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Chapter II.

‘Doth lofty roof delight thine eye,
Or stately pillar please?
Look, stranger, at yon azure sky,
And pillars such as these;
Where wreathing round majestic trees
The verdant ivy clings;
The pillared roofs the peasant sees
Are fit to shelter kings.’

The Forester.

Mr. Bailey's second visitor was of unquestionable respectability. He was mounted on a good horse, was well dressed, and had a shrewd honest-looking face to recommend him. It was a peculiar face also, thin and long, with large features, not exactly after the pattern termed classical. Having seen it once, you were almost sure to remember it for ever afterwards. Mr. Wishart used to say that his face was at least unique. A Scotchman might have called it ‘kenspeckle.’

‘Good morning, Mr. Bailey,’ said this gentleman. ‘I have been wondering why you built your house at the top of this tremendous hill. Think of the waste of time and energy in dragging up everything you want, to say nothing of dragging yourself up at night when you come home tired from your work.’

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‘Why, sir,’ drawled Bailey, quite confounded at being attacked on this subject by a stranger, ‘houses are mostly set up on high ground, aren't they? I've a poor memory; but I believe there's authority in Scripture for that. Any one would rather build on a hill than be smothered in a hole, and what choice have we between the two?’

‘Not much, truly,’ said the gentleman smiling. ‘May I leave my horse here till I come back in the afternoon? I am going to walk through the bush.’

‘Oh, certainly, leave him here and welcome. You'll find it a rough walk, and the track's not very good to follow.’

‘I ought to know the way to my own land, I suppose; but, to tell you the truth, I'm not very certain about it,’ said Mr. Wishart. ‘I hardly like to take you from your work, else I was going to ask you to go on with me.’

‘Oh, never mind the work,’ said the easy-tempered Bailey. ‘It won't disappear by keeping, I guess. But come in’—as his hospitable instincts were again aroused—‘and Mrs. Bailey shall make you a cup of strong tea.’

‘Thanks. I shall be glad of a rest. But no tea, my good friend. I know how you hospitable country settlers make tea. I don't want to shatter my nervous system.’

‘Nerves! Bless us, whoever heard of nerves in the bush! Do I look nervous? I've half lived on tea these fifteen years.’

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Mr. Bailey's appearance seemed to satisfy the other, for he laughed, and said, ‘Well, so be it. I'll not refuse your kindness.’ He tied up his horse, and followed the settler towards the house.

It was a gray-looking little house, washed by showers and bleached by sunshine. The steep hill it was perched on, and the big trees that overhung it, made it look all the less. It had been built in such a frail and flimsy manner that one was inclined to believe at first sight that a vigorous push would send it tumbling down the hill. There was too little of everything in this house: too little space, too few windows, and too few panes in them; the roof had not enough of steepness, the doors of width, nor the ceilings of height. Nothing was large and well developed except the chimney, which was preposterously big, and admitted more wind and rain in bad weather than was agreeable. When it is added that there was nothing exactly square, level, or straight about the whole building, enough has been said of the faults of poor Mr. Bailey's house, which, having been build by himself, with few tools and a paucity of materials, could hardly have been expected to be other than it was.

Inside the house Mr. Wishart noticed, though he did not appear to notice, how refreshingly clean and neat everything was; how plain and poor also. ‘Not much appearance of Mammon worship here,’ he thought to himself, and smiled. The walls and ceiling of planed kauri, were as unblemished as when fresh page 17 from the carpenter's hands. The floor—it was profanation to tread upon it. The table-cloth might have been taken for an emblem of purity, and the dinner which Mrs. Bailey had whisked on to it, though not one of many courses, was better cooked and more wholesome than nine-tenths of the elegant abominations which go by that name.

