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The copy-text for this electronic edition was originally owned by the book collector and amateur historian
Henry Ancrum.
London:
Savill, Edwards and Co., Printers, Chandos Street
Covent Garden.
When the Maories from the whari
Thus he began: "Friends, this is my word to you. We made our rifle-pits on the Koheroa Range. We dug them deep. We made them strong; but te hohia (the soldiers) were too numerous for us. They were like" (making a motion as if brushing sandflies off his arm) "the sandflies in number. They rushed on us. Our men were brave, but they were overpowered; they had to retire
It is a lie. Do not believe it. But we want men; we are not numerous enough. We must be as the sand on the sea-shore in number, and then we shall beat the pakehas. We shall drive them back. We shall drive them to Auckland. We shall drive them into their ships, as Heke did at Kororareka, long ago. The chiefs therefore have written a letter which I will read to you. Oh, my friends, these are its words:—
" To Wiremu Tamihana(William Tompson),To Riwi,To Hori Tupeia,To Hakaria(Zachariah)."'Salutations to you—salutations to you all. The pakeha attacked us at Koheroa. Our men behaved bravely. They waited till te hohia came close to them before they fired. They killed a great many; but as some were killed others came on, for te
hohia were numerous. There were a great many of them, and our men had to give way. They had to retire here—to Mere-Mere. And now, oh friends, our enemies are upon us; they are close behind us. We are carrying them on our backs. Come and succour us. Defend us, oh friends. Oh, friends, defend us properly. With you there are many men. This position is strong. If you join us it never can be taken. The general will wait some time. Then he will find that he can do nothing. He will get tired. He will go away. "'Oh, friends, come to us, the pakeha is the enemy of us all. Let us unite together against him. Let there be peace amongst the tribes. Let us all join to fight the pakeha. This is our word to you. We have spoken—enough.'"
Here followed the names of all the chiefs who had signed the letter. After this several
Henry Ancrum had been so thoroughly worn-out both in mind and body that he did not wake until rather late on the following morning; when he did so he found the whole scene in front of the door of the whariHenry Ancrum was able to perceive figures gliding about,
In the first place they had traced something on the ground which looked very like the figure of a problem in Euclid, and Henry laughed to himself as the idea struck him of a party of Maories going in for Euclid. But now a new step was taken in me business. Ihaka (for Henry by this time ascertained that it was he and his friends whom he was observing) took a strong pole from a heap lying near him, and forced it firmly into the ground. He then took a sort of rope, made of pieces of flax knotted together, and began to measure along a line already marked on the ground. This New Zealand flax is a very peculiar plant; its leaves are very long, and the fibre is so strong that narrow strips of it will support large weights, as for instance barrels
When Ihaka had measured the required length on the line we have mentioned, a second pole was placed in the ground; he then returned to the first pole and measured a distance, evidently intended to be at right angles with the line of the two first poles, and then a third pole was put down; after this he went to the second pole and measured an equal distance, also intended to be at right angles with the above mentioned line, and a fourth pole was placed. The distance between the third and fourth pole was then measured, and as it was found to correspond with that between the first and second poles, the architects of the
"Karkino"
The scene was too much for Henry Ancrum; he burst into a roar of laughter. Ihaka looked up astonished, but presently his face cleared, he had evidently been thinking whether all the work should be done over again.
"No good?" he said, interrogatively, pointing to the poles, "no good?"
"Oh, yes!" said Henry, "very good. Carpoi very good)—Carpoi te whari
"That is true," said Ihaka, greatly relieved; and he directed his men, to their great delight, to go on with their work without making any change in what was already done.
The construction of the whari occupied
To explain his exact situation, we must go back a little. On the day of the battle of Koheroa, the main body of the Maories had retired directly on Mere-Mere. In doing so, they came upon a line of rifle-pits, which they had constructed at Whangamarino. A few of their bolder spirits threw themselves into these rifle-pits, whilst their main body descended the steep, almost precipitous sides of the hill at this place to the Whangamarino creek, which they passed in canoes. Luckily for the Maories who held the rifle-pits, the pursuit had
Shortly after the battle of Koheroa, the whole of the British forces, with headquarters, were concentrated on the heights of Whangamarino. A fort was constructed there, and two heavy Armstrong guns were placed in position, which occasionally bombarded the enemy's rifle-pits at Mere-Mere, but probably with, small effect beyond knocking a little earth about. The right of the army rested on the Waikato river, here rather a deep stream, perfectly navigable for steamers of small draught of water. In its front extended the Whangamarino creek, also a deep stream, and joining the Waikato at this point. On the left the range of hills the General
The position was therefore very strong had it been required for defence; but the position of the enemy was even stronger. We have mentioned that, from the top of the Whangamarino range down to the creek of the same name, the descent was almost precipitous. On the other side of the creek there was a narrow belt of land rising a few feet above the level of the water. Beyond this was the deep swamp. Turning to the right along this narrow belt of land, a few minutes' walk brought the traveller to the point where the waters of the Whangamarino creek flowed into the Waikato river.
Proceeding from this point up the Waikato, a similar narrow belt of land extended between the river on the right
Above this line, and higher up on the hill, was a second line of rifle-pits; and there were also detached rifle-pits on the slopes off to the right facing the deep swamp. Behind all and about a quarter of a mile from the first line of rifle-pits, rose a
From the above description it will be seen that there was no possible way of attacking the Maori position by land, except by advancing for a mile and a half along the narrow road between the river on the right hand, and the deep swamp on the left; a mode of proceeding which even if successful (and the chances of success were very small), must as a certainty have involved a frightful loss of life.
The General therefore was compelled to remain in his present position, and await the arrival of a steamer which had been ordered up to his assistance.
We have said that Henry Ancrum's first thought, when he was able to move about a little, was as to his chance of escaping from his present confinement. His was a very tantalizing situation. There, on the
Ihaka had seen his restlessness, and had cautioned him on the subject. "My friend," he had said, "with me you are safe, I will protect you; but if you attempt to escape, you will certainly be killed. Our scouts watch in every direction, you could not pass them. They would tomahawk you at once, before I could even hear where you were."
"But," said Henry Ancrum, "why keep me here? Surely, my detention can do no good."
"My friend," said Ihaka, "my brother chiefs are very angry with me for having saved your life at all. They say you are as it were a spy in our camp, and that you must on no account be let go, as you would tell the General all about our fortifications."
There was sad truth in what Ihaka said, and Henry Ancrum felt that it was so. On the one hand, if be attempted to escape, he was nearly certain to be killed; and on the other, there was no chance of the Maori chiefs consenting to his release, for fear he might give information to the British authorities. He therefore felt that the only plan he could adopt, was to wait patiently and watch the course of events, in the hope that some opportunity might at length offer of deliverance from his present captivity.
A Portion of Ihaka's tribe were stationed in the Maori pah, which we have mentioned was situated on top of the conical hill, about a quarter of a mile in rear of the advanced portion of the position under the leadership of Ihaka's brother, and Henry Ancrum often accompanied Ihaka to see his brother, who lived in a large whari
These marriages were in former days exceedingly common, and they are even now by no means rare. A trader would go to reside amongst a tribe, for the purpose of carrying on his business; long residence would assimilate his ideas to those of the natives amongst whom he lived, and the end was generally that he chose a wife from amongst them; and thus it is that any traveller to New Zealand at the present day will observe a great number of half-castes amongst the population; and he will also observe that, unlike those in other countries, as for instance, in India, the half-castes in New Zealand are a peculiarly fine and handsome race. Ihaka's niece had been early left an orphan, her father and mother having been carried off by an epidemic which, in the absence of medical assistance, had nearly decimated the tribe with whom the former was then trading.
A missionary in the neighbourhood, pitying the forlorn condition of the handsome little girl thus left without natural protectors, had taken her into his family, which was a large one, and comprised several daughters, and with whom the youthful Celia (pronounced by the Maories Helia) lived very comfortably; the only return she was required to make for the hospitality she received being that she should assist the female members of the family in cooking, housemaiding, and other duties, which in civilized countries fall to the lot of servants, but which in the wilder Maori districts there are no servants to perform.
The missionary, like many of his class, was an intelligent, well-educated man, who took great trouble in the instruction of his family, and of this instruction Celia was allowed to avail herself, so that at the
The war came—the war which made so many changes; it brought Ihaka into the
The missionary felt that he could not stay long in the country, that he must soon fly, as indeed he had eventually to do, and so he sent for Ihaka, and delivered his niece over to his charge.
There is a custom amongst Maories, it is a strange custom, but then it is one of the objects of this veracious history to reveal to its readers all the strange customs of this singular race—it is the custom then for the principal chiefs, however old, to take unto themselves young wives. As may be supposed, those a little below the chiefs try as much as lies in their power to imitate their betters; and the consequence is, that on inquiring into the domestic arrangements of a native kainga or village, it will be found that some of the youngest and poorest Maories are married to some of i
Ihaka, who had himself imbibed a good many European ideas, did not at all like this proposal, but then he well knew that it was the custom of the country, and that resistance to custom was a very difficult thing; and so, to make a long story short, the aged chief was united to the lovely Celia, and on this occasion the knot was correctly and firmly tied by the good missionary previous to his departure. For we may here remark, that what we have been
As has been said, Henry Ancrum frequently came with Ihaka when the latter visited his brother, but the truth must be told, Mr. Henry chiefly came for the pleasure of talking to the fair Celia. She i
It was no wonder that Henry Ancrum, in his sad captivity, with little or nothing to occupy his time, should feel comparatively happy in these visits, which diverted his mind from its own melancholy reflections. Besides, no person of intelligence could have met Celia at this period without taking an interest in her; in fact, her character was a study. Here was a lovely and clever girl of English and Maori extraction, who had passed her life in the land of the Maori, but in the house of the missionary, having learnt all the manners, customs, habits, and superstitions of the
Then her ideas were so fresh, her questions so amusing; the old missionary had taught her that every person ought to act according to right and justice; and she used to puzzle Henry Ancrum by asking him, "Was it just in the Governor to do this? Was it right in the General to act in that manner?" &c. Then again, Why was s so freely indulged in that vice? If the Maories were forbidden to gamble and bet, why was it that most Pakehas looked upon these things merely as amusements?
Then she told how, shortly before the worthy missionary had left the upper country, he had had occasion to speak to one of his flock on a religious subject. The Maori differed in opinion from his master, and an argument ensued in the midst of which the Maori roared out—
"I'll bet, I'll bet——"
The good man was horrified; he pointed out that this was not a subject to bet upon.
"Pooh," said the Maori, "the Pakeha bet about everything."
Henry used to laugh, and try to turn the conversation into some other channel; he felt it difficult to answer her questions, but sometimes she would pin him to the wall, and demand an answer; then he used generally to say—
"Oh, there were good Pakehas and bad Pakehas; perhaps there were some who did not do what was right."
"Ah," the laughing girl would reply, "then I hope you are a good Pakeha, for I am afraid there are not many of them."
A Month passed away, the General was waiting for the steamer which was so long in coming. The Maories thought that no steamer could come up their river at all. They imagined the General would get tired and go away, as a Maori force would probably have done under the same circumstances; but still, every morning there were the long rows of white tents to be seen at daylight; and still, every evening, the bugle sounds of the retreat and tattoo came wafted on the breeze.
One evening Henry Ancrum and Ihaka
After bathing they ascended the bank for a little distance, and then turned to the left and ascended the first hill, which is a sort of spur from the conical hill on which the pah was situated.
Henry paused here to look at the view, which was indeed lovely: the sun was just setting behind the high western hills, which closed the prospect on that side, but his rays still illumined the forest of splendid trees which clothed the opposite bank of the river, and threw their gigantic shadows quite across its stream; while lower down, where the banks were open, they fell on the rapid river itself, giving its waters the appearance of molten silver. Immediately in front was the swamp so often mentioned, the vivid green of the rank vegetation covering some of its deceitful pools contrasting with the darker tints of the large forest trees growing on little islands in its midst, and also with the gnarled and weird appearance of decayed old trees, so frequent a feature in New Zealand woods. Beyond, on the cliff of Whangamarino, appeared the snow-white tents of the British camp,
Henry Ancrum and Ihaka proceeded slowly on their way, and it was nearly dark when they approached the pah. At this moment, to their surprise, they saw a bright light spring up in a whare near the
Celia was close to him, lying apparently in a swoon. The fact was, the poor girl had been awakened by the crackling of the fire, but too late to save herself; she had rushed towards the door, but it was in flames. She had then tried to force her way through the raupo wall; but she could not find any implement to cut the flax ropes with. The whari was full of dense smoke, there was no air to breathe, and at last she sank down in a faint. Henry took her in his arms, he rushed through the opening he had made, and carried her at once outside
The cold night air soon revived Celia. She opened her eyes, and gazed round her in a sort of stupified manner for a few moments, then she perceived Henry, and the whole truth seemed to burst upon her.
