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This text is a glossed edition of the original TuaUtu.xml file, with notes added by Vicki Hughes.
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Deceit, revenge, murder, incest, cannibalism and false identities, Wattie, Nelson. ‘Margaret Bullock’. Fantina, Richard and Kimberly Harrison. ‘Introduction’. In Utu: A Story of Love, Hate and Revenge has it all. Bullock was asked by her publisher make the novel ‘as sensational as possible’ (Wattie 78)In The Oxford Companion to New Zealand Literature. Eds. Victorian Sensations: Essays on a Scandalous Genre. Eds. Kimberly Harrison and Richard Fantina. Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 2006, pp. ix-xxiii.
Fantina and Harrison in their book Fantina, Richard and Kimberly Harrison. ‘Introduction’. In Bullock, Margaret. Fantina, Richard and Kimberly Harrison. ‘Introduction’. In Victorian Sensations: Essays on a Scandalous Genre state that sensationalist novels are often described as ‘novels with a secret’ (xii)Victorian Sensations: Essays on a Scandalous Genre. Eds. Kimberly Harrison and Richard Fantina. Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 2006, pp. ix-xxiii.Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.Victorian Sensations: Essays on a Scandalous Genre. Eds. Kimberly Harrison and Richard Fantina. Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 2006, pp. ix-xxiii.
Fantina et al state that:
At the heart of many sensation novels lies the recognition of the fluidity of identity. Rather than embracing essentialist notions of class, gender, race, and religion, the sensation novelists often complicate and at times defy them (xxi)
. Fantina, Richard and Kimberly Harrison. ‘Introduction’. In
Victorian Sensations: Essays on a Scandalous Genre. Eds. Kimberly Harrison and Richard Fantina. Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 2006, pp. ix-xxiii.
Bullock uses all these elements. Jacques crosses all the class lines as he goes from a poor valet to a count thanks to his devious behaviour, but as justice would have it Jacques ends up as the lowest of the low by the end of the novel, looked down upon by even the lowest of the ‘savages’ of New Zealand. Eleanor performs the reverse, starting off wealthy and ending up quite literally at the end of the earth to exact her revenge. Bullock plays with gender roles by having Eleanor disguised as a man for the second half of the novel, intriguingly by having her remove her eye-lashes, one can only assume that they were quite feminine and long for her to have to pluck them out. Race lines are also blurred, as Jacques and Eleanor are products of a mixed-race marriage, their father having married a ‘Gitana’ or a Spanish gypsy. Jacques claims this gypsy heritage as a reason for wanting revenge upon his father stating that he ‘must know that with our people revenge is the highest virtue. I have been reared for vengeance’ (Bullock 14) Bullock, Margaret. Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.
Fantina et al also make the statement that ‘In many sensation novels, women act boldly to accomplish their goals, giving little thought to questions of propriety’ (xvi) Fantina, Richard and Kimberly Harrison. ‘Introduction’. In Victorian Sensations: Essays on a Scandalous Genre. Eds. Kimberly Harrison and Richard Fantina. Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 2006, pp. ix-xxiii.
Bullock herself seems to have been embarrassed by the sensationalist aspect of the novel. In two letters that she wrote to
As to the story itself, my desire at the outset was to preserve the memory of manners and customs now obsolete, and fast fading from the recollection of even the natives themselves. To do this effectively involved the concoction of a story sensational from the beginning, so sensational, in fact that I am not sure but I ought again to apologise for asking you to read it (Grey 1894)
. Grey, Sir George. GL: NZ B45 2 and 3, in the Grey Collection, Auckland Libraries.
In her second letter to Grey she reiterates the sensationalist nature of first part of the novel, fearing that reading this part ‘will prove rather wearisome to one of your cultured taste’ (letter dated January 8 1895) Grey, Sir George. GL: NZ B45 2 and 3, in the Grey Collection, Auckland Libraries.
That this novel is sensationalist cannot be denied, but it is unique in that its scandalous events culminate in New Zealand in 1772. It gives us insight into how Pākehā at the end of the nineteenth century viewed Māori life before the arrival of Europeans, and their perceptions of Māori with their earliest interactions with European colonisers. But what of the woman who wrote this novel? Who was Margaret Bullock and how was this novel received in 1890s New Zealand?
