III

Governor Grey (governors fell like leaves in the early page 86 days of the colony and New Zealand had disposed of three in a short eight years) was, as everyone agreed, a stiff stick and icily indifferent to blandishments. Auckland had still too many taxes, too many women, and certainly too much Governor Grey, who thought himself the whole British Constitution and was much ridiculed by Jermyn in the thin little Chronicle, which now appeared twice weekly. Jermyn (who had come back to stay until he tired of it and found telling his ambitions to Sally continually more enjoyable) asserted that Grey, very tightly buttoned into black frock coat and very loosely slid into large trousers of a pale check, was intended by Providence to be ridiculed.

“I shall call this the Petticoat Government,” said Jermyn. And did, although Peregrine's Jovian calm broke for once, and he swore quite lustily at Jermyn for embroiling him with the Governor just as England discovered that the Waitangi Treaty was very far from being what it ought and began hastily dividing the country into New Ulster and New Munster (which didn't suggest peace), and dowering it with provincial assemblies, legislative councils and what not, all tangled in a vague host of strings for a proper man to pull to his advantage.

For a bet Jermyn lampooned Grey as a monthly nurse feeding a rebellious New Zealand out of a rum-bottle and stuck it up on the prison door in Victoria Street just above the stocks. And then, leaving Peregrine quite speechless, he settled his tall hat at a jaunty cock and went over to Official Bay to tell Sally about it.

Caroline (Nature's spoil-sport) was there, looking as though she had been dragged backward through a briar-patch. A shockingly demoralized Lady Lovel since John had taken himself, his Herefords, and his family off into the bush twelve miles away. Nemesis herself might have pitied Caroline (who had come in by bullock-dray to have a tooth out), sitting in rumpled crimson skirts and page 87 a draggled bonnet, complaining: “Sir John is quite impossible. He never thinks of me.”

Difficult to help it when there's so much of her, thought Jermyn. (Gad, how delicious Sally looked with that white soft fichu and that delicate bloom in her cheeks.) But he was sorry for Caroline's girls. Four … or was it six of 'em, whom, it appeared, she was developing so uprightly that there was danger of their falling backward.

“I give them daily tuition and two Collects on Sundays. With no help but a vulgar immigrant woman I can do no more,” declared Caroline, pulling on tight gloves of purple kid with a vast sigh. “I always say Peregrine must have been born with a silver tablespoon in his mouth while Sir John got a saltspoon. Goodbye, Sally. You can send Tiffany out with Sir John if you like and I'll bring her back when I come for the Governor's ball. I hope she knows her Collects well?”

At the Governor's ball, said Sally, dimpling and eager when Caroline was gone, Darien would come out. She had written Mr Lovel the most beautiful letter saying how grateful she was for his goodness and now she was finished and would be a lady for ever. But Jermyn was more interested in the rout to-night at Sir William Martin's. “You'll give me the first dance, Sally? I'm counting on it.”

“Oh … Mr Lovel always has that. He says it's correct. The second, Jermyn? May I have the second?”

Feeling the colour glowing in her face she was frightened. It must be wrong to be so glad Jermyn liked her, to find herself singing about the house for no reason, to want so often to kiss. Tiffany's dear roguish little face although knowing so well that Mr Lovel disapproved of demonstrations. It's just because Jermyn's kind and I'm so missing Darien, thought Sally, who was always running away from her head to confront her heart and then running back again.

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“Very well. The second,” said Jermyn in a queer voice and going away so abruptly that she knew she must have offended him. But how could she help it, she thought, hearing the tears in her voice as she instructed her own immigrant maid about the dinner. She must think of hymns. “The Lord of Love my Shepherd is….” No, no; don't think of love, Sally. Think of the sauce for Mr Lovel's pudding….