"Oh!" she cried, jumping to her feet, "you have saved me!—oh, my darling!— oh, my beloved! I loved yon from the first moment I saw you, but now I will be your slave; I will follow you all over the world; I will watch over you while you sleep; I will see that no evil comes near you; I will die for you if necessary!" And she threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him in a manner of which Miss Edith Mandeville would have by no means approved had
Henry Ancrum was sorely perplexed. He was by no means prepared for this outburst of affection. He had liked Celia as an acquaintance, he had liked to go and see her, to have long conversations with her, because she amused him, and because his doing so helped to pass some of the weary hours of his captivity; but he had never thought of loving her; he had never thought of being unfaithful to Edith Mandeville. He was not one of those who can love one woman one day, and, sbould he leave the place where she resides, can love or pretend to love another a month or two afterwards. No; he was too true, too faithful for that; but he felt that it would be unmanly to repulse the woman, whose life he had just saved; he had not the heart to say anything cruel to her at such a
"Celia," he said, "I hope your uncle is safe."
"Oh," said Celia, startled, "I hope he is! He was in the whari
"Let us go and look for him," said Henry. And both at once proceeded to the front gate of the pah, which was now quite safe, as all the wharies near it had been burnt down. Here, to their great joy, they found Ihaka and his brother, and ascertained that the latter had left the pah half an hour before the fire took place, and only returned on seeing the conflagration.
The fire had now nearly burnt itself out. A few wharies, which were to windward of the one which had first taken fire, had escaped; but all those to leeward of it were burnt, with the exception of one which was in the corner of the pah, and to the left of the rest. Its safety was evidently owing to its having been detached from the other wharies, and its being out of the line in which the wind was blowing; but the Maories would not have it so. Oh no, that would be much too commonplace a view of the affair for them.
The fact was, that the owner of that wharie was a good man, a very good man, and it was owing to his righteousness that his whari was spared. The following was the most popularly received version of the way in which the wharies in the pah had been burnt:—
The Angel Gabriel—and here it must be
When the fire was quite out, Ihaka and his brother, Celia and Henry Ancrum, all
"Why," said Ihaka to his brother, "these are two out of the five puppies which that large bitch of yours brought forth the other day. How can they have got here?"
"I am sure I do not know," said his brother; "the five puppies were in a riflepit, some distance from the whari, and under the palisades of the pah. I do not think they were in any danger from the fire; but I suppose the bitch thought so, and brought them here."
As he spoke, the bitch walked solemnly in with a third pup in her mouth, and deposited it on the floor with the other two.
Henry Ancrum stooped down to pat her,
"I think," said Ihaka's brother, "that the palisades must have caught fire, and fallen inwards, carrying the earth with them, and in this way buried the pup, and that the bitch dug him out, but too late to save his life."
The next day, the whole of Ihaka's people were busy constructing wharies for those of their tribe who had been burnt out, and a small one was commenced especially for Celia's accommodation. In the evening Henry Ancrum asked her to walk with him, and they went up the old Maori path towards Rangiriri, leaving the remains of the burnt pah on their left, and after a short distance turning to the right, on to a hill rising on that side, from which there is a very beautiful view down the river. Here they sat down together. Henry Ancrum had been thinking during
Under these circumstances he considered that the most honourable course for him to pursue was to tell her the whole story of his engagement to Edith Mandeville, and to point out to her how impossible it was that he could ever love any other woman. This he did now, in as gentle a manner as possible, beginning with the day when he had first seen Edith, and continuing the story up to the time when he had bidden her farewell
Celia listened to him with breathless
"And you love this woman?"
"Yes, I do."
"And she loves you?"
"Yes."
"Loves!" said Celia, musingly—"loves! I wonder if she knows what love is?" Then abruptly, "What would she do for you?"
"What would she do for me?" said Henry, in amazement.
"Yes, what would she do for you? Would she cling to you like the ivy to the oak? Would she twine her soul with yours till you were as one creature? Would she follow you all over the world and be ready to share every danger with you? Would she be happy to die for you, as I would?"
"Yes, I think she would," said Henry.
"You think she would? I know she would not. I have not seen many English people; but I have seen some, and I have read many books, and I know that amongst your people a woman seldom marries the man whom she first loved, or fancied she loved. Listen, I will tell you a true story;—
"Near the missionary-house where I lived, there resided another missionary who had several daughters. His eldest daughter fell in love with a young Maori—you look
"The missionary's daughter became tired of the wild life she was leading: she
"But," said Henry Ancrum, "that is not necessary; I hope before very long that I may be released, and able to rejoin her."
"Do not think so. Ihaka is your friend, but he has not the slightest power to let you
"I never thought of this," said Henry.
"No, I have no doubt you did not, but I am afraid that there are some in the camp who have not a good feeling towards you. I must particularly warn you against one man, his name is Henare te Pukeatua, and I am very much afraid that he has taken a
Henry was silent for a long time; what he had heard was sad news, but he could not doubt its truth; he knew that Celia would not deceive him, and besides, his own observations confirmed all she had said; he had remarked for some time past that he appeared to be watched, and that all his movements seemed regarded with suspicion. Celia watched him with loving eyes. At last she said—
"Oh, Henry, forget this woman, that you only knew for so short a time, and whom you can never see again! I know, I feel that she could not love you as I love you; she could not devote herself to your happiness as I would. I am well aware that it is not the custom in your country for young ladies to tell their love, that it is
"Celia," said Henry, "this is impossible. My love for Edith Mandeville was not, as you suppose, a passing fancy, it was and is a rooted passion, which will only cease with my life."
"But," replied Celia, "she will think you dead: she may mourn you for a time, but feeling certain that she can never see you again she will eventually marry some one else."
"Never! In the first place she, I am sure, will not think me dead; she would hope whore others would despair, and even if she did, she would, I am certain, never marry any one else."
Celia laughed a bitter laugh.
"Not think you dead! when do the Maories take prisoners?—not once in a thousand times. Not marry another! My poor Henry, there are few women in this world who remain constant to a memory."
"Be it so," said Henry, in a vexed tone, for he was deeply hurt by the idea that Edith could be unfaithful, even to his memory: "be it so, I at least can remain constant."
"No, you cannot! no, you shall not!" said Celia, passionately. "I love you, and you shall be mine! I am no weak nervous woman, who would surrender the man she
It was now Henry Ancrum's turn to laugh, but he did so good naturedly; it seemed to him so absurd, so supremely ridiculous that a woman should talk of taking possession of him without his will, that he could not help it.
"Celia," he said, "I love you as a brother; in fact, there are few brothers who love their sisters as I do you; but that must be all. I cannot be untrue to my plighted troth, and would not, if I could. Now let us go home."
They both rose, Celia did not say anything, but she looked at Henry with a strange smile on her face; there was love in the smile, there was admiration, but at the same time there was a sort of confidence which seemed to say—"In spite of all, you shall be mine."
Time passed on, no reference was ever made to the conversation above detailed, it seemed to have been forgotten between them; but it was not so, neither of them could ever forget it. Celia devoted herself entirely to Henry Ancrum, she insisted on cooking his meals for him, she made up his bed every day with fresh fern; when he awoke in the morning, he would find a bucket of fresh water from the river at his door ready for his ablutions; it was of no use remonstrating with her, it was no use pointing out that he ought to do these things for himself. No, she chose to do it, and she would do
Again, as has been mentioned, whilst residing in the missionary's family she had eagerly read every book she could obtain possession of. As may be supposed, in this desultory style of reading she had met with a great many things far beyond her comprehension. When this was the case, she had immediately overwhelmed the poor missionary with questions; some were satisfactorily answered, but when this was not the case, the matter was stored up in her mind for future examination.
"Ah," she would say to herself, "I do not understand it now, but I may some of these days."
As a matter of course, all these unexplained mysteries were now referred to Henry Ancrum. He, on his part, was perfectly astonished at her cleverness and the freshness of her ideas; and as he possessed that not very common talent of being able clearly and distinctly to explain to others all he knew himself, he was luckily able to solve nearly all the questions propounded to him.
To Celia these conversations were the source of unmixed delight; she had never been so happy in her life. What could be greater bliss than to sit by the man she adored, to look in his loved face, and best of all, to find day by day that he was a cleverer and better man than even she had imagined.
To Henry Ancrum hia intercourse with Celia was a source of great pleasure, she was the one bright spot amidst the dense
What business, he would say to himself, have I to be so happy in the society of any woman, when I am the engaged husband of another?
Again, where is the constancy of which I was so proud; it's true, I have told Celia my story, but I ought to behave in a colder manner to her. I ought to repress her affection; I ought to show her that gaining mine is impossible. Then came the bitter thought, was it impossible? Other men, perhaps wiser and better than himself, had given way to temptation, might not he do so too.
The result of much self-examination of this kind was to make Henry Ancrum determine to try and escape from his captivity, even if he ran considerable risk in doing so, and chance threw in his way what he considered a favourable opportunity.
One morning, having passed a rather restless night, he got up at daylight, and walked towards the river; the sun was just rising as he reached its bank, and lighting up the whole scene. As he looked towards Whangamarino, he saw some large dark objects on the river. He looked at them attentively, and saw that they were boats full of troops crossing over to the other side of the river. His first idea naturally was that the General's intention was to march a body of troops up the opposite bank; but then the question arose with what object? If it were to take the
Henry Ancrum was puzzled for a moment, but it soon occurred to him that the General's object must be to make a reconnoissance of the Maori position from the hill on the other side of the river, which being rather high, would afford a good view of it. To effect this, it would be necessary to send a body of troops to protect the officers
Henry now ran round the side of the hill, under which he had been standing, and came up to its summit, at a point where he knew he would be clear of the line of fire. From this point he observed that not only were the two Armstrong guns keeping up a heavy fire on the advanced rifle-pits of the Maories, but that a column of troops was winding down the steep sides of the Whangamarino hill, and crossing the creek to the side nearest their fortifications
Henry Ancrum was still perfectly certain
"Now," he said to himself, "I think I hove an opportunity of escaping; if I can only reach the canoes in the swamp unobserved, I can easily paddle one of the small ones through the channels of water which intersect it, till I regain the creek, and then by going down it I can reach the British camp."
Full of this idea he descended to the low ground, and skirting round the base of the hills, passed from one valley into another, until he emerged on a level plain only a few feet above the swamp, and extending into it until it terminated in a long low point; at the extremity of this point were the canoes.
Henry advanced slowly towards them; his object in doing this was that, should he be observed from a distance by any Maori
As he approached, Henry observed that it was a cousin of Ihaka's, with whom he had often had long conversations; he also saw that the man was very angry.
"What are you doing here?" said the Maori.
"I am taking a walk," replied Henry.
"A walk!" was the answer. "It would have been your last walk if you had not met me! As it is, my men say that you are a spy, and are eager to kill you. You must return instantly, and I will go with
After this, Henry and the friendly Maori proceeded on their way in silence, taking a circuit under the hills, so that it might appear that the former had returned from the opposite direction from which he had really come. Then the Maori stopped, and merely watched Henry till he entered his whari. Here he met Celia, who questioned him as to where he had been; to which he answered, which was partly true, that he had been watching what was taking place.
By this time the firing of the Armstrong guns had ceased, but the column which had crossed the Whangamarino Creek still retained its position on the side of it next to the Maori camp, and the Maorics themselves still remained in their rifle-pits. The column which had covered the operations of the reconnoitring party had retraced its
The Maories left their rifle-pits in a high state of delight; they were certain that the General had intended to attack them, but had found their position too strong to do so; so the hopper sounded, and they had a long korero (talk) and rejoiced exceedingly, and wrote letters to their friends, telling them that the General was getting tired, and that he would soon go away, and to come and join them, in order, when he did so, that they might all fall on his retiring columns, and drive them and all the Pakehas into the sea, &c., &c.
Nothing of any importance occurred for some time after the events above narrated. Henry and Celia were now thrown entirely
Under these circumstances he was given over, bound hand and foot, to Celia; and that young lady used her power without mercy. She was young, she was beautiful, she was clever—what a combination against the constancy of any man! But besides all these, Henry Ancrum felt and knew that she loved him with all the energy of her strong, wild, determined character. Celia had nothing bad in her disposition; she would not willingly have injured any person, but where her feelings were concerned she thought only of herself. If any
She loved Henry Ancrum, and she was determined to marry him—everything, she thought, must give way to this. No art that a fond and loving woman could use was left untried to secure his affection; and even another inducement was used, for, without actually telling him so, she gave him to understand that in the present state of Maori feeling his safety, his very life depended on a union with herself.
