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Promenade

II

II

NewZealand (it seemed) in her struggle to become the Land of Promise had only succeeded in establishing herself as the Land of Continual Probations. So loudly had she screamed for representative government that after a long hysteria of special sessions and the passing and repealing of many acts and ordinances England at last gave birth page 175 to a hybrid called the Constitution Act, and was now mopping her brows and hoping those imbeciles at the Antipodes would be content with that.

Governor Grey was so far from content that it was rumoured he would resign, and this, said everyone, was the most promising sign yet. But when gentlemen came to examine into the reservations of the Act more chairs were broken at the Mechanic's Institute, and Sir Winston was moved to talk about the soul.

So life went on much as usual through the bright weather. Great bronze pigeons cooed and black-and-white fantails flitted down in the bush-gully where Roddy made magic with his flute and found the harmonies taking the shape of Eriti surprisingly often. Tiffany continued to live in her own magnificent world of fancies wherein papa had no consequence, though her hands were making him a red-and-blue smoking cap. John chopped down more tall trees, burned more of the green shining slash with scarlet running fires, felt the hairy pasterns of the Clydesdales which he would presently sell to strain their great hearts out hauling the munition wagons, and was very happy living a bachelor at the farm.

Up at the barracks bugles blew and drums rolled; smart pipe-clayed regiments marched out in the blue service uniforms into the dark bush, and others returned, draggled and weary, with elbows out and mud on their eyebrows. On the English grass lawns of Lovel Hall and other handsome homes peacocks spread their dazzling tails to a challenging sun, and in the Government House Gardens ladies (unhappily powerless to grow new feathers so easily as the peacocks) spread their nets of sly glances and smiles for impressionable gallants.

The Harbour Board enclosed more of the grey mudflats preparatory to laying another street among the pervasive odours of drying and decaying refuse, and Belinda, who was to come out at the ball which everyone hoped would help the new Parliament to get properly on its feet, page 176 was laced so tightly by Caroline that her red cheeks paled and she fainted daily.

“Mamma says I'm to have no more milk or butter till I'm safely married,” sighed Linda, who loved her flesh-pots and plenty of fun and giggles. Darien, who couldn't really go off in an elegant flop yet though her waist was smaller than Linda's, was watching her recovery with critical eyes. It certainly did look a good way to a man's heart.

“I suppose it's because I have more character,” she thought, nightly provoking more ardencies at the little carpet-dances to accordion music which were so fashionable, and being provoked by Jermyn who so seldom seemed to be anywhere now.

Lord Calthorpe's company returned and, after an anxious time with barbers, hair-dressers and tailors, flung itself in pomatumed eagerness upon the town. Calthorpe, too red and much too surprisingly lively, flung himself on Darien, demanding instant marriage.

“We're for Van Diemen's Land next. Can't leave you behind, y'know.”

“I can't go without a trousseau,” said Darien, hedging in sudden panic.

“Bah! Tell that to the marines, my dear. A gal like you don't need clothes.”

“I must have seven complete sets of everything, and at least twenty gowns.”

“Eh? The devil you must? Doosed awkward that,” said the little lord, scratching his sandy head. “What for?”

In the next room Captain O'Reilly was singing:

Oh, Helen, fair beyond compare,
I'll make a garland of your hair….

Jermyn's song. Darien could hear the warm mellowness of his voice in the words. She sprang up with a swirl of pale green skirts and scarves.

page 177

“I won't go at all. I won't marry you. I….”

“Go it, you cripple,” returned Calthorpe admiringly. “My eye, you're a beauty when you get in a wax, Darien.”

“I won't marry you,” cried Darien, stamping. Calthorpe shut his eyes.

“Look here, I've had enough fireworks for a few months. What's the game now? Stop showin' off, my good gal, and give me a kiss.”

“I shall never kiss you again … odious wretch!”

Calthorpe got up. His muscles, Darien discovered, were alarmingly stronger.

“Then I'll kiss you,” he said amiably. “Like this … and this … and this…. You've found a new scent, you monkey. Now, my charmer, come an' dance. You know damn well you couldn't give me up if you tried.”

“I won't marry you,” gasped Darien, being dragged along.

“O waly, waly, up the bank,” replied Lord Calthorpe cheerfully, handing her over to a seeking partner. Women's tantrums, though doosed amusin', grew troublesome after a vigorous life with men. Calthorpe, who never had much conversation, said at the buffet, “Goin' to be married next month,” and left it there.

Desperate, Darien made a final attack on Jermyn which yielded so little that she cried her eyes red, and then wrote in her diary:

“Hope is for ever fled for the present and I am engulfed in Disspair. I went as far as a girl should and much further but Jermyn is abcessed with honour so I'll marry the lord and perhaps I'll find a married woman can say more. It's a mercy my trousseau is nearly ready and I'll get that bolt of true Indian muslin out of Peregrine somehow … proud puffed-up cake.”