Very early one morning we were awakened by a bustling presence in the yard, and found our camp had been surprised by a tall, lean old native lady, dressed in what were obviously widow’s weeds.  You could see at a glance she was a notable woman, a housewife, sternly practical, alive with energy, and with fine possibilities of temper.  Indeed, there was nothing native about her but the skin; and the type abounds, and is everywhere respected, nearer home.  It did us good to see her scour the grounds, examining the plants and chickens; watering, feeding, trimming them; taking angry, purpose-like possession.  When she neared the house our sympathy abated; when she came to the broken chest I wished I were elsewhere.  We had scarce a word in common; but her whole lean body spoke for her with indignant eloquence.  ‘My chest!’ it cried, with a stress on the possessive.  ’My chest—­broken open!  This is a fine state of things!’ I hastened to lay the blame where it belonged—­on Francois and his wife—­and found I had made things worse instead of better.  She repeated the names at first with incredulity, then with despair.  A while she seemed stunned, next fell to disembowelling the box, piling the goods on the floor, and visibly computing the extent of Francois’s ravages; and presently after she was observed in high speech with Taniera, who seemed to hang an ear like one reproved.

Here, then, by all known marks, should be my land-lady at last; here was every character of the proprietor fully developed.  Should I not approach her on the still depending question of my rent?  I carried the point to an adviser.  ‘Nonsense!’ he cried.  ’That’s the old woman, the mother.  It doesn’t belong to her.  I believe that’s the man the house belongs to,’ and he pointed to one of the coloured photographs on the wall.  On this I gave up all desire of understanding; and when the time came for me to leave, in the judgment-hall of the archipelago, and with the awful countenance of the acting Governor, I duly paid my rent to Taniera.  He was satisfied, and so was I. But what had he to do with it?  Mr. Donat, acting magistrate and a man of kindred blood, could throw no light upon the mystery; a plain private person, with a taste for letters, cannot be expected to do more.

CHAPTER IV—­TRAITS AND SECTS IN THE PAUMOTUS

The most careless reader must have remarked a change of air since the Marquesas.  The house, crowded with effects, the bustling housewife counting her possessions, the serious, indoctrinated island pastor, the long fight for life in the lagoon:  here are traits of a new world.  I read in a pamphlet (I will not give the author’s name) that the Marquesan especially resembles the Paumotuan.  I should take the two races, though so near in neighbourhood, to be extremes of Polynesian diversity.  The Marquesan is certainly the most beautiful of human races, and one of the tallest—­the Paumotuan averaging a good inch shorter, and not even handsome; the Marquesan open-handed, inert, insensible to religion, childishly self-indulgent—­the Paumotuan greedy, hardy, enterprising, a religious disputant, and with a trace of the ascetic character.