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Henry Ancrum: A Tale of the Last War in New Zealand, Volume 2

Chapter IV

page 44

Chapter IV.

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 page 45the morning on the confession of love for himself which had escaped Celia the night before; he knew how warm-hearted and affectionate her disposition was, and he fancied he knew how violent her feelings might become if she were allowed to fancy that her love was returned, and then he suddenly awakened to the fact that it was not so.

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 page 46interest; she hung upon every word he uttered; occasionally when her rival's name was mentioned, her little hands would clench till the nails almost dug into the flesh, and her large dark eyes would flash with anger; but with the exception of demanding an exact description of Edith Mandeville, her height, the colour of her hair, the colour of her eyes; was she dark or fair? &c. &c.; she did not interrupt him till all was finished. Then she said—

"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.

page 47

"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 page 48surprised. Ah, if you inquire, you will find that this was not an extraordinary occurrence — the Maori was very handsome, and possessed the strong, well-knit, almost perfect figure so common with his race. He boldly asked the missionary for his daughter in marriage; but the missionary was very angry, and said that his daughter should only marry one of her own people. The daughter was in despair; she thought she loved the man; she thought she could not live without the handsome savage, as you would call him, and the end was, they ran away together. They could not be married, for there was no one to marry them; but they read the marriage service over together in a Maori prayer-book, and considered themselves married in the eyes of Heaven. Time passed on.

"The missionary's daughter became tired of the wild life she was leading: she be-page 49came a mother, but even that sweet tie did not reconcile her to her home in the wilderness, she longed to return to the haunts of civilization. She wrote to her father to take her back, and he consented, provided she proceeded at once to England. Her Maori husband, who had long seen her indifference, raised no objection, and she returned to her home, thence to Auckland, and thence to England, where she was confided to the care of some relations, who probably never heard the exact state of her case. So it would be with the woman you have spoken to me about; do you think she would like to live the life you are now living?"

"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 page 50go. It is not merely that the chiefs fear that you might give information to the General about this place, but since you have been with us you have studied the Maori language, you not only speak to those who can speak English but also to those who cannot. Perhaps without reflection you have made a great many inquiries, this has excited suspicion, and it is thought that you possess a great deal of information as to the strength of the tribes, the way they are armed, and a great many other particulars which it might be dangerous for the General to know."

"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 page 51foolish fancy for my poor self, a feeling which even if I had never seen you I am sure I could not have returned."

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 page 52considered immodest to do so; but I am a free woman of the wilderness, and I am not ashamed of my love—I glory in it; I will even tell you why I love you. I love you because you are honest, true, and brave; I love you because you pursue what you consider the path, of duty, and do not swerve from it to curry favour with any man; I love you because you abhor lies, and speak the truth under all circumstances, even when it is to your own disadvantage to do so."

"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."

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"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 page 54adores to any one else; no, if you are not mine you never shall be another's."

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."