So time wore on. One lovely evening Ihaka, Celia, and Henry strolled up to the small hill immediately above the rifle-pits. It was a favourite seat of theirs, as from thence they could see anything that was going on in the British camp on the heights of Whangaraarino, or any boats that were stirring on the river below.
After a long silence, Ihaka said to Henry—
"What do you think the General will do? He cannot attack us here. Will he go away?"
"I think not," replied Henry. "You will find that he will wait till he has some means of attacking you."
"You mean by passing troops up the river in a steamer; but the river is shallow; there is little water. A steamer could not come here."
"Steamers can be made drawing little water. I think you will find that one will come."
"But," said Ihaka, "the channel of the river passes close to this bank; we could shoot every one on board the steamer."
"Not so; her bulwarks will probably be made of iron, or some means will be taken to make them shot-proof."
"But if she is crowded with soldiers we can fire down upon them from this height on which we sit; the bulwarks would not cover them."
"That may be true enough," said Henry;
"I wonder what that smoke is?" said Celia, "on the island below the camp; it is very black. They must have been lighting a large fire."
Henry Ancrum looked long and anxiously in the direction indicated. At last he said—
"I think it is the very thing we have been talking about; I think it is a steamer, as the smoke is not stationary. It moves, you see."
They all stood up now, and looked anxiously down the river; several Maories who had been standing near joined them.
At last the long low hull of the vessel was plainly visible.
"Te teemer!" Tima
Long and anxious were the koheros
The Maories were very vigilant that night; after their custom, their watchmen would occasionally shout out to show they were on the alert. They would call their enemies "dogs;" they would say they saw them, and would call to them to come on and fight, &c.
So the night wore on, and morning came at last, but for some time every object was veiled by the usual thick white mist; when it cleared up, about nine o'clock, the Maories looked anxiously down towards the British camp, to see if their enemies were about to attack them; but everything was quiet there. The steamer lay at anchor under the bluff hills, but no smoke was issuing from the funnel, and no stir appeared to be taking place in the camp. So things continued until about twelve
On she came, slowly, silently; not a man was to be seen on her decks; if there were any there, they must have been lying down under cover of her bulwarks.
Towards her stern was a small erection, like a diminutive round-house, which Henry Ancrum rightly conjectured contained the steersman, and had been rendered shotproof. On she came.
The Maories did not throw away any shot by firing at a distance, but waited till she was well within range, then they peppered her in earnest: their bullets fell thick against her bulwarks, they pattered on her deck, they glanced off her
On she came. There was a sort of solemnity in her slow steady progress. She seemed like some leviathan tormented by gnats, but not deigning to brush them off her sides. On she came. Now she is abreast of the rifle-pits; now she is past them; now she is proceeding on her course up the river.
She went up a long distance, evidently reconnoitring the bank, and examining the best places to land troops. After a time she returned. The Maories fired at her again, but with the same result, and eventually she anchored in her old position under the bluff.
There was now no difference of opinion amongst the Maories, all agreed that they must abandon the position of Mere-Mere,
A Maori camp is easily moved. They are not troubled with baggage. And if they have built wharies, these wharies have cost nothing. They are simply constructed of wood from the nearest forest, and raupo and rushes from the nearest swamp, and new ones can be easily made from the same materials. No stir was apparent at Mere-Mere during the day; but when darkness set in, the Maories began to move silently away; and when day broke not a single living thing was to be seen in their position, and their whole force was concentrated at Rangiriri.
It has been said that the Maories are in some things a fickle race, that they will enter with great ardour into an undertaking, and in a short time get tired of it.
This applies also to their wars. One tribe will attack another, and if it finds that its enemy's pahs are too strong to take, or that no immediate advantage can be gained by hostilities, it will get weary of the war, and return to its own country.
Now the tribe of which Ihaka was chief, had got tired of the war; and besides, there were other reasons for their wishing to be back again in their own district, which was situated near the mouth of the river Te Awa-o-te-Atua s, a tribe, or rather collection of tribes, friendly to the British Government. These Arawas occupied the post of Maketu, where they had a large pah at the entrance of a small harbour on the east coast; and also the country round a cluster of lakes about twenty-eight miles in the interior, of which as used to make incursions into his territory, carrying off a horse here, a fat cow there, and grievously vexing those left behind who were not strong enough in numbers to resist them. Under these circumstances Ihaka and his people came to the conclusion that their first duty was to look after their own interests, and so very shortly after the Maories had set up their head-quarters at Rangiriri, the whole tribe started on their journey back to their own country.
In travelling the Maories always follow the paths which have been used for hundreds of years by their ancestors. So much is this the case, that the tracks which have been much used, such as the one along the
Now the path which Ihaka's tribe had to follow, in order to proceed from Rangiriri to the cast coast, passed by the territory of their enemies the Arawas; but no danger was anticipated from this circumstance, because it was known that the main body of that tribe resided at present at Maketu, where they had the advantage of constantly receiving rations of flour, biscuits, &c., from the government, with a view of preserving their loyalty to British rule.
It is true that there were two pahs containing natives friendly to the Pakehas, the one on the strip of land between the lakes of Rotorua and Rotai
Comparatively few Europeans have had the advantage Henry Ancrum had in seeing this wonderful lake district of New Zealand, with its boiling springs and geysers (resembling those of Iceland), situated in a lovely climate, and surrounded by all the beauties of mountain and woodland scenery—a district which must some day, when the country is more settled, become not only the resort of the tourist for amusement, but also that of the invalid for the curative properties of its hot springs.
Space does not permit us to give a
This lake is one of the smallest of the group, but it is celebrated for the wonderful hot springs which surround it—the most remarkable of these is that of "Te Tarata." Out of the lake side rises a sloping hill, covered with fern of the brightest green. In this hill-side, about eighty feet above the surface of the lake, there is a basin of boiling water about seventy or eighty feet wide, ever in a state of ebullition and commotion.
This water is beautifully clear and pellucid, and its overflow has caused a succession of terraces to be formed, one below another, of silicious deposits, each of these terraces containing a basin of water varying in
The effect of the view under a brilliant New Zealand sun is most lovely; the clouds of snow-white steam rising out of the crater hide the centre of the hill. On each side is seen the brilliant green of the fern clothing its sides; in front are the descending steps or terraces of silicious deposit we have mentioned, of the most dazzling whiteness, making the water in their basins appear to be of a beautiful light blue colour. Altogether the scene is one which almost baffles description; to be perfectly realized it should be seen.
After leaving the lakes, Ihaka and his ii
Nearer still, and when they had almost reached their friends, there arose into the still morning air the melancholy notes of the "Tangi," the wail or dirge for the dead who had departed this life since last they met. When this was concluded the final welcoming or embracing took place, but they did not kiss one another as relations amongst us might do; no, they rubbed
Generally speaking, when a portion of a tribe returns home there is a "war dance," but the ceremony was dispensed with on this occasion, as there were not enough of fighting men in the pah to get it up in an imposing manner on their side.
The war dance is performed by the party arriving and the party resident forming themselves into two long oblong bodies, generally seven or eight men in breadth, opposite to one another; they then advance towards each other, dancing a wild sort of dance, shouting, making the most hideous faces, and brandishing their tomahawks and guns, occasionally firing off the latter in the air, and instances have occurred where they have not taken the trouble of drawing the bullets.
After reaching Ihaka'a village the tribe separated, the individuals composing it proceeding to their own dwellings, which were scattered in villages along the coast to the eastward of the one occupied by Ihaka.
During the whole journey, from the time when they left Mere-Mere up till the period when they finally reached their destination on the banks of the Te Awa-o-te-atua, Celia had been constant in her attendance on Henry Ancrum, nor was it without cause that she was so.
Shortly before the Maories left Mere-Mere, Henare te Pukeatua (which being translated means Henry-of-the-hill-of-God) had gone to Ihaka and demanded Celia in marriage. Ihaka had spoken to Celia on the subject, and her answer had been a decided refusal. Ihaka had remonstrated with her, when she replied with that
"You may kill me if you like, but I will never be the wife of Henare-te-Pukeatua, nor will I again marry any man unless I love him."
Ihaka was obliged to communicate this refusal to Henare, and it was evident that the latter attributed his rejection to Celia's preference for Henry Ancrum. He was a dangerous man, and had great influence in the tribe, and Celia knew that he would hesitate at no crime if he thought it would enable him to succeed in his designs; she therefore communicated her fears to Henry Ancrum, and implored him to be on his guard, and at the same time managed to convey to him (in that sort of imperceptible manner which only a woman can accomplish, that is to say, without using direct words) the impression that she
Celia had two half-brothers, sons of her mother by a former marriage, previous to that contracted with her father, the English trader; she had also several cousins, and she managed so to ingratiate herself with these relations as to form them into a sort of bodyguard for the protection of Henry Ancrum and herself.
Henry's position was now one fraught with the greatest difficulties; he was a captive, and it was impossible to say when his captivity would cease; he was in danger of his very life from the machinations of some of those who held him in bondage, and his only apparent means of escape was in a course which, however easy and even pleasant it might have seemed to some
Two or three days after Ihaka's return to his pah (for on the east coast of New Zealand, at the period of which we are writing, every village was surrounded by its rifle-pits and palisading, and therefore, in native parlance a pah), a horseman came galloping in to say that a party of Ngatirangi, one of the sections of the Arawa community, had made a descent on a small village belonging to the tribe higher up the Te Awa-o-te-atua, and carried off some cattle and horses from thence towards the pah on the banks of the Rota
Of course the hopper sounded, and the Uriwera s.
It was bad enough to have to fight Te hohea, but that their own people should turn against them was shameful. Then others proposed that all their available fighting men should start in pursuit of the marauders who had stolen the cattle and horses, but then it was pointed out that if this was done the Arawas from Maketu might come by way of Waihi, and fall upon them by the coast line. And so it was finally determined that Ihaka and half the fighting men should proceed in the direction of the lakes, and try to recover the
Whilst this was going on, a letter signed by all the Arawa chiefs was sent to the h, in which, amongst other matters, it was stated that the Arawas had heard that there was an Englishman confined in the pah, and that they demanded that he should be given up to them.
This letter was of course laid before the Ranunga Runanga
Eventually an answer was despatched composed in equally grand language to the letter received, and signed by an equally large number of chiefs, in which, as far as Henry Ancrum was concerned, it was stated that if the Arawas wanted the Englishman, they must come and take him. This was all that occurred with reference to the letter in public; its effects, however, on the fate of Henry Ancrum, were much more important in private.
Henare-te-Pukuatua was one of the chiefs who had remained behind when Ihaka had proceeded in pursuit of that portion of the Arawa tribe who had stolen the cattle and horses, in the direction of tha lakes.
It has been said that when Henare proposed to marry Celia and was rejected, he had attributed that rejection to her preference for Henry Ancrum. It was natural that he should look for some reason for his refusal; he was one of the principal chiefs of the tribe, he was a tall handsome young man, only some six or seven years older than Celia herself, and having been a good deal with Europeans, was better informed and more intelligent than most of his race; still lie was a thorough savage, proud, haughty and vindictive.
After his refusal by Celia, he watched
These arguments were convincing; in fact, it required little argument to convince Henare's auditors. The Maories of the part of the country of which we are speaking, accustomed to war and bloodshed from their youth up, think little of human life, and still less of that of any stranger who may be thrown in their way.
Henry Ancrum's fate was therefore soon decided; the only question was how to carry their murderous design into execution. Henare-te-Pukeatua pointed out to his friends that Henry Ancrum slept in a whari in which there were also Celia's two half-brothers and several other Maories, relatives of hers, and that she (Celia) slept by herself in a small whari close by; that in consequence of his lameness, Henry ih, and return during the night with some intelligence of an important character, that the hopper should be sounded, and care taken that Celia's half-brothers and other relations attended at the korero; that whilst they were away, Henare and a few others should enter Henry Anerum's whari, gag him before he could utter any alarm, carry him away outside the pah, and despatch him, concealing the body, so that it might be thought he had made his escape.
The night was wild and gusty; dark masses of cloud obscured the moon; large drops of rain fell at intervals; the melancholy wind moaned through the trees, and occasionally shook the old wharies in its fury; everything heralded the approach of one of those violent storms so frequent in New Zealand. The pah stood out dark and gloomy on its promontory, flanked by swamps on either side, save when ever and anon the vivid forked lightning would reveal the whole scene, shimmering on the white palisades, lighting for an instant the dark rifle-pits behind
Henry Ancrum had fallen asleep in the earlier part of the night, but was aroused by the loud sounding of the hopper, which on this night was blown with great energy, a mode of proceeding which indicated that important news had arrived.