Mr. Wishart had a strong suspicion that it was pheasant stew he was eating; in December too—a month corresponding to the English June. He was a justice, and therefore bound not to connive at any breaking of the laws; nevertheless he held his peace and accepted a second helping to the forbidden dish, which was remarkably good. He rose in Mrs. Bailey's estimation by adroit flattery of her cookery, but he fell in Mr. Bailey's at the same time by ruthlessly cutting short the story told to every new acquiantance of how he had built his house without spirit-level or plumb-line, and with a wonderfully small quantity of nails. Bailey was constrained to hurry himself, though constitutionally averse to all hurry; and while yet the afternoon was young they started for the bush.

Mr. Wishart was an active man, and evidently relished a scramble, though he was inclined to complain of the numerous gullies that beset the way. ‘This country wants rolling out,’ he said.

‘There'd be a sight more of it if it could be done,’ said Mr. Bailey. ‘I wish my land was rolled out, and sold for twenty pounds an acre.’

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‘What, is all this yours? We seem to have come a good distance already.’

‘No, this is Government land. You may know it by being bad; they have the worst pick. It runs to the creek, and then comes your own.’

‘So you're my nearest neighbour.’

‘Yes, sir; and I hope we shall be good neighbours.’

‘Well; why not? You've made a good begining, at any rate. But perhaps you like to entertain strangers.’

‘I never turned but one from my door,’ said the settler, ‘and I shall always regret it.’

‘How was that?’

‘I'm not a bad-tempered man,’ said Bailey; ‘at least not as a rule; but that day I was as grumpy as possible. There was reason for it, if there is any reason in a man behaving like a bear. My wife was ill, and the children weren't much better; they'd just got over the measles, which had been given them by that ungrateful Stevens family,—a careless lot, who are always bringing something nasty into the neighbourhood. I had to cook, and nurse, and see to everything in the house, besides my own work, and I was clean done up. Well, one evening I'd put the children to bed before time, to be clear of them, and get the sound of their crying out of my ears before next day, and I was bustling about, making tea for Mary Anne, and feeling just able to crawl, when there was a knock. page 19 I wasn't pleased to hear it, and I felt savage when I was asked to take a stranger in, just for one night. I—really, sir, I'm ashamed to tell you,’—and Mr. Bailey's sunburnt face actually showed signs of a blush,—‘I said I couldn't. It was a youngish man. and he spoke well, in a half-shy, frightened way though. He was as pale and thin as a shadow, and his clothes looked worn and old. He didn't answer when I said No; only looked at me, and somehow that look cut me to the heart. I'd have said Yes in another second, only just then one of the children must wake up with such a cry and go bump out of bed. I ran for it, and the wind blew the door to in the poor fellow's face. When I came back he was gone. I went outside and cooied; but it was no use. He never was seen alive after that,’ ended Mr. Bailey, with a gulp.

‘I don't understand. Did he go and make away with himself, because a hard-worked father of a family wouldn't yield to his unconscionable demands?’

‘Ah, sir, there's no joke in it. He was found in the bush a day or two after, laid down as if he'd laid himself to sleep; all on the cold wet ground. We found, by a letter on him to a friend in England, that he'd tried to get work everywhere, and failed,—I expect, poor fellow, because he couldn't do much,—and he'd come to his last penny. The letter wasn't finished, so there was no name to it. He had nothing else about him, except a sixpence, page 20 wrapped up in the letter, which he'd kept for postage. He was writing for money to take him home again. Poor thing—poor thing!’

‘Yes; a sad tale. An “ower true tale” of many a poor wretch who has left home thinking he was on the high road to fortune.’

‘It was just here where we found him,’ said Mr. Bailey, lowering his voice. ‘I didn't notice before.’

‘A beautiful spot,’ said his companion. ‘Those tall trees, standing row after row, with trunks as smooth and regular as pillars cut in stone, and their branches meeting above, are grander than cathedral arches. There, where the light streams through, one might fancy a window, sculptured in the most delicate tracery. It is too still; if there were but the faintest soughing in the tree-tops I could fancy I heard the organ.’

