The situation of Beatriz alone, so far as companionship of her sex was concerned, was peculiar. She was not one readily to give or seek confidence. Were she surrounded with her equals in race and cultivation, she would not have disclosed her inmost self, and least of all to a female. This was instinct rather than reason. Those about her thought they knew her in all points, because they saw how good and true she was to them. They loved her, because her vast capacity of love drew all lesser loves towards it. They came readily to her with their trials, because in her large heart and womanly perceptions there was an inexhaustible fountain of sympathy and a foresight truer than a sybil’s. Thus daily, wherever she was, whoever among, she received a constant tribute of devotion and confidence. The character of those about her grew better by her presence. But with all this power, of which each word or look could not but make her conscious, she was often inexpressibly sad.

Whence this sadness? Beatriz had never analyzed her own heart. While all others were open to her, her own had remained a mystery. She felt within it deep, broad currents of emotion, which led, she scarcely knew whither. That their waters flowed from a clear spring was self-evident, because her desires were pure and high. She loved her brother warmly, and he returned her love; still there was a wide gulf between them. With other men the gulf was wider. With women she had never been intimate. Hence, while she seemed so easily read by all about her, there still remained a mystery of which none had been able to lift the veil.

Her sympathy, self-sacrificing spirit and generosity; her indignation at the mean or base; her approving glance at the noble and true; her quiet courage and patient endurance; her piety, her quick perception, which so often anticipated man’s slower judgment; her passions even, for she had shown, when roused, a force and decision, that awed armed men and controlled rude hearts; all this was intelligible to her companions, and commanded their love and esteem. But there still remained a depth to her nature, that theirs could never have sounded, and would have remained fathomless to herself, unless stirred by a depth answering to her own.

All God-filled souls experience this. With all that rank, position and the ordinary affections of kindred can confer, with, as it were, every earthly wish gratified, there still remains, underlying the calm exterior of social cultivation, a gnawing and restlessness, that unmasks the skeleton at the feast. Something is ever wanting.

What is this want?

It is not Reason. The book of Nature is ever open, and the mind has but to look thereon to find always something new,—truths to lead it upward and onward, daily convincing it that its heritage is Infinity.

What is it then?

It is Love!

Yes, with all the resources of Reason, without Love, we are indeed widowed. Like Rachel we refuse to be comforted. No love will satisfy our hearts, however much we may cling to the phantoms of sentiment or passion, however strong may be the demands of duty, however implicit our obedience, unless the measure of our hearts is filled. We must have all that we can contain of all that we are and all that we are not. Then only dual souls become One.

It is right that it should be thus. The very misery arising from uncongenial unions or unsatisfied desires, springs from a benevolent law, which says, like pain to the diseased limb, “you are wrong.” Be dutiful but not satisfied. Although you now see through a glass darkly, in time light and harmony will be your portion. Cultivate your soul so as to receive a better inheritance.

Beatriz had never married. Her nature had kept her from the great error of mistaking a little for the whole. She who had so much to give, was too wise to fling herself away upon a single impulse. Her love for all was the result of an unconscious superiority of soul, which increased by what it gave. It was, more properly speaking, kindness or benevolence, and flowed from her as naturally and as sweetly as fragrance from the rose.

All great natures have in them a vein of sadness. This springs from the consciousness of the little they are, in contrast with the much they would be. With man it is an active want. He would know all things. He grasps the reins of the chariot of the sun, and falls headlong because he tries to fly before his wings are unfolded. Woman is more patient. She passively awaits her destiny. If it be long in coming, she may find solace in apathy, but she rarely, wilfully commits a wrong to hasten her right. Yet when her moral nature does become disordered, as the foulest decay springs from the richest soil, so she becomes so wanton as to cause even fallen man to shudder.

Love had remained passive in the soul of Beatriz. Its might was all there, but the torch that was to kindle the flame had not yet reached it. She only knew its power for joy by the pleasure she felt in seeing its effects in others. Thus she welcomed within herself all that she saw in another that was noble and lovable, while she shrank instinctively from every base action or degrading thought.