What we know of the life of Wanganui Chronicle. Bullock worked with her brother as a reporter and an assistant editor at the paper and wrote stories for English and New Zealand papers under the pseudonym ‘Madge’, a name that she became quite well known for, especially in regards to her regular letters to the editor. On one occasion she had need to chastise another writer who ‘ignores literary etiquette by appropriating a nom de plume well known as mine’ (Wanganui Chronicle 23 March 1895)Wanganui Chronicle. ‘Mrs Bullock in Reply’. 23 March 1895.
Bullock’s political activism extended to women’s rights, and as such she was a member of the suffragette movement. She founded the Wanganui Women’s Franchise League in June 1893 and she was also a member of the National Council of Women. Bullock seems to have been someone who was not afraid to speak her mind. Passionate about the women’s movement Bullock had firm words to say at the annual meeting of the Wanganui Women’s Political League on 3 August 1899 in regards to what she perceived to be apathy on the part of women after they received the vote:
...we got the franchise, and then our sex had the ball at its feet. No catastrophe followed our enfranchisement. The National calamities so positively predicted have not eventuated. But neither can it be truly said that we have achieved all our warmest friends expected of us. Victory opened for us a broad road to many fields of usefulness formerly closed; croakers, discomfited, had crept out of sight and had women thenceforward stood shoulder to shoulder, united in Will, our sex would today be free of all disabilities and in a position to initiate with some hope of success, many an urgently needed reform. As it is, one sometimes rather sadly fears that our great initial victory – which should have begun a series – stands permanently alone. Yet in it we gained all the elements of perennial success. The vote, added to our united will, put all things within our reach. The absence of the “united will” renders the vote almost a nullity. Still, though the sex has not accomplished what it might have, the value and need of co-operation been generally realised, there can be no question that progress onward is being steadily made, in spite of the lamentable apathy exhibited by the majority (
Wanganui Chronicle4 August 1899).
Wanganui Chronicle. ‘Wanganui Women’s Political League’. 4 August 1899.
Bullock was the delegate from the Wanganui Political League at the annual meeting of The National Council of the Women of New Zealand in 1900 and she spoke on a number of the important issues of the day. These issues included child welfare and women’s involvement in politics ‘She was quite sure that Parliament would be none the worse for the presence of women, and women would be none the worse by their entrance into it’ (Lovell-Smith 25) Lovell-Smith, H.K. MS Papers 1376, folder 3 NCW Conference, 1900 session. p. 25, 38-9 Alexander Turnbull Library. Lovell-Smith, H.K. MS Papers 1376, folder 3 NCW Conference, 1900 session. p. 25, 38-9 Alexander Turnbull Library.
As well as her franchise involvement, Bullock was active in many other community issues. In one notable case she reported charges against a warden in the Wanganui Old Men’s Home for unlawfully assaulting a patient, she then conducted the prosecution for the case which resulted in not only the defendant being fined 60 shillings but an awareness in the community of the treatment of the elderly in retirement homes. (Wanganui Chronicle 4 – 7 October 1897)Wanganui Chronicle. ‘The Old Men’s Home’. 4 October 1897.
Sir, - I have discovered a phenomenon, and hasten to record the fact. I went up yesterday to the Old Men’s Home, and found a sick man properly cared for, on a perfectly sweet and spotless bed, in a perfectly clean and odourless room...Truly publicity is a good thing. Gentle public, continue your interest (
Wanganui Herald, 29 January 1900).
Wanganui Herald. ‘To the Editor’. 29 January 1900.
Concerned about the welfare of all citizens Bullock was also a visitor to the women’s prison and she spoke out at the police commission about the below-average conditions that female prisoners were detained in and that ‘it was high time some alteration was made’ (Wanganui Herald 24 June 1898)Wanganui Herald. ‘Police Commission’. 24 June 1898.
