The island seemed to resent
the appearance of human beings. It possessed a personality through being
too long by itself. It had wrapped itself round a dead past, and we were
filled with the awe which suddenly strikes the unimaginative globe
trotter who wanders into the cool recesses of a Hindu temple. And I was
of the same opinion as Holman regarding the trees and rocks. Traders in
the lonely spots of the Pacific have gone insane through becoming
convinced that the mountains and the trees were watching their
movements, and the trees and rocks upon the Isle of Tears struck me as
possessing a watchfulness that smacked of the supernatural. I thought
of the story which the sailor told in the cafe chantant at Papeete just
then, and I was inclined to give it more credence than I had at the
moment he narrated it.
But I tried to rally Holman so that he would cheer up Edith Herndon and
her sister.
"You're like an old woman," I growled. "Go back to the girls and make
them laugh over some funny stories instead of getting nightmares about
the scenery. Why, this place reminds me of a real pretty bit of scenery
near my home town in Maine.
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