Kiana’s ardent, generous nature, had from the first been her captive. This she saw; but it inspired in her no deeper sentiment than the respect due his qualities. He, however, unlike most men, did not fancy that to love, implied of necessity to be loved. His passion was open and honorable. To the praise of the Hawaiian race, be it recorded, that no white woman ever received other than courtesy at their hands. Rich or poor, alone among thousands of natives, they and theirs with no other protection than their own virtue, have ever been, not only respected, but cared for, and to a certain extent venerated. White men, it is true, have in general been as hospitably received. But by their passions they speedily place themselves upon the level of the native. The white woman, on the contrary, from the first went among them as a missionary,—a being superior in virtue as in knowledge to themselves,—and by the affinity of respect which human nature everywhere shows for the truly good, she has ever maintained over this semi-barbarian race an ascendancy more real than hostile fleets have ever effected.[1]

Beatriz had nothing to fear from Kiana. It was not in her power to refuse his gifts for they reached her indirectly, through the thousand channels ever open to a despotic will. Kiana’s passion, like his nature, was princely. The rarest flowers, fresh every morning, were placed by unseen hands about her house. All that Hawaii could produce that was beautiful or delicate, found its way thither; she could not tell how, though she felt from whom it came. The choicest fruits were served to her by the fairest and best of Hawaii’s maidens. No wanton curiosity was allowed to intrude upon her retirement. If she walked out, not an eye gazed rudely upon her, not a glance questioned her motives. Amid a populous district, she was as retired, at her own choice, as if it were her pleasure grounds. The gallantry of Kiana had even provided for her a bathing place in a crystalline pool, so nicely shaded by nature and screened by art, as to form a retreat that Diana might have coveted. When he visited her, it was with the state of a Hawaiian noble. Rarely, unless specially invited by Juan, did he approach her in an informal manner. Savage though he was, he possessed a tact and an intuitive perception of the delicacy of Beatriz’s character, which led him to adopt the only course that could in any wise make him personally acceptable to her.

One day not long after the scene described in the last chapter, Beatriz, sadder than usual, was alone in her garden, looking at the ocean without seeing it, when Kiana came up to her and in a low voice said, “Does the white maiden mourn her Spanish home?”

“No, chief,” said Beatriz, “my home is with my brother. We are orphans.”

“Juan loves Hawaii,” replied Kiana, “and will stay with us. He is my brother, my Hoapili, ‘close adhering companion,’ my people now call him. But my heart is lonely. Will not his sister be my wife?”

The abruptness of the proposal, although so long foreshadowed by attentions that only an honorable love could have suggested, at first startled Beatriz, and for a moment she was at a loss for a suitable reply. Decided in her own feelings, she wished to spare him unnecessary pain, and at the same time preserve a friendship so important to the welfare of her brother. Perhaps she thought too of Olmedo. Her hesitation encouraged Kiana to plead his suit still farther.

“Kiana loves only the white maiden. Since his eyes first saw her, all other loves have left him. His heart grows feeble when she speaks. He trembles at her voice, but it is music to his ears. When she smiles the sun looks brighter, the birds sing more sweetly and the flowers grow more fragrant. My people see in her a deity. To me, she is my soul, my life. Be mine, maiden, and rule Hawaii, as you now rule me,” and the haughty chief, who had never before bent the knee in prayer to God or mortal, knelt to Beatriz.

Her resolution was at once taken. With a nature like his, frankness and firmness would, she felt, be appreciated.

“Rise, chieftain,” said she, “this must not be. White maidens give their hands only with their hearts. You are generous, noble, proud. Would you wed one who cannot return your love? No! Kiana could not stoop to that.”

“But thou wilt love. Thou art formed for love. Does not each bird seek a mate? Wilt thou, of all thy sex, be always alone? Look around. All nature smiles; thou only art ever sad. Let my love be thy smile, and Hawaii shall ever rejoice that ‘the pearl of the sea-wave,’ for so thou art called among us, was found upon her shore.”

“You speak truly, chief, when you call me sad, but were I to wed you without love, you too would soon grow sad. The white maiden respects you,—is grateful to you,—would serve you all in her feeble power, but she cannot do so great a wrong to herself and to you, as to say yes, when her heart speaks no.”

Kiana shook like an aspen leaf. His voice grew tremulous, but the pride and passion of his race were subdued before the truth and beauty of Beatriz. There had always been something in her deportment, which as decisively forbade hope where hope was not to be, as it would have invited love where love was to be. So he turned from her more in sorrow than in anger, but had gone but a few steps, when returning, he said, “Kiana loves you, and ever will. He seeks a companion, not a captive. You are right not to say yes, when you feel no; fear not. Kiana can love, even if not loved. All that he possesses is yours. Never shall it be said of Kiana that his love changed to dishonor, because he could not win the white maiden.”

Tears started to her eyes as she gave him her hand. She dared not trust her speech to express the gratitude she really felt, for fear it might revive his passion. And so they parted, each remaining true to their last words.