Bullock made use of her writing ability to support herself and her five sons. Along with her contributions to local and English newspapers she wrote three brochures for popular tourist spots in the North Island of New Zealand, and her only novel Utu: A Story of Love, Hate and Revenge. Utu seems to have been well marketed. An advertisement in the Southland Times proclaims the excitement felt at receiving advanced copies of the first four chapters and mentions that they have high expectations for the novel. Although they ‘make no comment’ on the content of the book they assure the reader that ‘when the story is published in Book form throughout the World it will create a sensation unknown in Literary circles for years’ (Southland Times 22 January 1894)Southland Times. ‘Utu’. 22 January 1894.New Zealand Graphic, the proprietor of the journal being so elated at procuring “a work of the highest literary merit” that he intended to have it published in novel form in London as “it is unquestionably the story of the year and not a mere stringing together of well-worn facts of the last Maori war.” (Wanganui Herald 15 January 1894)Wanganui Herald. ‘Utu’. 15 January 1894.Wanganui Herald states that Bullock’s ‘literary ability is fully displayed in the interesting pages of “Utu”’ (23 August 1894)Wanganui Herald. ‘Review’. 23 August 1894.Wanganui Chronicle states that the fact that the writer is one of their own should be sufficient enough reason ‘to commend it to local readers’ but that ‘“Utu” will sell itself for itself’ as the writer is ‘gifted with remarkable literary ingenuity’ (30 August 1894)Wanganui Chronicle. ‘A Readable Book’. 30 August 1894.Poverty Bay Herald 27 August 1894)Poverty Bay Herald. ‘Review’. 27 August 1894.
However, not all reviewers were completely satisfied with their reading experience, one commenting that ‘It would have been better if the French words and phrases, with which the pages are too plentifully bespattered, had been omitted’ (Fielding Star 27 August 1894)Fielding Star. ‘Local and General News’. 27 August 1894.Evening Post 18 September 1894)Evening Post. ‘Review’. 18 September 1894.
Bullock, Margaret. Grey, Sir George. GL: NZ B45 2 and 3, in the Grey Collection, Auckland Libraries.Utu to Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.Hawera & Normanby Star. ‘The Ancient Maori’. 30 August 1894.Utu as a work of fiction: ‘without committing himself to any opinion [to] its precise perfections as a work of fiction, bears willing testimony to the fidelity and accuracy with which the Maori scenes and customs are portrayed’ (Wanganui Chronicle 29 December 1894)Wanganui Chronicle. ‘Anglo-Colonial Notes’. 29 December 1894.
As Bullock states in her introduction her story ‘may justly claim to be ‘founded on fact,’ for, though the characters are imaginary, the incidents are worked up from reliable materials, and the more shocking events are but detailed reflexes of historical fact’ ( Bullock, Margaret. Utu 2)Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894. Marquis de Castries and the
Duyker, Edward. An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772. Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1994.
Bullock has the expedition sighting New Zealand ‘in the early days of May 1772’ (74) Bullock, Margaret. Ollivier, Isabel. Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.Mascarin cautiously and the crew encouraged them to come aboard. They were boarded first by one old man who was given gifts and had his cloak removed and was dressed in European clothes. At which point the old man encouraged other tribal members to come aboard, and it is reported that after this first friendly encounter, other Māori canoes came along side the boats and they had by one account 250 people aboard. Du Clesmeur recounts the encounter in an entertaining way stating that:
Finally we had on board the two vessels at least a hundred Zealanders, who sang and danced almost all the time, and it was only with difficulty that we got rid of them, and even then on condition that we would pay them a visit; to engage us still further they gave us to understand that their women were pretty, hoping to attract us by this ploy which is indeed an effective way to unite nations the most disparate in their ways, their manners and their customs (Ollivier 22-3)
. Ollivier, Isabel.
Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne,. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.
The fictional first encounter that Bullock envisioned between the two cultures is a somewhat sombre affair. A canoe is spotted in the ocean but it is filled with people that are ‘either all dead or in a very exhausted condition’ (Bullock 75) Bullock, Margaret. Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.Utu):
Another thing occurs to me, D’Estrelles. The poor Maori has been grievously mis-represented. He has been called a cannibal. But a hundred men have perished in that canoe of hunger, and not one is mutilated...Those warriors there must have been ravenous as wolves, yet there is no evidence of cannibalism. Depend upon it the gentle savage has been maligned (78)
. Bullock, Margaret.
Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.
This episode seems to have been included by Bullock to dispel the notion that the Māori people were socially deviant and killed humans for food. As Bullock states in her introduction, the chapters that are ‘descriptive of the life of the ancient Maori’ though ‘sketchy’ are ‘true to that past life, as Maori scholars and historians have handed it down to us’ (2) Bullock, Margaret. Bullock, Margaret. Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.utu, as the last evidence of his hatred and contempt’ (106)Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.Utu the dire consequences of breaking tapu:
Probably all the terrible deeds of bloody cannibalism, which, in the beginning of the century made civilized cheeks pale at the name of New Zealand, were but reprisals for some infringement of this unknown law, and might have been avoided had the pioneers of settlement been acute or heedful enough to master its meaning (86)
. Bullock, Margaret.
Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.
Bullock depicts the French men as being rather enamoured of Māori women, particularly Rau-kata-mea, a Māori princess daughter of a well-respected chief. Bullock’s narrator states that ‘the majority of the young wahines were fine creatures’ (99) Bullock, Margaret. Bullock, Margaret. Ollivier, Isabel. Ollivier, Isabel. Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.Mascarin, wrote a detailed retrospective account of the expedition and he states: ‘In the chief’s fine canoe there were four young women, not pretty in the least and rather badly built’ (Ollivier 139)Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.
In Bullock’s tale she has members of the crew breaking a significant tapu, the accidental desecration of a sacred burial site of Māori chiefs; it is this act of irreverence that seals the fate of the crew in the novel. This event is of course an invention of Bullock’s, but it would appear that Dufresne’s crew, at least unwittingly, did break several tapu laws. Edward Duyker in Duyker, Edward. Duyker, Edward.
An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772, has an excellent account of the reasons why Dufresne and some of his crew were most certainly murdered. For example, the camp they had set up for felling kauri trees to re-mast their ships would not have taken into account rituals required before the cutting down of trees. As Duyker states ‘To the Maoris, all natural objects had a spiritual dimension’ (150)
An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772. Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1994.An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772. Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1994.Te Ao Hou magazine there is an account told to
But there came a day when the foreigners rowed ashore in order to net fish on the beach at Manawaora. The Maoris scolded them for this, for the beach was tapu to some of Te Kauri's people...Some men from there had been drowned in the Bay of Islands, and had been cast ashore on this beach. Although the people of Ngati Pou told them angrily not to do this... the foreigners took no notice, and persisted in drawing in their net on the beach. Then Ngati Pou became very sad, and no longer visited the ships (
Te Ao Hou1965).
Te Ao Hou. ‘The First Pakehas to Visit the Bay of Islands’. No. 51, June 1965.
Along with breaking tapu, Duyker cites economic and territorial reasons for Dufresne’s demise. Te Kuri (possibly the chief Takori that Bullock refers to in her text) was ‘the paramount chief of the region’ (149) Duyker, Edward. Ollivier, Isabel. An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772. Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1994.
Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.
I do not know what the natives thought when they saw us settling in this fashion. I am convinced that they believed very firmly that we would stay there forever because each day we unloaded many items from the vessels (147)
. Ollivier, Isabel.
Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.
If this is what Te Kuri believed then Dufresne would have been a threat to his authority. The economic effect of supplying food for the two crews would also have given Te Kuri cause for concern. For all these reasons ‘by the middle of June 1772 Te Kuri appears less an individual motivated by barbaric passions, than a leader under great pressure’ (Duyker 151-2) Duyker, Edward. An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772. Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1994.
Bullock’s account of the murder of Dufresne seems to be fairly accurate. Up to the end Dufresne had no suspicion of the offence that he had caused the Māori people and his casual attitude depicted by Bullock matches his attitude as evidenced by Roux in his log book, as he details the last conversation that he had with Dufresne:
I remarked that he should not be so trusting with these people and that I was convinced that the natives were plotting harm. He would believe nothing of it and kept on repeating that we had only to treat them kindly and they would never do us any harm...Mr Marion said to me: ‘How can you expect me to have a poor opinion of a people who show so much friendship for me? Since I do them nothing but good, surely they will not do me any harm?’ (Ollivier 175)
Ollivier, Isabel.
Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.
According to Roux’s log book this conversation occurred on the 11 June 1772. On the 12 June 1772, Marion Dufresne along with at least 12 others went at the invitation of Te Kuri and other chief’s on a fishing expedition at Te Hue, the cove below Te Kuri’s village. It was there that they were slaughtered. According to the information given to
Marion and his men used their nets, and the fish were lying in their boat. When the foreigners were putting the net into the boat, the Maoris attacked them and clubbed them to death. All of them were killed; not one escaped.
They took the bodies and cooked them, and Te Kauri and Tohitapu of the Te Koroa sub-tribe ate Marion, and Te Kauri took Marion's clothes. The bones of the foreigners who had been killed were made into forks for picking up food, and the thigh-bones were made into flutes (
Te Ao Hou1965).
Te Ao Hou. ‘The First Pakehas to Visit the Bay of Islands’. No. 51, June 1965.
Bullock describes the aftermath of the killings as taking place a lot more quickly than the events actually occurred. She does recount accurately that Māori were spotted by the French wearing Dufresne and the other men’s clothes, and that Crozet was some way inland and on being informed of Dufresne’s death tried to keep the news from his men as he led them back to the coast in order to prevent panic (Duyker 158-9) Duyker, Edward. Duyker, Edward. Ollivier, Isabel. An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772. Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1994.An Officer of the Blue: Marc-Joseph Marion Dufresne, South Sea Explorer, 1724-1772. Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 1994.Extract from Journals relating to the visit to New Zealand in May-July 1772 of the French ships Mascarin and Marquis de Castries under the command of M.-J. Marion du Fresne. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library Endowment Trust, 1985.
Margaret Bullock passed away on 17 June 1903 after a long illness. Her obituaries remember her as a ‘clever descriptive writer’ ( Bullock, Margaret. Evening Post 17 June 1903)Evening Post. ‘Personal Matters’. 17 June 1903.The Free Lance 27 June 1903)The Free Lance. ‘All Sorts of People’. 27 June 1903.Wanganui Herald that fittingly gives the most complete account of her life. It details how she became known throughout the colony for her ‘facile and descriptive pen’, her involvement with the Wanganui Women’s Political League and the New Zealand Council of Women, and her community involvement which had ‘been greatly appreciated by all classes of the community’. The obituary also mentions her regular contributions to the paper in regards to the issues she was concerned about as being ‘pointed and forceful’ (Wanganui Herald 17 June 1903)Wanganui Herald. ‘Death of Mrs Margaret Bullock’. 17 June 1903.Utu 2)Utu: A Story of Love, Hate, and Revenge. Auckland: H. Brett, 1894.
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Sir George Grey (1812-1898) was twice governor of New Zealand; from 1845–1853 and then again from 1861–1868. He was also New Zealand premier from 1877-1879. In his role of governor he was accorded great respect by Māori and encouraged several chiefs to record Māori traditions, legends and customs. He was taught to speak Māori by Te Rangikaheke. For these reasons and his attempt to ensure fair land sales Bullock dedicated her book to him, although by the time her book was published Grey had returned to England where he spent his remaining years (Sinclair 2007).
To Whose Care and Foresight We, the European Inhabitants of These Happy Islands, Owe It That, a Free People Governed by Wise Laws, We Live in Amity with the Once Warlike Race, Some of Whose Ancient Customs are Illustrated in This Little Story, It is
Respectfully Dedicated by The Author.
Preface.
Another name for New Zealand not frequently used today. For further information on the history of the name see Jane Stafford's text Maoriland. Māori name for people of European descent.Some explanation of a title, which, to persons living outside of MaorilandUtu, albeit, to pakeha
Practically utu meant payment. The ancient Maori did nothing for nothing. Every service rendered by him he expected to have returned; every benefit he received he repaid with interest, and this principle entered into all his dealings. As benefits were repaid with usury, so especially were injuries. No man could accept service or gifts without requital and retain the esteem of his fellows; still less could he allow injuries to pass unavenged. Utu (value) he expected for the presents he made; utu (payment) he required for goods or produce; utu (satisfaction) he exacted from hereditary foes, and all whom he conceived to have injured him.