As usual, all was bustle and excitement, for a Maori is never tired of hearing news; and in less time than we can write it, every individual in Henry Ancrum's whari
When Henry Ancrum was left alone, he would under ordinary circumstances have immediately gone to sleep again, and this was what his enemies anticipated. On this night, however, a sort of restless feeling pervaded him. His sprained knee was a good deal swollen, and very painful, and having been woke out of his first sleep, he found it impossible to settle back to slumber. He had not lain long awake, when he became sensible of a sort, of creeping sound, as if persons were passing stealthily round the whari
How many a poor settler in New Zealand haa heard those sounds! Ah, my friends, you who live in comfortable houses in dear Old England, with policeman X patrolling before your door, can you realize this scene? —The dark night, the whari
Why should we continue? The story can be read, repeated over and over in the "Daily Southern Cross," or any New
It is highly probable that Henry Ancrum would not have taken any notice of the sounds he heard, had it not been that he was aware, as has been mentioned, that he had enemies in the camp, and that it behoved him to be on his guard under all circumstances. As it was, it immediately occurred to him that it was a most extraordinary circumstance that any person or persons should move about in a stealthy manner inside the pah. He therefore raised himself on his left elbow, and turned his face towards the wall on the side from whence the sounds had come. In this position the back of his head was towards the door of the whari, and his feet towards a fire burning at the other end of it.
Henry Ancrum listened intently, but the
The first Maori had no arms, he merely carried in his hand a gag. Having gazed at Henry Ancrum for an instant, he saw to his surprise that he was not asleep, but he also observed his listening attitude, and that his back was towards him. He advanced with cat-like steps across the floor— his naked feet made no sound—the fatal gag was in his hands; an instant more, and it would have silenced his victim for ever. But whether it was that his figure coming between Henry and the fire cast a shadow on the wall, or whether it was that Henry in his excited state caught sounds which would otherwise have been inaudible, certain it is that he became conscious that
Henry instantly, though with great pain from his sprained knee, sprang to his feet. A canoe-paddle was leaning against the wall of the whari
There was a pause. Henare-te-Pukeatua had intended, as has been said, to have i
In another instant she was by Henry Ancrum's side.
"Cowards," she said, raising the axe in the air—"cowards! The first man that approaches him dies. He is my husband. We have read the marriage service over together, and we are married."
The adherents of Henare-te-Pukeatua stood motionless; the announcement of
At this moment Celia's two brothers and several other relations rushed into the whari. She instantly seized the opportunity, and directed them to carry Henry Ancrum (who could hardly stand from the pain in his sprained knee) into her own whari
The storm had now burst in all its fury: ies shook and quivered like living creatures, the trees in the pah bent till their topmost boughs nearly touched the ground, the rain fell in torrents.
Henry Ancrum lay on a bed of fern on the floor, he was suffering great pain from his sprained leg, and was exhausted with his late efforts. Celia knelt beside him; both were silent. The lightning flashed and glared into the whari, and lighted up its most distant nooks; it shone on the two figures as if with the light of ten thousand candles; it departed, and all was black darkness. The lightning came and went, and came and went again; still they were silent.
At last Celia said—
"Henry, forgive me if I said you were my husband; it was done to save your life."
"Celia," replied Henry, "I have nothing to forgive. You have acted in the most noble manner. You have indeed saved my life; for had you been one moment later that tomahawk must have descended on my head, and all would have been over. But my life is only saved for a time; my enemies will renew the attack, and I am powerless to defend myself. I feel that I am a doomed man."
"Oh, Henry, my beloved, my darling!" cried Celia, "why will you not seize the safety that is within your reach? This is no time for false delicacy, this is no time for womanly pride. I love you, I adore you beyond all the world holds dear—beyond my own soul! Oh, let us do as I said we
"No, Celia," said Henry, "I have before told you what is the course that I consider my duty constrains me to follow; that course I must carry out."
"Duty!" said Celia, bitterly, "oh, why are you so obstinate; is it your duty to destroy yourself? If you follow the course you mean, even I shall not be able to save you, and what benefit will it be to any person that you should wilfully sacrifice your own life?"
"It may be so, Celia," replied Henry, "but I do not think the fear of danger should deter me from doing what I consider my duty. I am now rested. I do not think it right that I should remain here any longer. Give me any arms that you
"Safe!" almost screamed Celia, "safe! do you not know what a whari
"I must go," said Henry, and he rose to his feet, but he had miscalculated his strength, his sprained knee made him suffer intense pain—it gave way under him— he tottered two or three paces, and then with a groan fell heavily to the ground. In an instant Celia had passed a small rope round his arms, and fastened them behind his back.
"Oh, my beloved!" she cried, "I will ii
Henry said, in a low, feeble voice, "I promise."
The news of the battle of Koheroa reached Auckland during the night-time, and Mr. Mandeville, who was always an early riser, saw the accounts which the newspapers had sent round, together with the lists of killed and wounded, before the other members of his family had come down to breakfast. He saw that Henry Ancrum's name was not amongst the killed, that it was not amongst the wounded, but, alas ! that it was amongst the missing. To a person like himself, who had lived for years in New Zealand, and who was well acquainted
Mrs. Mandeville could not answer him for some time. She had always liked Henry Ancrum, she had never objected to his union with her daughter, she had in fact looked forward to his some day becoming her son-in-law; she had loved him as a future son-in-law; and to her husband's
When Mrs. Mandeville had recovered her composure, she perfectly agreed with her husband as to the necessity of immediately breaking the sad news to Edith, who was now heard descending the stairs to the breakfast parlour, singing as she came. Her mother went out to her, put her arm round her waist, and gently led her back to her room. Edith became deadly pale.
"Oh, mamma!" she said, "there is bad news. I see it in your face. Ah!" she almost screamed, "you have been crying. I see tears in your eyes. Oh, he is dead—he is dead!"
"No, my own love," said her mother, "he is not dead."
"Oh, then, he is wounded! my own, my beautiful Henry, he is wounded! Oh, it is too horrible!"
"No, my dear, he is not wounded, but he is missing. Oh! don't look so frightened—don't look so white, he may come back. He may be only a prisoner."
"A prisoner!" she said—"a prisoner amongst Maories? Oh, mother!—oh—oh——"
Her form grew heavy in her mother's arms. She had fainted. Her mother laid her gently on her bed, summoned assistance, and made use of all the modes to recover persons who have fainted, but it was long before Edith Mandeville returned to consciousness and opened her eyes. When she did so, her mother used every argument in her power to try and persuade Edith that Henry Ancrum might yet be
Days and months passed, and yet there were no tidings of Henry Ancrum. Every one believed him to be dead except Edith. She still clung to hope. The body had not been found. All the dead and wounded had been accounted for. No one was missing except Henry Ancrum. He might be a prisoner—he might have been spared by the Maories, she thought. Alas! sometimes even her hope was very, very small; but still it existed—still she tried to imagine she might one day see her loved Henry again.
Malcolm Butler was now stationed in Auckland, having obtained a staff-appointment at that place. He was constantly at the Mandevilles'. He had managed to ingratiate himself with Mr. Mandeville, who had taken a great liking to him. He had made that gentleman acquainted with his own brilliant prospects at his uncle's death. He had also told him all the false story against Henry Ancrum, which of course Mr. Mandeville implicitly believed, and which made him consider that it was really a fortunate circumstance that Henry was for ever removed out his daughter's path.
Malcolm Butler had been particularly struck with Edith's beauty the first time he had seen her. There was a calmness, a repose, a truthfulness about her appearance peculiarly alluring to a man whose characteristics were of an entirely opposite
Malcolm Butler had injured Henry Ancrum to an extent that it is seldom in the power of one human being to injure another. And he hated him accordingly—hated him with all the rancour of a thoroughly bad nature—hated him because he was such a contrast to himself—hated him for every virtue he possessed: for his strict notions on the subject of truth and honour, for his manly straightforwardness, for his wish to follow the path of duty, however rugged it might be. Malcolm. Butler at once saw that the great difficulty in his path was the devoted love of Edith Mandeville for Henry Ancrum. But then Henry was poor. Mr. Mandeville was certain not to give his consent to a
Midcolm Butler adopted perhaps the very wisest mode of proceeding he could under the circumstances. He affected the deepest grief for the loss of his cousin, whose death he insisted on considering to be a fact about which there could be no dispute. He took every opportunity of praising the "dear departed one" to Edith. He was incessant in his offers to her to make inquiries that could throw any light on the lost one's fate. He spoke in the most generous manner of the deceased, until Edith herself was almost deceived, and at any rate thought that he was a better man than she had formerly conceived he could be.
As time wore on, and it was observed
Months and months passed away; the action of Koheroa had been succeeded by the brilliant battle of Rangiriri. Two hundred prisoners had been taken and forwarded to Auckland; it was thought that the neck of the rebellion was broken. White flags were flying all over the Waikato in token of Maori submission, and so there was delay and negotiation—diplomacy had its chance.
The end was, as might have been imagined, a further advance of the troops on Ngaruaw
Edith herself took little pleasure in these gatherings; nothing could induce her to dance, but still she thought that it would be wrong to throw a gloom over the enjoyments of others, and so she affected a gaiety which she did not feel, and moved about amongst her friends so calm and collected that few suspected the sad feelings which were concealed beneath that composed exterior.
Adelaide Brown was constantly at the
One evening Edith discovered her sitting in a corner by herself whilst a dance was going on, and looking actually melancholy.
"Why, Adelaide," said Edith, "what can have happened to make you sad?"
"Sad!" said Adelaide, "sad!—not a bit of it. I know a thing worth two of that. But you see I am engaged to that fellow Algernon Neville, and the animal has not come yet. I have a great mind to dance with some one else."
"Well, I would, Adelaide, if I were you; that would be what you call the correct
"Well, I suppose it would," laughed Adelaide; "but you see it is so difficult to aggravate Algernon. If he arrived while the dance was going on he probably would ask some one else, and come and dance opposite to me. Oh, the other night, at Mrs. De Courcy's, he behaved to me like a brute—what are you making faces at? do you think 'brute' too strong a word?—I tell you it is the truth; he did, he did behave like a brute. I'm sure I don't know why I stand it. I ought not to speak to him—I ought to cut him dead. But somehow I think we women like to be trampled on, if only the right person does the trampling business. Well, at Mrs. De Courcy's, Algernon and I had been talking a great deal about hunting—in fact he is very fond of telling me all the wonderful things he
"How do you do, Miss Brown?" said Mr. Babington, in a very solemn manner.
"Oh, Miss Brown presents her respectful compliments to Mister Babington, and begs to inform him that her present condition is perfectly salubrious. She would also add, that she trusts that Mr. Babington did not catch cold after Mrs. De Courcy's party, and that it put a little comforter round its little neck when seeking the retirement of its little barrack room; and she would
"Why, Miss Brown, I did bow to you, and you hardly recognised me; and you seemed so engaged that I could not venture to—that is—that I——"
"You felt shut up, eh? Well, that was very wrong, for you should not be so easily shut up; for you are not a bad boy, after all."
"Miss Brown, I——"
"There, there—man, I mean; great big man. You know you told me you were five feet five inches and a half high, and I made a note of it in my journal; and besides, you might grow, you know."
"Grow, Miss Brown! Really this is——"
"Oh, yes, I know you are as old as Methuselah. But I forgot! Mamma gave me a message to give you: she said she was so much obliged to you for sending those wild ducks you shot; she said you were a perfect duck to send them, and that was a great thing for mamma to say. Poor dear mamma!—you know she does not often make puns; and I (looking up, and letting her eyes dwell upon him), I thank you too."
"Oh, Miss Brown—oh, Adelaide, that was nothing."
"Oh, yes, you think it nothing because you are so good. But I am keeping you from dancing."
"Oh no, I have not got a partner; but if you would favour me, I——"
"Would be delighted, eh? Well, come along, Charlie."
"Ah," she said, stopping and
"Fine girl, that; deuced fine girl!" said a voice near Edith; "just the girl for Calcutta. I'll tell you what she would do there. Flirt, of course, flirt to any extent—break at least half a dozen fellows' hearts, and then marry some rich old collector or judge, and have a splendid house, and no end of servants, and such a love of a phaeton, with two high-stepping horses, which she would drive round the racecourse herself. And then the band stand! Ah, there she would be in her glory, talking to a little mob of fellows; ha, ha, ha! And when it got dark—it does get dark so suddenly in India, you know—just letting her hand slip, quite by accident of course,
"Really, Major Brennan" (for it was our old friend), "if you talk in this way, I cannot listen to you," said Edith.