‘Yes, it looks beautiful,’ assented Mr. Bailey; ‘but it's not the place I'd choose to die in. I'd rather close my eyes peaceably in my bed.’

‘I incline to your opinion, Mr. Bailey,’ replied the other, ‘though, like the poor fellow of your story, we may both have to die in a place we little wot of. But I'd rather be buried here than in any cemetery I've seen.’

‘You were saying how silent it is,’ said Bailey. ‘Have you ever noticed, sir, that the bush is twice as still by day as it is by night? When I'm out after dark it seems full of sound; the creaking of branches and rustling of leaves and the calls of page 21 birds, with all sorts of strange noises one can't account for. I've heard the twigs crack behind me so as I could have sworn some one was following me, and I should see him if I turned my head. But I couldn't have looked back to save my life.’

‘Aha,’ said Mr. Wishart. ‘Bushmen have nerves, I find.’

‘It's not nerves at all,’ protested Bailey. ‘A man who had none would feel the same, if he walked down this gully in the dead of night. Suppose, as he's going steadily on with all these unearthly sounds of whisperings, flutterings, and cracklings about him, there comes a screech right into his ear and something dashes at his face. I've known a man jump a yard high in such a situation, and it was only a little morepork.’

They were approaching the outskirts of the bush. The sun shone cheeringly through in places, and a light wind stirred the leaves. And, strangely enough, the grateful breeze brought the sound of song to their ears.

‘Is this one of your unaccountable noises?’ asked Mr. Wishart.

‘I can't account for it anyhow,’ said Mr. Bailey.

Though the voice was low they could hear the words, for the unseen singer was not one of those minstrels whose pronunciation encourages one to believe that they are warbling in an unknown tongue.

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‘Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me
And trill his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat.’

‘Upon my word, nothing can be more appropriate,’ said Mr. Wishart. ‘Why did I not guess before that this was the forest of Arden? There is romance in the very air, and song floats on the wind. I expect every moment to catch a glimpse of the saucy Rosalind, or to surprise Orlando carving her name on the bark of trees.’

‘I've read that,’ said the settler. ‘I didn't think much of it, and there was something quite silly about that melancholy Jakes, as they called him. I don't care for Shakspere, and I think if he lived now people wouldn't make much fuss over him.’

‘My dear Mr. Bailey, you positively refresh me. I've lived a good while in this world, but I never before met a man brave enough to say he didn't care for Shakspere. Let us look about and find the melancholy “Jakes,” as we have just heard his song.’

‘I don't know who or where Jakes may be,’ said Bailey, ‘but here's the one who sung, and I believe I've seen him before.’

The singer was indeed before them, indolently reclining under the greenwood tree, in this instance a fine large puriri, whose rich dark green was abundantly strewn with pink flowers, and here and there with cherry-like fruit. His dreamy eye and unmoved countenance showed that he had not perceived their page 23 approach; perhaps in imagination he trod the classic shades of Arden; at all events his thoughts were far away.

‘Who is this?’ whispered Mr. Wishart. ‘A wandering artist, botanist, or what?’

‘A little of both sometimes, and nearly everything else as well,’ was Mr. Bailey's comprehensive answer. ‘He often comes here. They call him Randall.’

An unguarded step on some crackling fern stems, and the dreamer had come back to the realities of the nineteenth century. He rose and turned his eyes, with an inquiring look, on the others, as if to ask why they stood there watching him.

‘I was looking for the melancholy Jaques,’ said Mr. Wishart, in answer to this mute inquiry. ‘You were singing to him just now.’

‘I hardly knew what I was singing,’ answered Randall smiling. ‘I fancy the melancholy Jaques must have made haste to hide himself: you know he loves best to be alone.’

‘And if such a sour-tempered fellow ever lived, I should say his room was better than his company,’ said Mr. Bailey.

