While we were conversing with these worthies, a stranger approached.
He was a sun-burnt, romantic-looking European, dressed in a loose
suit of nankeen; his fine throat and chest were exposed, and he
sported a Guayaquil hat with a brim like a Chinese umbrella. This was
Mr. Bell. He was very civil; showed us the grounds, and, taking us
into a sort of arbour, to our surprise, offered to treat us to some
wine. People often do the like; but Mr. Bell did more: he produced
the bottle. It was spicy sherry; and we drank out of the halves of
fresh citron melons. Delectable goblets!
The wine was a purchase from, the French in Tahiti.
Now all this was extremely polite in Mr. Bell; still, we came to see
Mrs. Bell. But she proved to be a phantom, indeed; having left the
same morning for Papeetee, on a visit to one of the missionaries'
wives there.
I went home, much chagrined.
To be frank, my curiosity had been wonderfully piqued concerning the
lady. In the first place, she was the most beautiful white woman I
ever saw in Polynesia. But this is saying nothing. She had such eyes,
such moss-roses in her cheeks, such a divine air in the saddle, that,
to my dying day, I shall never forget Mrs. Bell.
