“It is done now,” he thought, “and once more let me take the good along with the evil.”

So it befell that he returned to Hawaii by the first steamer, and as soon as it could be managed he was wedded to Kokua, and carried her up the mountain side to the Bright House.

Now it was so with these two, that when they were together, Keawe’s heart was stilled; but so soon as he was alone he fell into a brooding horror, and heard the flames crackle, and saw the red fire burn in the bottomless pit.  The girl, indeed, had come to him wholly; her heart leapt in her side at sight of him, her hand clung to his; and she was so fashioned from the hair upon her head to the nails upon her toes that none could see her without joy.  She was pleasant in her nature.  She had the good word always.  Full of song she was, and went to and fro in the Bright House, the brightest thing in its three storeys, carolling like the birds.  And Keawe beheld and heard her with delight, and then must shrink upon one side, and weep and groan to think upon the price that he had paid for her; and then he must dry his eyes, and wash his face, and go and sit with her on the broad balconies, joining in her songs, and, with a sick spirit, answering her smiles.

There came a day when her feet began to be heavy and her songs more rare; and now it was not Keawe only that would weep apart, but each would sunder from the other and sit in opposite balconies with the whole width of the Bright House betwixt.  Keawe was so sunk in his despair, he scarce observed the change, and was only glad he had more hours to sit alone and brood upon his destiny, and was not so frequently condemned to pull a smiling face on a sick heart.  But one day, coming softly through the house, he heard the sound of a child sobbing, and there was Kokua rolling her face upon the balcony floor, and weeping like the lost.

“You do well to weep in this house, Kokua,” he said.  “And yet I would give the head off my body that you (at least) might have been happy.”

“Happy!” she cried.  “Keawe, when you lived alone in your Bright House, you were the word of the island for a happy man; laughter and song were in your mouth, and your face was as bright as the sunrise.  Then you wedded poor Kokua; and the good God knows what is amiss in her — but from that day you have not smiled.  Oh!” she cried, “what ails me?  I thought I was pretty, and I knew I loved him.  What ails me that I throw this cloud upon my husband?”

“Poor Kokua,” said Keawe.  He sat down by her side, and sought to take her hand; but that she plucked away.  “Poor Kokua,” he said, again.  “My poor child — my pretty.  And I had thought all this while to spare you!  Well, you shall know all.  Then, at least, you will pity poor Keawe; then you will understand how much he loved you in the past — that he dared hell for your possession — and how much he loves you still (the poor condemned one), that he can yet call up a smile when he beholds you.”