"Oh, no, beg pardon — mum as a mouse. But I can't help it, can't help it—must tell the truth sometimes. Hallo, here's that pompous old fool of a Doctor. Well, Doctor, saw you out riding very early this morning. Suppose you were out on business, eh? Had you a pleasant ride?"
"No, sir; the tardiness of my quadruped, added to the insalubrity of the morning air, combined to render my matutinal perambulations altogether injocund."
"Injocund!—capital word that; ha, ha,
"Pinched your finger, sir?" said Mrs. Smith, in great wrath, "I would not do anything so ungenteel."
"Ungenteel," said the Major to himself—"ungenteel and injocund. Which is the better word of the two I wonder?"
"Oh, Mrs. Smith!" said Mrs. Singleton, who at this moment joined the group, together with Mrs. Mandeville and Mrs. Brennan, "I hear you had a great fright last night."
"Oh! how could you have heard that, dear?" replied Mrs. Smith. "I'm sure I hardly told any one about it."
"Oh, as to that, all Auckland knows it! But it was not anything very dreadful, was it, after all?"
"Oh no, dear!" giggled Mrs. Smith. "Perhaps it would not have been very dreadful to you; but as I have not got the nerves of a horse, or—ahem!—of any animal of that description, I did feel a little frightened. We had retired to rest, and were both asleep, when we were awoke by the most tremendous noise upstairs. My husband got up and put on his—his—trousers, you know, and——"
"Yes," said the Doctor, pompously, "having donned my habiliments, I summoned my domestic, and addressed him thus: 'John, ascend; and, having ascended, ascertain the cause of this nocturnal
"Well, I am glad it is not a long story," said Mrs. Singleton.
"Not quite as long as your stories about those poor Irish estates," retorted Mrs. Smith, in great wrath.
"Poor Irish estates, indeed!" said Mrs. Singleton. "I——"
But at this moment a weak-eyed young Ensign, with a straw-coloured moustache,
Wont you dance the next dance with me?" said Malcolm Butler, as he seated himself beside Edith Mandeville.
"You know I never dance."
"But why not? Let me speak to you as a friend. You know how I respected, I may say loved my cousin; but now, when so long a time has elapsed, I think that——"
"You think that I ought to be like the rest of the world—that I ought to forget him; but that could never be. Indeed, I could not talk on the subject to any one but
"Yes," said Malcolm Butler, "I have. As you know, I have spoken to a great many men who remembered having seen Henry Ancrum at the end of the action at Koheroa, but none of them could speak as to having actually seen him fall. At last I heard of this man, who, it was said, must have been close to him at the time. I wrote to the Colonel of his regiment about him, and heard that he had been sent to Auckland sick. I went to-day to the hospital, and spoke to him. He says that he was close to Henry Ancrum when he was
"But," said Edith, "he may have been only wounded,"
"No," replied Malcolm Butler, "I think not. But can you bear the truth?"
"Yes. Months of dread and sorrow have, I think, schooled me into bearing to hear any intelligence without showing outwardly what I feel."
"Well, then, I grieve to say that the man says that he thinks—nay, he is certain that Henry Ancrum was killed on the spot."
"But how should he know? He himself says he was obliged to fly for his own life."
"Because he did not see him move after
"Yes—yes, I know," said Edith; "but why—oh, why will you shut out all hope?"
"Because all hope is vain—because, in fact, there is no hope; that is why I wish to make you think less of the past and more of the present. You know that our immortal bard (the man who knew more of human nature than any other mortal who ever lived, of human nature as it was, is, and ever will be) has said:—
You know yourself how true this is; you know your grief has been an enemy even
The dark feeling had been gathering round Edith for some time past. The funereal shapes were hovering very close, but the emphasis on the word "me" startled her—it awoke her, as it were, out of a dream.
"Oh," she said, "I cannot, I will not forget." And then, as if to stop all further conversation on the topic on which they had been talking, she added, "I suppose papa has told you that he intends to take us all to his house near Drury in a few days?"
"Yes, he has. Well, my duties often take me to the camp at Drury, so I shall frequently have an opportunity of seeing you."
"Oh, indeed," said Edith; "now I must go to mamma." And she left him.
The house in which, as has been previously mentioned, Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville had formerly lived for so many years was situated a few miles beyond Drury, on the great south road, on the right side of it as the traveller proceeds southward. It had been erected on a beautiful grassy knoll. A stream, which in the old country would have been called a river, coming from the southward had been interrupted in its course by this knoll, and turning to the eastward had swept round three sides of it, continuing on its course from the northern extremity, thus leaving the house situated on a sort of peninsula, the isthmus of which was occupied by a well-kept garden, behind which on the level land came a clearing of considerable extent, and beyond all was
The house itself was large and commodious, although constructed entirely of wood, and had (as is very common in New Zealand) a verandah in front of its first story running the entire length of the house. It faced towards the road, and had the stream above mentioned in its front, and on its right and left sides.
The Mandevilles at the time when we revisit them had been settled for some time in their new and also their old abode. Mr. Mandeville in the intervals of business took a great interest in all the concerns of his farm. Mrs. Mandeville, who greatly preferred the quiet of a country life to the bustle of towns, was happy in assisting him, and even Edith evinced some return of animation when busied in her garden and
There must be very few, either of men or women, who cannot vividly recall some period in their lives when a loved one has left them, if it were only for a time. How changed has everything seemed, how dull the landscape looks, the very light of the joyous sun seems dimmed. The town that looked so bright with its gay shops and animated crowds is now a mere mass of bricks and mortar, filled with stupid people always getting in your way. So it was with Edith; to her the world was indeed changed; the bright, brilliant, beautiful world whilst Henry lived in it, was a dreary, blank, colourless desert now. He had left her for ever, and yet she had so schooled herself, she had so subdued all outward appearance of grief, her manner was so calm and placid, that the outward world was deceived by it, and even her parents thought that she might gradually return to her former self.
Malcolm Butler was a constant visitor at the house: it was very easy to pretend that duty brought him to the camp at Drury, and then to come on to Forest Lodge, as Mr. Mandeville called his place. For months and months his conduct to Edith was merely that of a friend; no symptom of affection was allowed to appear. Malcolm Butler was too keen an observer not to have perceived that on the one occasion when he had appeared to manifest too deep an interest in her welfare, and had urged her to try and forget the past, she had shrunk from him with a sort of loathing: he felt that time alone could soften her grief for the loss of Henry Ancrum and give him any chance of succeeding in his suit for her hand, even with the powerful aid of her father and mother, on which he calculated; but in addition to this there was another reason: Malcolm Butler,
Now he well knew that if he married without his uncle's consent that old gentleman might seriously change his prospects in life by altering his will; as soon therefore as he had made up his mind that he would marry Edith Mandeville, if she would take him, he wrote to his uncle, mentioning the family in England to which Mr. Mandeville belonged, which was one of the oldest amongst the untitled aristocracy, that he (Mr. Mandeville) was now a rich man, who would probably give a good fortune with his only daughter, and that the young lady herself was very beautiful and accomplished; in fact painting the proposed connexion in the most glowing colours, at the same time pointing out that he himself,
Answers to letters from New Zealand take a long time in coming; but an answer to this one did come at last.
Malcolm Butler's uncle felt that he was getting old; he would like to hear of his nephew being well married before he himself "shuffled off this mortal coil;" in fact he gave his free and frank consent to the marriage. But Malcolm Butler's letter produced other results besides those we have mentioned—results on which he himself never calculated, and which produced a serious influence on his fate, as will be seen in the sequel.
After the letter mentioned in the last chapter had been received by Malcolm Butler from his uncle, a considerable change took place in his manner towards Edith Mandeville: he took every opportunity of being in her society, he used all the arts of which he was master to try and ingratiate himself with her; he joined in all her favourite pursuits, he read the authors whom he knew she admired, and he tried to persuade her that their tastes and feelings were the same on all subjects. If he could find out that there were any books or music or drawings that she would like to
Edith Mandeville saw all this with intense dismay; the poor girl's heart was sore and weary. She now believed that Henry Ancrum was dead, that he was lost to her for ever; but the idea of placing the image of any other man in the place he had so long occupied appeared to her to be impossible—it appeared like profanation: the very name of love, as connected with another man, seemed unholy. Besides, she had a dim shadowy dread of Malcolm Butler, which she did not herself understand, but which nevertheless rendered any idea of union with him too dreadful to be thought of. But this was not all she had to bear. Malcolm Butler, having obtained the consent
Malcolm Butler's object in taking this course was to give time for Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville to bring their influence to bear on their daughter, as he was pretty sure they would do before he himself proposed to her.
Mr. Mandeville, as may be supposed, received Malcolm Butler's overtures most graciously. He was a man of business, whose whole life had been occupied in making
Mr. Mandeville immediately informed Mrs. Mandeville of what had passed between Malcolm Butler and himself, and
Poor Mrs. Mandeville had been very fond of Henry Ancrum, and still mourned his loss. With a woman's instinct she felt that he would have been a more suitable husband in mind and feelings for her daughter than Malcolm Butler. But then poor Henry was dead—there was no doubt of that; and, on the other hand, here was this new suitor, who was so rich, who was considered so clever, and who had been so successful in life. She could not be blind to the splendid position her daughter would occupy as his wife, when he succeeded to his uncle's large estates; and so she did all in her power to carry out her husband's wishes, and tried
And so time went on; to Edith everything was indifferent. She had loved, and her love was dead—all love was dead within her!
What was it to her that Malcolm Butler should try and make himself agreeable? What was it to her that her father and mother should talk of her future prospects? She cared for none of these things. What she wanted was, that it should all be over, and that she should be at peace.
Her calmness deceived even her parents, doubly did it deceive Malcolm Butler. She had not spoken of Henry Ancrum for a long time. He thought she had forgotten him. He spoke at last. He told her of his love!
She thanked him for his preference, but
The quiet calmness with which this was said would have discouraged almost any person, but it was not so with Malcolm Butler. He was one of those who can hope against hope; so he concealed his vexation, and only trusted they "might always continue faithful friends."
To this Edith had no objection. Poor girl! she thought it was all over, and that now she would be left in peace! Friends?—of course she had no objection to be friends!
Hop, skip, and a jump, a very long jump, a jump to merry, happy Old England. We cannot take such long jumps in real life; but it is the privilege of the novelist to be able to do so.
Gertrude Chesney—has the reader forgot Gertrude Chesney? If so, he must refer to the beginning of the first volume.
Gertrude Chesney had at first suffered severely for her fault. Sir John Ancrum, as has been mentioned, after the discovery of her situation, had sent her back to her
Gertrude Chesney was in love; but then she was a clever ambitious woman. She thought over all these things for a long time, then jealousy came to her aid.
"Oh!" she thought, "if Malcolm Butler should see any other woman he liked better than me, and should desert me and my boy, and marry her!" Then she made up her mind. Her aunt, though poor, was celebrated as a shrewd woman. She would consult her aunt. She did so; and the aunt, after a little reflection, pointed out to her, that although Malcolm Butler was bound in honour to support her and her child, and to marry her eventually, yet the only means of forcing him to do so, was by threatening to divulge the whole truth to Sir John Ancrum if he did not do so.
Gertrude was at first unwilling to follow this course; but after some time had elapsed, she was induced by her aunt's arguments to carry it out, and all the arrangements were left to the latter. That old lady at once wrote to Malcolm Butler, who had not up to this period left for New
As we have said, he did this reluctantly, but he had hardly any choice in the matter, as nothing but the allowance would satisfy the aunt, and nothing but the promise of marriage would satisfy the niece. And with regard to the latter, he was in hopes, when the time came, that he could compound for the marriage by paying a sum of money. The allowance was paid regularly, as Malcolm Butler had seen enough of the aunt to make him believe
One sultry summer evening the two women were sitting in the verandah of the cottage into which they had moved, after they had obtained the increase of income we have mentioned.
It was a very pretty cottage. The trellis-work of the verandah was covered with creepers, interspersed with roses here and there. It looked out on a nice, trim little garden, which it was Gertrude's delight to keep in first-rate order. Beyond came the village lane, and immediately opposite was the fine old church, surrounded by trees.
The church itself was a very picturesque
Gertrude Chesney loved to sit, as she was doing now, at the cottage door, enjoying the balmy hot summer air, lazily listening to the hum of insects and the song of birds, looking over the lovely scene before her, on the cornfields yellow with ripening grain rustling in the gentle breeze, on the
No, she did not doubt him; had she done so, darker feelings might have risen in her breast, for she was an ambitious woman, she was a woman who could dare much, a woman whose wrath might be dangerous. No, she did not doubt Malcolm Butler, her own Malcolm Butler, as she sat there day after day and built her castles.
