War to the Knife 47

War to the Knife 47

Thus, when she arose next morning and commenced to busy herself about

the indispensable duties of the household, she experienced a feeling

of relief to which she had been long a stranger. The day was fine, the

clouds of heaven had disappeared, it would seem, simultaneously with

those of her spirit. As in the Northern Britain, with its frequent rain

and hail, mist and snow, this rare day, on which the disturbing forces

of the elements held truce, was inexpressibly lovely. The mountain

snow-crown was revealed in all its purity and austere majesty, a

silver diadem against the blue and lustrous heavens. The fruit trees

in the garden, the oaks and elms, poplars and walnuts, planted in fond

remembrance of the dear old home-land, seemed bursting into redundant

greenery. The river rippled and murmured under its o'er-arching ferns,

and as the little band of dark-skinned children, with their glancing

eyes and smiling faces, all obedient and cheerful, passed on to the

modest building, wherein they were daily so patiently taught by their

pastor and his wife, she could hardly refrain from expressing her

thankfulness for the success of this single-hearted enterprise, in

which she had been deemed worthy to share.

 

That the wave of barbaric warfare might at any moment sweep over the

peaceful scene, leaving ruin and desolation in its track, seemed, in

the glory of that beauteous morn, incredible and preposterous. During

later musings, however, when the routine business of the little school

failed to absorb her attention, the thought would obtrude itself

of the strange complication of affairs which would arise if, as was

rumoured, Roland was about to marry this half-savage girl, as she could

not but consider her. Beautiful she was by all report, devoted she must

have been to her white lover, educated to a certain extent, and, in

virtue of her father's lands granted in earlier times, an heiress of

considerable pretensions. But----! She well knew what a death-in-life

it would be considered by his English friends. Of course, it was far

from improbable. Younger sons and others of aristocratic British

families had married these fascinating half-caste girls, even those

of pure Maori blood. This she knew from authentic sources. In this

distant land, so far from British social edicts, such a marriage was

not looked upon as a _mésalliance_. And if such should be his lot, who

would have been the dominant factor in thus shaping his destiny? Who

but herself, unwilling, doubtless, but none the less the primary agent

in his deportation, his colonial career, with its risks, dangers, and

this irrevocable lapse--finally, his absorption in a different class

and an alien race? She felt minded to groan aloud. Why should she have

been selected to work all this misery and ruin, ending, perhaps, in

death? Why could she not foresee the direful consequences flowing from

his fatal _entrainement_?

 

It was hard, very hard. Other men had paid her court before and since

his advent. They had accepted their dismissals calmly, carelessly,

irritably, sullenly, according to their several temperaments; in no

case had serious results followed. They had mended their damaged or

disturbed organs by philosophy, travel, gaiety, or marriage, chiefly

affecting the latter anodyne. It was surely one of the ironies of

Fate that the consequences to this particular _pretendu_ had been so

serious--the only one as to whose denial she had felt suspicion of her

heart's teaching in the ordeal.

 

Now, at least, all was over. She had decreed that he should have no

further part or lot in her life. If he was safe, Fate might do her

worst. She had always claimed the right to mould her own existence.

Surely she could do so still. Yet she sighed as she told herself thus

proudly that she was sufficient for her own high conception of duty. As

to happiness, that was another thing. Who were we, worms of the dust,

ephemera of the hour, that we should arrogate to ourselves the right

to a condition of perfect satisfaction? Harmony with our surroundings,

always improbable, was chiefly impossible. The stars in their courses,

as well as all the powers of darkness, were leagued to prevent it. And

yet--and yet----Here the introspective reverie ceased, and Hypatia

recalled herself to the more urgent and practical demands of daily life.

 

* * * * *

 

On the following morning Mr. Summers appeared at breakfast in an

unwonted state of excitement, almost of agitation.

 

"What is the matter, my dear Cyril," inquired the anxious wife. "Is the

war news worse than usual?"

 

"Not quite so bad as that," he said, with a reassuring smile, "but

important, notwithstanding. I have just heard that the bishop is coming

to pay us a visit, and will stay all night on his way to Tauranga."

 

"How did you hear? You quite frightened me. I shall be charmed to have

him. Hypatia will be overjoyed, I know. He is one of her heroes."

 

"A Maori messenger gave me this note," he replied, producing a twisted

and discoloured piece of paper, on which was written--

 

"MY DEAR CYRIL,

 

"I propose, with God's blessing, to be with you on Tuesday at midday.

If Mrs. Summers can accommodate me, I should like to remain with

you for one night. Will hold service in afternoon. Assemble the

people--it may be for the last time.

