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

Chapter IX

page 115

Chapter IX.

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 page 116with the Maori character, the fact that Henry Ancrum was "missing" appeared equivalent to his having been "killed." He was aware that the Maories never took prisoners, or if there had been instances of such a thing having been done, that the exceptions were so rare that it would be absurd to entertain any hope on this score; he therefore considered Henry Ancrum to be dead. When he arrived at this conclusion he was very much shocked; he was not naturally a man of very strong feeling, and the feeling he did possess had been narrowed and hardened by constant business habits, and the one idea of making money — the worship of the almighty dollar! He was moreover a prudent man, and he had determined that his daughter should not marry a person who from his point of view was little better than a penniless adventurer. Still he could not page 117but know that his daughter loved Henry Ancrum, and he shuddered when he thought of the effect which the sudden announcement of his death might have upon her. He therefore sent for Mrs. Mandeville, and showing her the sad news contained in the newspaper, asked her if she did not consider that it would be better in the first instance to try and persuade Edith that there was some hope in the fact that Henry Ancrum was only missing, and that there was a chance that he might be a prisoner amongst the natives?

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 as-page 118tonishment she burst into a passion of tears and sobs such as that respectable elderly gentleman had not witnessed on her part for many a long day, and which, to tell the truth, he did not particularly admire now.

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."

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"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 page 120alive, as she felt that whatever happened it was necessary to try and soften the first effects of the blow her daughter had received; and she partly succeeded, simply because Edith wished to believe what she said to be true. And when we wish to believe, the path to belief itself is greatly smoothed.

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.

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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 page 122nature. He had been struck with her at first sight. But he soon learnt to love her—love her, it is true, after the fashion of such men as he was, but still with an ardour that surprised even himself. Yes, he loved her—loved her more than he had ever loved any woman before—not with that transient feeling he had so often experienced: the mere wish to pluck the flower, and then throw it away. No; this was an enduring love; the more so, because at first any success appeared so difficult. He wished to possess her, to marry her, to have her all to himself, and blended with these other feelings, came the desire to bear her away from Henry Ancrum. He hated Henry Ancrum—he hated him bitterly. Why? Because he had deeply injured him. What a strange feeling this is, and yet how often we observe it! What man is there who has lived much in the world, who page 123cannot recall many instances where he has observed that if one man has wilfully and intentionally injured another, he hates the man he has injured ever after?

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 page 124marriage. There must be a long delay. Something might occur, and, as we have seen, something did occur. The battle of Koheroa occurred, and Henry Ancrum was supposed to be dead.

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 page 125that Malcolm Butler was a constant visitor at the Mandevilles' house, the wise ones began to whisper and shake their heads; they were of opinion that "Miss Mandeville would soon dry her tears and be consoled by a new lover;" that "this would be a capital match for her;" that "she was a sensible girl, and knew on which side her bread was buttered," &c., &c. As for Edith, she thought of none of these things; she looked upon Malcolm Butler as the friend of her father, the friend of her mother, the friend of her dear Henry, who she still persisted in hoping might be alive, though he was apparently so decidedly of the contrary opinion. At times indeed she would sink into melancholy, a dark feeling would come over her, a dim, undefined perception of evil, as if the glorious light of day was removed and she was wandering in twilight, almost night—as page 126if some baneful creature were hovering near her with outstretched funereal wings ready to close on her young life and shut out the last glimmering ray, the very last feeble hope of joy in this world, and leave her but a living corpse waiting for the grave.