was the form by which he had known Beatriz, soon to be dust. The eloquent eye, the laughing lip, the blushing cheek were never again in flesh to speak to him. Must we not allow him a moment’s anguish as he heard their silence? Mourn, monk;—thou art still human! Grief is permitted thee. Many and lonely must thy days of pilgrimage yet be!

He shed no tears, but leaned his face on the bosom of the corpse, and there groaned. A light seemed to pass before his eyes. He looked up. “Merciful God, am I too a Spirit?” burst from his lips as he gazed. There, floating in the air, and almost touching him, he saw her he had just lost. She was an angel now. As she smiled upon him, he thought he heard a voice say, “Farewell for a little while,”—and then the stars only were twinkling above him.

CHAPTER XXVII.

In my opinion, I should stop here. Each reader, so it seems to me, can readily conjecture the subsequent fate of the survivors. But a voice over my shoulder whispers, No. We are still curious and quite unable to trace their after history without your aid. Recollect, you are familiar with the locality, customs, and above all the traditions which first brought the actors to your notice. Where everything varies so greatly from our experiences, the result must be more or less of an enigma.

And why should it not be? Mystery will give the story a charm beyond the power of my pen. Beatriz has gone up to heaven, not in chariots of fire, but in the arms of love. Well would it be if we could there follow her and partake of her felicity. “A little while,”—yes, in a little while the call of each of us will be heard. May our welcome be like hers.

As I cannot follow her into the scenes of her new duties and joys, I leave them to the imagination. To gratify any lurking curiosity as to the others, I will briefly relate all that came to my knowledge after that—to her—great gain.

Kiana proved a sincere mourner. The character of Beatriz had so impressed him that he never after sought companionship among the females of his race. He grew to be a silent, reserved man, kind to all, but indisposed to interest himself in the usual duties of his station. Much of his time he passed alone, so that his people, in their poetical fancy, in speaking of him among themselves, called him Kamehameha, “the lonely one.” To Olmedo he particularly attached himself, and as he soon neglected the religion of his ancestors more than ever, it was supposed that he had imbibed many of his views. When he died, which took place at the expiration of ten years, there was a wailing over all Hawaii, such as had never been heard before. The people all grieved for him as for one they deeply loved. At his dying request they abstained from the usual barbarous demonstrations, by which they were wont to mark their sorrow. There were no sacrifice of property, no shaving of heads, no knocking out of teeth, or self-inflicted wounds. Above all, his memory was honored by a strict abstinence from the usual saturnalia, allowed on the death of a chief of the highest rank, during which sensuality and the darkest passions were permitted to riot unchecked. A decorous funeral took place, at which all the people assisted, with a solemn state heretofore unknown in their annals.

Hewahewa became a powerful and sagacious ruler. By the influence of Olmedo he was induced to mitigate many of the cruel rites of his mythology, though the belief of his people in Pele remained unshaken. The good monk had therefore the satisfaction to see that humanity gained by his presence in Hawaii, though his opinions affected but a few of the most intelligent minds. Indeed, so satisfied had he himself become of the inefficiency of strictly dogmatic teachings, that he seldom attempted to expound the mysteries of the Roman creed, but confined his discourses to such general ideas of the nature of divinity and the absurdity of idol worship, as might be comprehended by the simplest mind. The seed which he thus sowed was not without fruit. It slowly ripened during rather more than two centuries, gradually weaning the masses from their belief in demonology, until a short time before the advent of the American missionaries, in 1820, the nation discarded paganism and destroyed their idols. Hewahewa, the then high-priest, had inherited much of the inquiring, skeptical spirit of his ancestor. Publicly resigning his office, he was the first to apply the torch to the temples and their sacred contents. The accumulated gifts of national piety through the long centuries of heathenism were consumed in a day, while he and others proclaimed their belief in “one only Great God, dwelling in the heavens.”

Juan’s grief was violent, but he recovered before long his natural tone. As he could not recall the dead, he interested himself in the living, and was ever the same adventurous, impetuous being, admired for his gallantry and beloved for his generosity. Before his sister died, Liliha’s artless sympathy had touched his heart. After that event, he was more than ever drawn to her, and she to him. There was something in her youth and character so different from the wanton beauty and unrefined minds of Hawaiian women in general, that it commanded his respect. He must have some one to love, now his sister was gone, and he loved her. She returned his love as freely, and truly as the wood-dove returns its mate’s. There was no coyness or affected reserve. His manly qualities had now won her heart, still warm with its devotion to Beatriz, and she told him so, and gave it to him with her all. Juan asked of Olmedo the Roman Catholic rite to sanctify their union. Liliha assented, much wondering at first why the words of another were requisite to bind them closer together. They loved each other faithfully. How then could the bond be made dearer or truer? It was difficult to make her understand the necessity of the ceremonies and pledges with which Christians wed. With or without it, however, she was the same faithful, sincere, joyous creature, right in her instincts and quick in her perceptions. From their mingled blood descended several noted chiefs.

What of Olmedo? He lived long and usefully. The dying vision of Beatriz was never absent from his thoughts. It had become a holy message to him. Never did the good man let go by an opportunity for a kind act or comforting word. His counsels and instruction were freely given to all who applied. He lived apart from all others as he had always done, the same solitary chaste man of God. So wrapt was he ever in his reflections, inwardly conversing with his spirit-bride, that among the natives he was known as Kapiolani, “the captive of heaven.”

Beatriz was buried on the spot where she died. Olmedo erected a cross over her remains with the simple inscription in Spanish, “She is not here.” He had consigned her dust to its mother earth, but the spirit had gone back to the God who gave it. Daily at sunset he prayed over the grave. Often that dear face came back to greet and cheer him, and as he gazed, the same lowly whispered words, “for a little while,” fell on his ear. He would then go back with fresh courage and hope to his earthly home, fulfilling its duties as a sacred trust. When he died the tradition does not tell. The last it says of the strange priest is, that he was “the captive of heaven.”

THE END.