 

"G. A. NEW ZEALAND."

 

"And when does he say that we may expect him?" asked Hypatia.

 

"At or before midday," replied Mr. Summers. "Of course, he will only

remain for the night, as he is anxious to push on to Tauranga. But

he would like to hold an afternoon service; so I must get in all our

people in the neighbourhood, and, of course, the school-children."

 

"I am charmed with the idea," said Hypatia. "Just fancy! I have had him

in my thoughts ever since I thought of coming to New Zealand. One does

not often see an _apostle_ in the flesh. And he is one, if ever it is

given to man to behold one of God's messengers."

 

"That I, too, am overjoyed, you will not doubt," said Cyril. "I have a

filial feeling towards him. I was one of his curates when he first came

to New Zealand. How many a long journey on foot we made together! He

is a tireless walker, and a champion athlete in half a dozen classes.

Such a man in a boat, too! He has risked his life scores of times to my

knowledge. And now to think that so much of his life's labour has been

lost! It is heartbreaking."

 

"Do not say that, my dear Cyril," came in Mary Summers' quiet voice.

"The good seed has been sown. In the time to come it will bring forth,

'some fiftyfold, some an hundredfold,' as we are told in God's Word.

Look what poor Henare Taratoa did, even when fighting against us in the

Gate Pah! That was the fruit of our teaching here, I am thankful to

say."

 

"What was that?" said Hypatia.

 

"One of the Maori women that came away from the Gate Pah said that when

Colonel Booth was lying mortally wounded and perishing with thirst--for

there was no water in the pah for the last two days--Henare stole out

by night and passed through our lines, thereby risking his life, and

brought back a calabash of water, which he placed by the side of the

dying man. It was found there next morning by our men after the natives

had left the pah."

 

"What a splendid fellow!" said Hypatia. "He fought for his country, as

why should he not? But then, having received the Christian faith, he

followed implicitly the precepts he had learned. Our men would have

given water to wounded Maoris, but which of them would have risked his

life to procure it?"

 

"I could tell you of other instances of similar conduct," said Mr.

Summers. "The bishop, when he comes, will, I am sure, add to my list.

But we must set to work now to ensure him a suitable reception. You

will have a sermon, too, which, like all his addresses, will be deeply

impressive."

 

All requisite preparations having been made, and a sort of "fiery

cross" sent round in the hands of a fleet-limbed native youngster, a

considerable gathering of Maoris of all ages and conditions was present

at the appointed time. They came in honour of that heroic personage,

George Augustus Selwyn, the famous Bishop of New Zealand, the hero

of a hundred legends, the pioneer missionary, the modern embodiment

of faith, zeal, and devotion, who had always been willing--nay,

passionately eager--in the words of St. Paul, "to spend and be spent"

in the service of his Master.

 

Hypatia stood back a little space while Mr. Summers and his wife

warmly welcomed their pastor and master, with an earnestness there

was no mistaking. The dark-skinned contingent then closed in, and

obstructed her view of the man whom (with one exception), of all living

personages, she was the most anxious to see, whom by reputation she

honoured with a feeling akin to adoration.

 

He had come attended only by a middle-aged Maori, whose grizzled

countenance and war-worn features showed that he had done his share in

the professional occupation of the Maori _gentilhomme_ of the period.

He stood apart, leaning on his musket, but from the respect with which

he was treated by all who approached, it was evident that he was a

personage of no ordinary consideration.

 

It was a scene of more than ordinary interest. The older members of

the _hapu_ who still dwelt in the vicinity of the mission, were

chiefly those who from age or infirmity were debarred from going to

the war, then waged within so short a distance of their homes. A large

proportion was composed of women, children, and young people not yet

entitled to rank as combatants. All in turn came to be presented to

the _Pihopa_ Rangatira, making obeisance due and lowly. To each one

he addressed a few words in Maori, the replies to which were made

with evident pleasure, the children almost gasping with pride and

gratification at the honour of the interview. Inquiries were made after

well-known men, who had formerly been regular attendants at the little

church, but too often resulted in downcast looks, as the sad word

_maté_ (dead) came forth, and in broken accents the name of the battle,

skirmish, or locality was uttered. Well posted in the personal history

of the missionary centres and their converts, the bishop never failed

to bestow a word of sympathy or condolence upon the mourners.

 

The reception being ended, Mr. Summers announced that the assembly

was free to betake itself to their _kai_ (or meal), which had been

prepared, taxing to the utmost the resources of the establishment.