She was to be mistress of all that fair scene beyond the stream; she was to be the
But there was one thing troubled her; her boy, her curly headed boy, who was playing near her in the garden, he could not inherit all this grandeur. No, she thought, as a dreamy smile passed over her features, there must be another son, a son born in wedlock, to succeed to the family honours. But he—what was to become of him? Oh, she thought, I shall be rich; I shall have interest then, he can be well educated, he can go to India in the Civil Service, and make a fortune, and found a
Take care, take care, dreaming fair one! Your foot is very near the basket of crockery; take care, one little push, and down it tumbles crashing to the ground.
Neither of the women had spoken for some time; at last, Gertrude's aunt said—
"Well, I declare if there ain't the housekeeper from Ancrum Hall, a coming up the lane; whatever can she be a coining this way for?"
"Well, I suppose to see her son, who is steward to Mr. Oldham, up the road; you know she often does," said Gertrude.
"Ah, so she does; but no, she is a coming in at the gate."
And they both stood up to receive the
"Well," she said, "Sir John, he did astonish me to-day, he did sure-ly, for Sir John, you see, he used not to be given to talking much to any of the servants, not even to the upper ones; but since he has got older, he has got more conversable like. Well, he has got a letter from foreign parts, and Sir John, you see——"
"Who was the letter from?" said Gertrude's aunt.
"Lawks, how you frightened me;
"Malcolm Butler!" almost screamed Gertrude Chesney, "what of him?"
"Why, you see, Sir John says, says he, Mrs. Bedwarmer, says he, my nephew has fallen in love with a lovely rich young lady in New Zealand, and he has asked my consent to marry her, and I have given it."
"What's that?" What was it?—it was an overturned chair, and the sound of a heavy fall. Gertrude Chesney had fainted, and lay extended on the floor.
"Good gracious," said the housekeeper, "the news could not have touched her, she had nothing to do with Mr. Malcolm Butler; it was the other poor lad that—that they say is dead. God be merciful to his soul!"
"Oh, no," said Gertrude's aunt, "that
For two or three days after the event we have recorded, Gertrude Chesney was so prostrated, so overwhelmed by the blow she had received, that she was almost incapable of reflection; but gradually as her strength and spirit returned, one fixed idea was settled in her mind. She would seek out Malcolm Butler wherever he was; if he were not already married she would force him to marry herself, or to stand the consequences of the exposure of the true story of her case to his uncle; and she had little fear of his being married before she could reach him, as her aunt had ascertained through
Back in New Zealand again! A great, bluff, precipitous promontory jutting boldly out into the vast Southern Ocean! Large boulders at its base, which have fallen in times gone by from its front and sides. The sea agitated by a late gale rolling grandly in, wave succeeding wave. Here comes an enormous breaker! he rolls proudly on till he nears the base of the cliff, then with a roar his mighty white crest tumbles over, and he rushes amongst the huge stones, dashing up his spray half-way up the precipice. Then the giant waters recede
Further on, the cliff trends back in the shape of a half-moon, and at its base there is a strip of bright yellow sand. Here in the sheltered bay the waters are more gentle, they roll in in long swells, lap—lapping on the shingly beach, and then as placidly retreating again. Over head hover snow-white gulls, and just at the edge of the water, patter numerous jet black birds, with long red legs, about the size of wild-ducks.
Further still came a party of Maories. They have seen from the high ground a whale close in shore beyond the promontory, and are in hopes that he may become embayed, and fall into their hands qui?" h on the sands and is defending it, the defenders themselves almost entirely concealed, and only just showing little sticks, which represent guns, over its parapet; the other party having dug rifle-pits are also pretending to fire at their enemies. Suddenly with a loud shout the defenders of the pah rush out, they fall upon the foe in the rifle-pits, these fly in the most admired disorder up a neighbouring bank, where they conceal themselves amongst the fern, anon they recover courage and retake the rifle-pits and their enemies retire to their pah, and so they go on. Thus it is that the Maori from his earliest youth begins to learn the art of war.
The day is lovely, the sky is cloudless, the bright sun glistens on the water and on the yellow sand of the beach. The gentle murmur of the sea in the bay and the distant booming of the surf on the point soothe the ear. All is calm. There are some such moments in life!—they seem designed as resting-places between the storms of existence.
Who were the two figures to whom the Maories said "Tena qui"
Celia had saved his life; Celia loved him with a devotion with which few men are loved. When she threw her arms round his neck, when she put up her beautiful face to his and kissed him, could he help loving her? Could any man under similar circumstances have helped loving such a woman?
Then, again, it appeared to Henry as if it were all predestined—as if it had been all his fate since the moment when he was taken prisoner. Had he not been always thrown into Celia's society? Had not the idea of the Maories that he might escape prevented his going to a distance
To all outward appearance Henry Ancrum was now a complete Maori: constant exposure to the sun had darkened his countenance till it was nearly as brown as those around him; his clothes had long been worn out, and he was obliged to dress like the rest. He and Celia cultivated their potatoes and yams, they reared their "pee-pees"
Henry and Celia left the beach and walked slowly towards their cottage, or rather whari
"Henry," said Celia, "I have been so happy for some time past. I feel as if it were more than I could expect; as if it could not last. I do not know how it is, but I feel so sad to-night."
"Pooh!" said Henry, "come into the garden. I want to show you that pumpkin; he is a most prodigious fellow—as big as a baby."
Celia sighed. Is our happiness ever complete in this world? Can you, gentle reader,
Just as Henry Ancrum and Celia turned to enter their whari, Ihaka came up to them.
"Have you heard the news?" he said.
"No," they both answered, in a breath. "What is it?"
"Why, you know," he said, "that for some time past some of the Waikato, Thames, and other Maories have established themselves at Puke-hina-hina, near Tauranga, and are building a pah there, and that it is said the General is coming down with more troops, and that there s at Maketu, and that they have built a fort close to the Maori pah. Well, it appears that all the tribes about the East Cape have taken alarm at this, for they say that if they are not checked the General and the Pakehas may advance towards them and take the whole country; so they have assembled a large force, and are coming up the coast, and have written to us, and to all the Uriwera tribes, to join them on the way. This news has only just come, and there will be a great korero to-night. I, for my part, think it would be better for us to keep quiet, as, if our expedition does not succeed, the Pakehas are so near us that they might come and take our country, whereas the East Cape natives are far off, and might not be molested when they return home.
But I am certain that I shall be overruled, and that all our tribes will determine to join in attacking the enemy."
"But," said Celia, "Henry need not go; he is an Englishman, and ought not to fight against his own countrymen. Surely he can stay behind here?"
Ihaka smiled. "Spoken like a woman," he said, "but not like Celia. Celia ought to know that although Henry's marriage has insured his personal safety it has not diminished the idea that he might be dangerous to the safety of the tribe if he should escape to the enemy; and they have also got an idea now that you care so much more for Henry than you do for anything connected with the tribe, that you would be happy to go with him. So I think you will find that they will insist on Henry accompanying our forces if we march against the enemy."
"Well," said Celia, "if Henry must go, I will go with him."
Everything turned out as Ihaka had expected. The great korero was held, and the tribe determined to join the East Cape natives in their attack on the Pakehas; they also determined that it would be dangerous to leave Henry Ancrum behind, as he might escape in some coasting vessel, and tell the General all about their pahs, harbours, rivers, and roads into the interior of the country, and so, that he must go with them.
The next few days were passed by the Maories in making their preparations, and before a fortnight had elapsed they were joined by the natives from the East Cape, and by all the Uriwera tribes, and the whole force, numbering nearly a thousand men, proceeded on their way to attack the Pakehas and Arawas at Maketu.
Maketu is situated on a block of land bounded on the east by the sea, on the north by the river Kaitura (which flows out of the lake Rotoiti) and the harbour of Maketu, where the said river empties itself into the sea, on the south by the river Whihi, and on the west, between the two rivers, by a deep swamp. It will be observed therefore that it is admirably situated for purposes of defence.
The march however of the East Coast natives and of their allies had been so rapidly conducted and such precautions had been taken to prevent any news on the subject reaching Maketu, that their forces arrived before daylight one morning on the bank of the Whihi river, before either the garrison of the fort at Maketu or their Arawa allies in the pah had heard anything about it. So much was this the case that actually three soldiers of the English garrison had
The Maories, as we have said, arrived before daylight on the further bank of the river, Henry Ancrum was with the advance-guard, which were lying ensconced in tall fern, perfectly concealed from view, and awaiting the time (a little after sunrise) when the tide should have gone sufficiently out to enable them to cross the stream at a place a little to their left. The Maories were obliged to keep perfect silence, in order that no sound might be heard by their enemies on the opposite bank.
The morning was chill and drear, a cold breeze came from the river and from the swamps on the left. Gradually the east began to brighten, and the prospect on the opposite bank to come into view. On the right, that is, at the mouth of the river, appeared a large hill rising precipitously
The bluff precipitous old hill we have mentioned was brilliantly lighted on its eastern side, and only retained its original solemnity towards the west, where it threw
The sun rose higher and higher: it was now broad daylight, the tide was going out rapidly, and the time had nearly approached when the Maories could cross the river. It was at this moment that the three Englishmen we have mentioned were seen descending the side of the hill by a zigzag path to the beach; a Maori was with them, but he evidently only came to point out one of the canoes under the cliff, which they had probably hired from him, as, as soon as they had entered it, he left them and again ascended the winding path to the wharies above.
Henry Ancrum watched the canoe with intense interest; to his dismay the men in it
At this moment, a young Maori, almost a lad, probably from want of experience of firearms, in cocking his piece, let the hammer slip from his finger and fall on the nipple, and the piece exploded.
The other Maories saw at once that their
Henry Ancrum joined in it, as it occurred to him that if one or more of his countrymen were overtaken, he might be able to induce the Maories to spare his or their lives, and only take him or them prisoner.
The three soldiers had as we have seen a good start, they were active, strong young men, and the race was for life or death. Away they flew. Sometimes they had to leap a deep channel, or holes in the swamp; at others, they had to wade for yards nearly up to their middles in water; but the obstacles which delayed them delayed also their pursuers, and at last the dry ground was reached. Just at the point where they gained it a promontory of land jutted out towards the swamp, and there were two valleys or rather ravines, one on each side
Henry Ancrum was rather behind the rest; when he reached the place where the two ravines branched off, a sudden impulse seized him; he did not know how it was at the time, he never in after life could explain even to himself how it was; but a sudden impulse did seize him to escape, and he darted up the right ravine at his full speed. He had not gone far when he heard a shout on his right hand. Still he ran on at a headlong pace, and in another instant he found himself surrounded by British soldiers. The fact was, a party had been sent out in the early morning to cut wood for fuel; they were returning
Henry Ancrum's appearance and clothing were so like those of a Maori, that at first he was in danger of rough treatment; but he immediately explained that he had just escaped from the enemy, and pointed out the danger their brother soldiers were in. The men at once rushed off to the assistance of their comrades, and reached the head of the left ravine just as the three tired soldiers were toiling up its centre.
The succour came just in time, a few minutes more and it might have been too late. The Maories were close behind their expected prey, eager for blood; but seeing their new enemies, at once halted, then rapidly retreated, and the fugitives were saved. A few shots were fired at the flying foe, but apparently without effect.
The whole party now returned to the fort, where Henry Ancrum was at once taken to the commanding officer, who happened to be an old friend of his, and who received him as one risen from the dead.
Yes, Henry Ancrum had escaped, he had got away from an existence amongst barbarians, to all the pleasures of civilized life; but was he happy? Ah, my friends, who honour me by reading this book, if you look back into your past lives have you ever achieved any great success and not found that there was some drawback to it? Have you ever mingled in some pleasure and not discovered a thorn amongst the roses? If you have not experienced these things you must have been lucky, for they are the general lot of mortals.
Henry had escaped, but Henry could not call himself happy; Celia had loved and trusted him, and he had deserted her; true he had acted on the impulse of the moment, true he had acted without reflection, but was that an excuse? He could hardly allow it,—others might forgive him but he could scarcely forgive himself. But there was no going back now—the die was cast; had he attempted it he would be considered a deserter from the British army, and even if he braved that peril he would merely have met death at the hands of his late associates. No, there was nothing for it but to wait, and see what fate would bring.