Mr. Wishart had been surveying his new acquaintance all this while. It was his custom with people whom he met for the first time. Sensitive persons who felt his eye upon them did not like it, though there was nothing offensive in its calm scrutiny. They knew they were being weighed in the balance of his mind. Once or twice he had been known to page 24 give expression to the decision arrived at, unconscious that he was speaking aloud, and it had not rejoiced those most concerned. This time he said nothing to reveal the current of his thoughts. But presently he turned to Randall in an easy, familiar manner, as if they had been friends for the last five years, and burst into a stream of conversation of a nature that astonished Mr. Bailey, who was soon out of his depth.

‘It was wonderful,’ said the worthy man, when he repeated everything to his Mary Anne. ‘After they'd done talking of that unnatural fellow written of by Shakspere—I mean Jakes, or Jacks,—is it?—and of half a dozen others with outlandish names, they talked of everything in nature: the colour of the sky, the trees, the ferns—they knew them all by name—and everything you can think of. I always thought Mr. Randall had a great deal in him; and Mr. Wishart seemed to draw it out by the——the bucketful.’ Mr. Bailey's similes were of a strictly domestic nature, and always original.

Just before his encounter with Randall Mr. Wishart had discovered that he was on his own land. He had only seen the place once before, seven years earlier. Even then he had thought it beautiful, and resolved to make it his own some day. Since the purchase had been completed he had thought and talked of little else but his newly-acquired property, and now he was soon engaged heart and soul on the same fascinating theme. Here his house should stand; there should be the page 25 gardens of fruit and flowers; there, amongst the trees, he would make winding walks, leading to the creek. However far he might have wandered he could not have found a pleasanter or more peaceful home, and in this place he was content to live out the rest of his days. As a sailor deems his ship to be the finest, fastest thing afloat, though it may be clumsier than any Dutch galiot; as a farmer will be stubborn in attachment to his farm, though its acres may grow thistles instead of wheat and cockles instead of barley; and as men in general have a belief that what they have chosen and appropriated to themselves must necessarily be of great value,—so was Mr. Wishart convinced that his estate was something as near an Eden as can be found in these latter days.

‘There is only one thing wanting,’ he said; ‘a view of the sea. Personally, I hate its cruel, cold, and crawling waters as much as I can hate anything. I never trust myself upon it except when forced by sheer necessity. I suffer too much in such a situation. But in some cases I love the sea. I love it in a fine painting, and I love it on land, when it comes in as a distant and beautiful object, too far off to remind one unpleasantly of its real character. If we could see it shining through those trees, or if there was an opening in that range, and, somewhere beyond, a pale blue expanse, ethereal enough for a phantom ship to float upon, I should call this perfection.’

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‘I'm not over fond of the sea,’ remarked Mr. Bailey. ‘What a blessed relief it was to stand upon firm ground again after our passage to this country! We were hanging between heaven and earth the whole way out, only supported by the treacherous element, and the captain and sailors as unconcerned as possible.’

‘Don't speak evil of what has borne you safely for so many thousand miles,’ said Randall. ‘I often wonder why I wasn't a sailor, I have always had such a passion for the sea. I was once—it was a mere chance that prevented it—on the point of running away to sea. A pity, perhaps, that I didn't. No, don't abuse the sea; it is beautiful and fascinating enough to make one forget all its treachery and cruelty.’

‘If you are both so fond of it,’ said Mr. Bailey, ‘you should go up to the top of the range and have plenty of it. You may see half creation from there. You've often been up, Mr. Randall, I know.’

‘I was thinking of trying that climb,’ said Mr. Wishart. ‘We'll take it on our way back.’

Mr. Bailey had not expected this, and looked mournful. ‘We'd be pretty late in getting back,’ he said. ‘I don't often drag myself up there. I can get enough exercise without it. Last time I went after some of the cattle. Of course the animals weren't there; they never are where you look for them, and I tugged and tore myself half to pieces for nothing. I declare it's so thick in page 27 some places I don't think a wild cat could squeeze through.’

