The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

128 THE FOOT OF TIME
And now Molota regarded Bruce, standing there
with the sun trying to find traces of his curly,
auburn hair under the rim of his enormous solar
topee; standing there, tall, strong, and fair to a
degree, regarding her with his quiet, deep-thinking,
clever eyes. And Molota, the chieftain's daughter,
felt her heart stir beneath her in a manner never
previously known. The girl's native heart went out
to the boy, in its own natural fashion, then and
there; went out to him to a degree which would
take no gainsaying, would accept no substitutionary.
Here before her was the father of the future
Chieftain of Tuamonti, and her lovely, adorable
eyes lit up, transfiguring her ivory brown skin, as
she regarded him.
The effect upon Mangani was electrical. Rapid
orders poured from his mouth. Those ordered
glanced at Bruce—at Bruce and Molata. The
commands had some bearing upon those two
standing there, each regarding the other. They ran
off to do the Chieftain's bidding. Mangani looked
a new man. Authoritative, commanding, he appeared
to have added a foot to his stature. His
daughter's vocation was at long last to be fulfilled.
The man could see it; see it there in his daughter's
eyes. And then into his instinctive intelligence,
schooled in the world of intuitive, superstitious insight,
came the knowledge that Bruce Swinton was
tottering, falling from his code, changing his view
of the West, suffering disputed conversion to those
of the East. Heredity added its quota, but little
help were needed to open a man's eyes to the
THE FOOT OF TIME 129
alluring, seductive, maddening attraction of this
vivid, languid, gloriously beautiful daughter of
Polynesia.
Following a particularly long, appraising scrutiny,
Mangani's daughter spoke.
"Molota is var glad that you come, Monsieurvar
glad."
"Thank you," Bruce rejoined, rather taken
aback. "I'm glad to be here, too."
"It is most good. Long I have waited for you."
"Why?" enquired the young Australian, surprisedly.
"My friend, Mr. Pinkerton, didn't write
to say we were coming, did he?"
" 'Ere we have of letters no got, Monsieur," the
girl answered him, "but Molota know. 'Ere,
Monsieur; my heart, it tell me that one day you
Come!" Molata patted her bosom, over her heart,
to indicate the spot where intuitive knowledge
came to tell her things unknown to others.
"I see," said Bruce, somewhat embarrassed and
mystified.
"Molota tink you see not, Monsieur," she told
him, but me, I open your eyes, Mister, so wide
that then you see."
"What shall I see?" asked the white man in all
innocence.
"You see me!" the girl finished, and gracefully
left his side; but even in walking away, back to
her father, her every step was for him. Every
turn of her body, every swaying movement of her
hips, for him to notice and admire.