It would be impossible to describe Celia's despair, when the Maories returned from their fruitless chase and Henry Ancrum did not return with them. She rushed frantically about from one person to another
The whole of the Maori forces crossed the Whahi river that day and built a pah, and made rifle-pits just at the spot where we have mentioned the wharies were seen in the morning. They remained there that night, but Celia spent her night on the borders of the swamp searching for Henry. Ah, poor wounded bird! how sad, how weary, how ill she looked in the morning. She had not found him; still she said to herself, "He will come back to me, nothing can have happened to him, the Almighty Being the good missionary taught me to worship would not take him from me. He sees all things, He knows that Henry was all I had in the world, that I had nothing else, that I cared for only him, that if I lost him I could prefer death to life. Oh, no, He would not take Henry from me!"
On the morning of this the second day the Maories had advanced to a hill about
On the following morning, which was the third after their arrival, the Maories appeared to be determined on a serious attack on the fort, as their whole force turned out from the pah they had first constructed, and moved towards it; but just at this moment some of the chiefs observed out at sea towards Tauranga two long black
The korero did not last long; some of the bolder spirits were for staying where they were and braving the danger, but the great majority thought the "better part of valour was in discretion." In fact they—
Celia had passed the second day after the arrival of the hostile Maories at Maketu in a state bordering on stupefaction. As we have said, she had searched all the night before for Henry Ancrum; in the morning she had viewed the swamp from the nearest heights, but no one was to be seen; now she believed he must have been taken by the Pakehas, but the question was how could she get to him. She sat thinking and thinking, but she could invent nothing.
On the following morning, when the Maories advanced towards the fort, she determined to go with them, to dare
The two war-steamers had now come up. To their surprise they saw no one on the
This caused some delay. The retreating Maories they could not see, as they were concealed from view for some time by the high hills on the left bank of the river: but after a time, as they proceeded up the beach, the foremost fugitives came into sight from the decks of the vessels, who immediately steamed after them.
Reader, can you picture to yourself the scene? On the right is a dreary swamp covered with tall rushes (called raupo by the natives), interspersed with pools of water glittering in the morning sunlight. In the centre, stretching right away from us, is a line of low sand hills, and the sandy beach along which the crowd of Maories are now hurrying; in that crowd
Another flash; again that startling sound. This time the shell is too high, it passes over the dusky crowd, and buries itself in an island in the marsh, where it explodes with a loud thud. Once more the flash is seen, once more the sound is heard, but alas! not alike is the result; this time the shell explodes right over the heads of the fugitives, scattering destruction far and wide. How shrill the cries of the wounded are! but there is one who will cry no more—there is one whose sorrows are ended—a large piece of the shell struck Celia on the forehead, and her death must have been instantaneous. She could have suffered no pain. Perhaps it was better so; she would not have cared to live had she known her lover had deserted her.
The evening was hot and sultry; though no rain had actually fallen the clouds had gathered black and gloomy, and hid out the westering rays of the sun.
Edith Mandeville, tired of the close oppressive feeling in the house, strolled out into the extensive garden at the back of it. Poor girl! she was very sad; not only were all her hopes of happiness in this world destroyed by the death of her lover, but she was now subject to constant persecution from both her father and mother to induce her to marry Malcolm Butler.
Her father, who, as we have said, had
Under these circumstances he not only considered it his duty, as he said, to constantly urge Edith himself to accept Malcolm Butler as a lover, but he forced his wife to do so also.
Mrs. Mandeville was rather unwilling to urge Edith to contract a hasty marriage with Malcolm Butler, as her womanly instinct taught her that it was not so easy for a woman who had loved a man so
When Edith refused Malcolm's proposal of marriage, she thought, poor girl, that his persecution was over, and that she would now be left in peace. In this she was much mistaken. He did indeed for a time visit at the house less frequently, but it was only for a time. Ere long he was as much there as ever; and, moreover, so confident had he become that, by the assistance of Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville, he
Thinking sadly of all these things, Edith had wandered down the garden until she had come to its further extremity; here there was a considerable clump of trees left from the original forest, when the clearing beyond had been made.
Entering amongst these trees by a winding path, Edith had arrived at their further edge, when happening to look across the clearing, she saw amongst the trees on the opposite side, a group of two or three Maories. Now this circumstance might not have surprised her, as they might have been friendly Maories, but on looking closer,
Before long, other Maories arrived, also armed, and evidently endeavouring to conceal their movements by always keeping inside the edge of the forest. In fact, if it had not been that the white colour of their blankets contrasted with the green leaves of the trees, Edith would scarcely have been able to make out their forms; as it was, it appeared to her that a group was assembled just opposite where she was, standing apparently in consultation, and that messengers used to go from and return to it, apparently communicating with other parties. Under all the circumstances of the case she was afraid that they must be planning an attack on the house, and she therefore lost no time in returning to it,
Mr. Mandeville at once perceived the gravity of the situation; he had unfortunately only two men in the house with him, as the other men he employed on his farm lived in a cottage at some distance from it. If he and his family attempted to leave the house, they would of course be captured, and probably, at once killed by the Maories; if, on the other hand, they remained where they were, their fate was almost equally certain, as although he and the two men, having firearms, might defend themselves for a time, they would be sure in the end to be overpowered by numbers. What therefore was to be done? The only chance appeared to be to get a message sent to the neighbouring garrison of Drury; but how was this to be accomplished in the face of the enemy?
Mr. Mandeville's house was, as we have previously mentioned, situated on a small knoll or slight elevation, a river running round three sides of it, and the garden being on the fourth. Now, it occurred to Mr. Mandeville, that one person might by crouching down, and descending the knoll in the front of the house, and therefore on the side furthest from the garden, reach the river without observation; once in the river, he might creep along under its bank, which was rather high, till he reached a wood a considerable distance down the stream; here, being sheltered from observation by the wood, he might cross, merely keeping his head above water, to a wood on the other side. When he arrived at this wood he could move rapidly to the Great South Road, and obtaining a horse from a settler who lived on it near this point, ride into Drury, and give the alarm.
This plan was followed, and the messenger appeared to have escaped observation, as no sound was heard by the anxious watchers within the house to indicate that he had been discovered by the Maories.
For some time after the departure of the messenger, the occupants of the house were engaged in making preparations to resist the expected attack of the Maories. The great object, of course, was to delay the entry of the enemy into the house as long as possible, as by that means more time would be given for the arrival of the hoped for succour.
Mr. Mandeville then saw that all the firearms he possessed, consisting of two double-barrelled guns and two revolvers, were in proper order. The man he had with him was a sturdy determined fellow, one of those men who never court danger
When all these things were done, there was nothing left for them but to wait. How slowly the time passed on! No sound was to be heard, no sight to be seen. How dreadful was the long suspense, and the inhabitants of Mr. Mandeville's house knew it must be so long. They were aware that the Maories, not imagining for a moment that their proximity bad been even suspected, would remain perfectly quiet until dark night had set in, and then
And so the time passed on. The upper part of the house was kept perfectly dark, to enable the inmates to see what was going on outside without being themselves seen; but lights were kept burniug in the lower part in order that the Maories might consider that the family had not yet retired to rest, and thus delay the attack. The night was very dark, there was no moonlight, and only the occasional twinkle of a star here and there; still the frightened watchers in the upper story were able at last to discern dark forms prowling round the house like birds of ill-omen. They approach closer and closer—then they pause.
They have waited long, but it is evident that they have determined to wait yet a little longer, till their intended victims have retired to rest.
Who can paint the feelings of those within—feelings which have been experienced by many a poor New Zealand settler!
At last the Maories appear to have made up their minds to wait no longer: they approach the door in a cautious stealthy Cat like manner; their leader tries the handle, he finds it fastened; a whisper passes amongst them; then the back door of the house, and all the windows are tried, with a similar result. A pause takes place. Then two Maories advance to the door, bearing a large stone between them to burst it in.
Mr. Mandeville, to cause as much delay as possible, now calls out loudly to know
Mr. Mandeville felt that the time for decided action had indeed arrived: he fired with a revolver through a hole near the door, which he had previously made, at one of the Maories bearing the stone. The shot was so close that he could not miss his aim, and the man fell dead, pierced through the heart, whilst the stone descended to the ground with a loud crash; but the Maories were so enraged at the death of their friend that they at once fired a volley through the door, which being old and worm-eaten the
But the sound of the volley had apparently reached other ears besides those in the house, as a succession of ringing cheers arose from the road, apparently made by a large number of men advancing to the rescue, with a view of assuring the inmates that aid was at hand
The Maories paused. They were well aware how near the garrison of Drury was, and had only made their attack under the idea that it would be a complete surprise. They never like to fight in open ground, and so without any deliberation they vanished as silently as they had come, and when the foremost of the relieving force had reached
On the day when the events recorded in the last chapter occurred, Malcolm Butler had left Auckland, and proceeded to Drury, where he arrived a short time before the messenger despatched by Mr. Mandeville galloped in with a letter from that gentleman to the officer commanding the station, begging him to send a force immediately to his assistance.
Malcolm Butler solicited and obtained the command of this force, which arrived, as we have seen, just in time to save the inmates of Forest Lodge from destruction.
Malcolm Butler was too clever a man not
With Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville he was most successful, their gratitude knew no bounds, and even Edith felt it necessary to thank him for what he had done, though her womanly instinct told her at once the price he would ask as a reward for his services. That instinct told her, alas! too true. Malcolm Butler now became unremitting in his attentions, and her father and mother incessant in their arguments in
Mrs. Mandeville coming in some time after found Edith still weeping bitterly; she tried to console and soothe her, but at the same time used every argument in her power to induce her to think well of the match with Malcolm Butler. He was
"Oh, stop, mother—stop!" cried Edith. "Why will you, even you, turn against me? Why will you, to whom I looked for comfort and support, rank yourself with those who are trying to drag me down to a fate I shudder to think of? My dislike to Malcolm Butler is no common feeling: I cannot explain it—you would think me mad if I did; it has been growing on me for fear him—I actually fear him! Putting all other feelings aside, how could I marry a man I am so much afraid of?"
"Oh, my child," said Mrs. Mandeville, whose tears were flowing fast, "I must now tell you a secret—a secret I was desired to keep from you—a secret which I know your father would be very angry if he heard I had told. It is this:—Some few months ago your father had been very unsuccessful in several speculations he had made, a sum of ready money was urgently required to relieve him from his difficulties, and he did not know where to turn for help. At this time Malcolm Butler had a large amount in one of the Auckland banks, the greater part of which he had obtained from his uncle for the purpose of
Edith sat speechless; there were no tears in her eyes now: the horror was too great—the gulf before her was too dark!
Alas, since this world began its course how many a woman has been made a sacrifice to man's selfishness! How many have yet to undergo the same fate! What was she to do? It was true this man had saved her life; it was true he had saved the lives of her father and mother (for they all believed that had he not urged on the men, on the night when they were attacked by the Maories, the succour might have come too late); but this was not all: it now appeared that her father was in this man's power—her father, whom she had been taught from childhood up to love and reverence. What could she do? What could any woman do to escape from such toils as these? Was there any hope? She, poor girl! thought that she saw a faint one.
Even to her it appeared very faint, but she thought she would try it; she thought she would see Malcolm Butler, she would throw herself on his generosity—that she would tell him all. She would reveal her whole soul to him, she would kneel at his feet, she would implore him to let her die, as she had hitherto lived, faithful to the memory of the only man she had ever loved.
"Mother," she said, "I will see Malcolm Butler to-morrow; but it must be alone, recollect—perfectly alone. Till then let me be left in peace."
"Yes, my love," said her mother; "your father is going into Auckland to-morrow, and I know Malcolm Butler is coming over from Drury; so it shall be as you wish."
And then she left the room.
As Malcolm Butler was about to mount his horse on the following morning to proceed to Forest Lodge, a letter was put iuto his hand which had just arrived by the post; he looked carelessly at it; the address was in the handwriting of an acquaintance now stationed at Tauranga, on the east coast, who had formerly been in the same regiment as himself.
On what slight events do the fates of all of us turn! Malcolm Butler was on the point of laying the letter aside to await his return; had he done so, his fate also
Then he thought deeply for a few minutes. It was evident that he must lose no time. If Edith were to hear that her lover was still alive, he was aware that no power on earth would induce her to consent to marry any other man. No; he must by some means or other, no matter how, force her to agree to be his wife this very day. Then he must keep the news of Henry Ancrum's being alive from her till they were married, which he thought he could easily do, as the marriage might take place immediately. But even if she should hear of Henry's escape before the marriage took place—which he considered most unlikely, as he was certain that he could prevent Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville
At this thought an expression came over his face such as it would be difficult to define, but so dark was it in its savage malignity that demons might have delighted to witness it.