‘Well, I don't pretend to be quite so active as that creature,’ said Mr. Wishart, ‘but I've gone through a good deal of dense bush in New Zealand. No, Mr. Bailey, I won't take you as a guide after you have come so far already to oblige me. Your friend will show me the way.’

Mr. Wishart soon began to believe that the settler's report of the density of the undergrowth was only slightly exaggerated. Prickly brambles tore him, and sharp-leaved sedges excoriated his hands. He trod on prostrate trunks which looked perfectly sound, and sank up to the knee in a mass of decayed wood and noisome fungi; he wriggled and twisted amongst interlaced creepers and knotted loops of supplejack, and caught his foot in them, or against stems of screw pines, times without number. Sometimes he actually crawled on his hands and knees through little passages like rabbit burrows close to the ground, and sometimes he walked on tree piled on tree that had been uprooted by a tempest, or had succumbed to old age, filling up the narrow ravine till it looked like a slide for fallen timber. One plant crowded another out of existence here. The earth was made of the ashes of the dead, and every forest monarch from base to crown supported a densely populated kingdom.

Should they ever get through it? Mr. Wishart began to think. He had lost his spectacles, and page 28 seeing everything with a dimmed vision, was like to dash his head against the trees for want of them. He had slipped on the stones in the creek into water of disagreeable depth and coldness, and he repeatedly found himself sliding down steep banks, too rapidly for personal comfort, yet all this served only to urge him onward towards the crest of the range. And, when at last this was attained, he rushed forward and hurrahed like any school-boy.

Then he felt awed into silence. All that beautiful world beneath him was hushed in the silence of a summer's eve. No sound so harsh as his own voice broke the repose of nature; only confused and gentle murmurings reached him from below. This had been a place most dear to the people who had given enduring names to every hill and stream around—the Maoris dead and gone. Tradition said that chief had been carried up here to die. On the palisading round his grave his finely-woven mat, his carved weapons and ornaments, had hung through the rains and scorching suns of many seasons till they crumbled into dust. When fate drove the tribe from their homes they had turned back here to look their last on the land which would be theirs no more. ‘Remain, remain; we go but thou remainest, were the words wailed forth to the wind. Yes; the hills, the woods, and the streams remain they outlive the race that loved them.

Was it so unreasonable after all to fancy that page 29 from this breezy height one saw the better part of creation? Northward and southward, as far as the eye can follow the dim distance, a beautiful country of softly-swelling hills and vales, green forest and winding river. Eastward and westward rolls the sea, as if to break through the narrowed island. On the nearer western coast are steep cliffs and an open shore where the sea rushes angrily in on the calmest days of summer. It is the swell of an ocean which reaches to the frozen pole. But, on the other coast, the sea meets the land in a gentler mood; it ripples over white beaches; there are sunny, land-locked bays, far-reaching promontories, and many an island scattered on the gulf's blue waves.

It is all mapped out before them. The town, with its white buildings, looks so near, the churches and villages, the farms and farmhouses of the country seem to lie at their feet. Do they not fancy they hear the cry of sea-birds and the roar of waters on that wild coast where the waves are breaking in milk-white foam? or, from the farm-lands that slope to the other sheltered shore, do not the homely sounds of the lowing of kine, the barking of dogs, the chiming of bells, come dreamily through the soft air? No; it is Fancy that plays tricks with them. They only hear the booming of the breakers, and the moaning of the night wind that is rising. Oh, how fresh and cool that wind, chilled by southern snows and icy seas; how keenly it meets their flushed faces!

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The sun was set when they had found their way out of the bush and were on the rough track which led to the settler's house. Soon it was night, and all the stars were out—all which could hold their own against the splendour of a full moon. The sea rolled on in waves of silver now; in the dark shades of the bush each tree seemed carved of ebony. But the way was plain before them, and Bailey's cottage was reached without any misadventure.