"No," he muttered; "she shall never be another man's. She shall be—she must be mine!"
He rushed out of the house, threw himself on his horse, and galloped off. So full was he of his thoughts that he had nearly reached Forest Lodge before he
Malcolm Butler entered the house. How familiar each step of the way was to him. How often had he ascended those stairs to meet Edith in the drawing-room, full of the sweet conviction that one day she must be his—his wife—his very own! and now how changed was everything. It was true that Edith as yet knew nothing, but he could not delay—he could not now trust to time: he must make her decide at once, that very day, before there was a chance of her hearing that Henry Ancrum still lived. It was with the greatest difficulty that be
What a contrast they formed! what a picture they would have made! There stood the man agitated by passions he now strove in vain to conceal: the passion of love, as he would have called it, but which in his case might have deserved a lower name—the passion of fear that after all his plans, his schemes, and machinations his intended victim might yet escape him—the passion of hate against
"Edith," said Malcolm Butler at length, "I have come to speak to you seriously. You know how deeply, how fondly I love you; you know that my whole soul is bound up in you; you know that mine is no temporary feeling, but a passion that is interwoven with my very existence. Can you not trust your happiness to such a love? Can you not consent to be my wife?"
"Oh, Major Butler! I——"
"Major Butler!" said Malcolm, losing all self-control, "can you not call by his
"Yes," she said; "that is what makes it so hard! You have, I believe, saved my life and that of my parents; but, oh, you do not understand that a woman who has once loved a man, who has taken him to her heart of hearts, feels that it would be as it were profanation, even when she has lost him, to give herself to another. Besides, Henry Ancrum may yet live."
"Yet live!" burst in Malcolm; "he is dead—I tell you he is dead. And know, ungrateful woman! that besides having saved your father's life, I hold him entirely in my power; he has over-speculated, he wanted a sum of ready money, and I lent it to him. The time of payment is overdue; one word of mine, and he is a
"Oh," said Edith, throwing herself on her knees, "have mercy on me—do have mercy on me! How can I commit this sin? for it is a sin to marry one man when you love another. How can I commit this sin, even to save a father, if Henry Ancrum is alive?—if he should return?"
"But I tell you he is dead!" screamed Malcolm Butler. "I got a letter this morning saying so, and mentioning the names of persons who had seen the body."
In his wild excitement he put his hand into his pocket and took out the letter he had received; his intention was only to have shown that he had a letter, and then to put it back again, but owing to his agitation the letter dropped from his hand to the floor.
Edith never understood why it was, but a sudden impulse prompted her to seize upon the letter, and she did so. The first words she saw were those showing that Henry Ancrum was alive, and had escaped.
"Demon!" she cried, springing to her feet. "Why have you deceived me? Now I know you. Henry Ancrum is alive!"
An expression passed over Malcolm Butler's face such as she had never seen there before. Now she understood her dark forebodings—now she understood the chill feeling of terror she had so often experienced—now the funereal shapes seemed closing round her.
All he said was—
"You shall never be another's!" and he rushed towards her.
There was a door opening into the verandah; at the end of the verandah was a flight of steps leading to the ground in
A woman, tall, strong, with flashing eyes and dishevelled hair, rushed upon Malcolm Butler, and seizing him by the throat, screamed in his ear—
"Would you destroy another woman as you did me?"
He turned. Was it possible?—Gertrude Chesney!
He let go his hold of Edith Mandeville, and staggered against the verandah railings.
The railings, originally strong, were worn and decayed with age; they gave way beneath his weight. He made a desperate effort to save himself by clutching at Gertrude Chesney; he seized hold of her dress, and tried to recover his balance. But in vain; he only insured his own fate by pulling her down on top of himself. Down they fell, a distance of about twenty feet.
Edith, trembling, approached the edge of the verandah, and looked over. What a sight met her eye! Malcolm Butler was lying motionless; Gertrude Chesney was stunned, but slowly recovering her feet. In a few moments she said—
"Malcolm, get up. Don't stay there—don't; you are only trying to frighten me." Then she cried, "Oh, he is hurt; I am sure he is hurt!" Then approaching nearer, and seeing his face, from which
It was too much for her; it was too much for human nature to bear, and she fell fainting beside the man who, whatever his faults, she had always so fondly loved.
Edith rushed wildly to the stables; there she found the groom who had taken Malcolm Butler's horse. She told the man to mount the animal and gallop to Drury for a doctor. The man started immediately. She then ran to the garden, where she found the women-servants, and sent them to summon the men-servants and farm-labourers.
When they arrived, Malcolm Butler was borne into the house and laid on a bed on the ground floor.
Very shortly after, her mother came in, and ere long her father, who had arrived in Drury just at the moment when the doctor was summoned, came in with him.
Up to this time Malcolm Butler had lain perfectly motionless and evidently quite insensible.
After a short examination, the doctor gave it as his opinion that there was no hope. Malcolm Butler in falling had evidently struck his head against a stone and fractured his skull, the injury being increased by the weight of another body falling on the top of him. He might pass away in his present state of insensibility and give no sign, or he might recover consciousness just before his decease; but of life there was no hope.
How anxiously they watched by his bedside. It would be vain to try and depict
For a long time they watched without seeing any change, but at last, when night had long fallen, the patient's limbs began to quiver and move slightly. He appeared to be struggling back to consciousness, although his features wore the appearance of death. At last, his eyes opened; they rested on Gertrude Chesney.
"Gertrude," he said, with difficulty—"I—I have wronged you—but I have wronged others. Henry—Ancrum—lives. I—I wronged him—you know; tell them—tell the truth. Tell Edith—Edith."
It was his last word ! A convulsion shook his frame, and his soul departed for ever
Our readers will easily imagine that as the immediate cause of Malcolm Butler's death was known exclusively to Edith Mandeville and Gertrude Chesney, there having been no other person present, the outside world only heard what was, strictly speaking, the bare truth—namely, that his death had been caused by the breaking of the verandah rails against which he was leaning.
His body was removed to Auckland and buried with, military honours; his remains were followed to the grave by the garrison. The solemn tones of that most melodious of melancholy marches, the Sicilian Mariners' Hymn, came wailing (rising and falling) through the air, mixed with the measured booming of the drum. The graveyard is reached; the awful words
The circumstances under which Gertrude Chesney started for New Zealand have been mentioned in a former chapter
When she arrived at Auckland she learnt that Malcolm Butler was at Drury, and having hired a conveyance, proceeded to that place; on reaching it, she found that he had gone to Forest Lodge, and as the distance was not great, she was driven on to that place. She stopped her carriage at some distance from the house, and went on to it on foot, as she wished to approach it unobserved. On reaching the front door,
Mr. Mandeville—as soon as she (Gertrude Chesney) had sufficiently recovered from her grief for the loss of the man who had ruined her, but whose memory she still loved, to answer questions—obtained from her a full confession of the falsehood of the statements which Malcolm Butler had made to his uncle, and also to Mr. Mandeville himself, as to Henry Ancrum being the father of her child. This confession, which proved that Henry Ancrum was entirely guiltless of what had been laid to his charge, Mr. Mandeville reduced to writing and forwarded to Sir John Ancrum, Henry's uncle.
We must now return to the said Henry Ancrum himself. The agitation he went through at the time of his escape, together
Henry was a little puzzled when he received the first letter conveying this invitation, but when the subsequent ones explained that the cruel falsehoods which had been told bout him had been found
The meeting of Henry Ancrum and Edith Mandeville was one of those events which happen to few persons in this world—and why? Because there are few who have loved so fondly, so devotedly, and so unselfishly as these two had done. It would be difficult to picture the happy feelings of Edith as she was pressed to the heart of the man she adored, who had as it were been dead and was alive again.
But with him there was one drawback: he felt like a guilty person; he had to explain to Edith all the events which had occurred since they last met. How was he to do this? But it must be done— truth and honour required that the tale should he had been to blame. No (she thought) it was that woman, that horrid woman, that artful creature, who entangled him; and as to her being in danger herself during that night when she had made Henry promise to marry her, she (Edith) would never believe it. No, it was all deceit; and so she forgave her poor Henry, and the subject was never again mentioned between them.
In due course a letter arrived from Sir John Ancrum, saying that the proofs he had received of his nephew Henry Ancrum's perfect innocence of all that had been laid to his charge were so convincing, that he had the greatest pleasure in
Mr. Mandeville, however, who had now had plenty of time to realize his various ventures, and whose affairs had taken a favourable turn, thought the project a very good one; and therefore, after a prosperous voyage, our friends found themselves all in the old country again.
We will not describe the wedding. Henry
Gertrude Chesney lives in her former pretty little cottage, and has received a promise that her old dream shall be accomplished, and her son be nominated to the Indian Civil Service, if he should pass what she calls "that dreadful examination."
Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville have gone back to New Zealand, but it is only for a time, as Mr. Mandeville intends to dispose of his landed property, which is rapidly increasing in value, as soon as he can do so to advantage, and to wind up his other
The regiment to which Mr. Singleton belonged was one of the first to return home from New Zealand after the war was over, but, unfortunately for Mrs. Singleton, it was sent to Ireland and disembarked at the celebrated town of Cork. Here it was impossible for her to talk any more of "her father's estates!" and, moreover, the expenses of home service pressed so heavily that poor Mr. Singleton was unable to keep even the "one-horse chaise!" which Henry Ancrum had predicted would be the extent of their carriage accommodation; and it ended by Mrs. Singleton persuading her husband to exchange into a regiment in India, where the extra pay permits them to live with tolerable comfort, and
Major and Mrs. Brennan have settled down on their land near Napier, which being close to the town, the Major has been able to sell part of it in town lots at a good price, and the worthy old gentleman is therefore much better off than when we last saw him. He still tells his old stories, and laughs his old laughs.
Dr. Smith has also been successful in his own line: he has become Doctor and Superintendent of a lunatic asylum, where his pompous manner has an immense effect on the feebler inmates, who in their lucid intervals look up to him with intense awe and veneration. With regard to the more refractory patients, the Doctor is accustomed to boast that he has only to give them what he calls a coup d'œil), to reduce them to submission immediately.
Mrs. Smith is more genteel (to use her own phrase) than ever, and she now seldom gives more than one finger even to her most intimate friends.
Babington has retired from the service. He now belongs to a celebrated West End Club; he is well up in the economical dodge of taking half portions of every eatable under the sun. He is perfectly acquainted with the latest intelligence which has been received at the modern Babylon. Should you meet him in great excitement at any time, and ask him what is the matter, he will probably tell you, "The Indian Mail is late—late, sir, by George!—Six hours over the last one." Then again, you will occasionally see him at the corner of a street, crushing a delicate
Adelaide Brown—poor Adelaide Brown! how sad she was. Regiment after regiment was leaving New Zealand. Algernon Neville's regiment must soon go, and he had not proposed—he had said nothing; she had no heart for "dodges" now.
Perhaps she was a bit of a flirt; perhaps we must confess that; she had certainly begun by flirting, but she had become caught herself. She loved Algernon Neville, she knew she loved him. She would think of him all day; she would fall asleep at night thinking of him; she would say to herself, "Why do I love this big, blundering fellow?" but it was of no use—she did love him.
One day she was seated idly at the window doing nothing, only looking out at the ships in the beautiful bay of the Waitemata, when Algernon came in.
"Addie!" he said.
"Don't call me Addie, sir," she replied, with a little of her old manner.
"Yes, I must; for I have come to say good-bye."
"Oh, Algy!" she cried; turning deadly pale.
"Yes, I am sorry to say it is too true; we go to Australia in a few days, and after that to England."
She looked at him, she did her best to restrain her feelings, but they would have way; she burst into a passion of tears, and hid her face in her hands.
Algernon Neville leant over her; he had thought, he had hoped she loved him as he wished to be loved. Now it appeared
"Oh, you deceitful wretch! you loved me after all."
"Oh, Algy," she said looting up at him through her tears, "I could not help it, I did all I could to—to—hate you, but I coo—coo—could not; for, after all, I am only a boo—boo—poor fond wo—wo—woman." And again she hid her face, and wept more bitterly than before.
He could bear it no longer. He took her in his arms, and kissed her; he asked her to be his wife. Oh, how happy she was! It is needless to add that she said "yes."
After some time Algernon said—"But Adelaide, a good-natured friend told me all about the 'dodges' (you know good-natured friends do tell one everything).
Recollect, at least, we must nave no more of the aggravating dodge."
"Oh, no," she said, laughing. "Oh, no, Algy—no more dodges;" and to do her justice, she has never since tried either the sentimental, the religious, or the aggravating dodge.
The End.