A Maori vendor in the early days of settlement, would request utu for his produce; a settler desiring to purchase would enquire in his ‘pidgin’ Maori, ‘How muchee te utu?’ From this milder meaning, expressive of compensation and commodities exchanged, comes the pakeha use of the word as signifying money. In settler's parlance ‘Kahore ti utu’ means ‘I have no money,’ for to their ears utu is synonymous with ‘tin,’ ‘sugar,’ and other slang terms used to denote our medium of exchange.
But it was in its more terrible sense—that of revenge—that it most strongly moved the ancient Maori, who, to his foes, was a veritable
whose eyes and teeth replaced those he had lost, his system kept him ever embroiled in sanguinary strife. The nations, the tribes even, were ever at war: and each warrrior slain increased the utu his family required from the common foe. Proud of their divine descent, a slighting word hurled from a supposed unpregnable retreat, a contemptuous reference carried by the whispering winds, was sufficient to arouse in their warlike breasts a passion for utu which only blood could appease. All the traditions of race also, encouraged them in the fearful pursuit. Revenge was the ancient Maori's inheritance, handed down through the mists of time by forgotten generations, from the founders of his race, his Godfathers, who, for utu, fought and devoured each other on the plains of Heaven.
In preparing the chapters descriptive of the life of the ancient Maori, it has been my aim to show how completely the passion of revenge, which this word utu expresses, dominated his life and actions; and at the same time to draw a series of etchings of that old, forgotten uncivilized life; which, whatever may be thought of it by the world at large, should at least have some interest for dwellers in this fair and favoured land. The etchings are necessarily sketchy and limited in number. Whether they have any artistic or other merit, the reader shall decide. At least, so far as they go, they are true to that past life, as Maori scholars and historians have handed it down to us.
Whatever may be thought of my tale, as a whole, it may justly claim to be ‘founded on fact,’ for, though the characters are imaginary, the incidents are worked up from reliable materials, and the more shocking events are but detailed reflexes of historical facts.
Such as it is, the author now abandons it, not without some fear and trembling, to the unbiassed verdict of that potent judge and jury combined
The Public.
‘Alackaday, Monsieur Jacques. Like your polite countrymen, you are somewhat given to flattery, I ween.’
‘Nay, Mdlle., it is not so, ma foi I speak but the truth, and thine own mirror will bear out my words.’
I swear.
!The speakers, two young people of apparently very different stations in life, were standing beside a sheltered training wall in a well kept orchard back of an old-fashioned country mansion. The damsel—who held in her taper hands a rustic basket which her companion was leisurely filling—was in the bloom of womanhood. Her garden hat, cast aside for the nonce, left exposed to view a low-browed, finely-featured oval face, surmounted by a lofty crown of raven hair, and illumined by uncommonly fine dark eyes. Just now her full red lips were parted in a half smile, displaying a fine set of ivories, while a rosy glow mantling her cheek enhanced her beauty. She was attired according to the mode of the period—18th Century—in a heavy brocade with stiff farthingale A petticoat consisting of a framework of hoops, worn, especially in the 16th century, to expand a skirt at the hip line. A long curly wig worn by men in the 17th and 18th century.
‘Methinks I see a lovely peach nestling yonder to your right, Mons. Jacques. Prithee gather it, and I will trouble thee no farther to-day.’
‘It is a beauty, truly. Its cheek is only less lovely than thine own, Mdlle.’ Then raising the beautiful fruit to his lips he lightly imprinted a kiss upon its ruddy cheek ere depositing it with the others, whispering as he did so with an impassioned glance. ‘Would that I could so easily—would that I might—would that I dared——’
‘You are overbold, Mons.,’ she interrupted, confusedly, yet not very indignant, it seemed.
At this moment an approaching footstep recalled them to themselves, and Mons. Jacques with perfect sang-froid turned once more to the steps; while, affecting not to hear the advancing step, the maiden recovered her self-possession.
‘How now, sirrah Sir; implying inferiority in the person addressed.
The question proceeded from an elderly gentleman of evidently irascible temper, who, from a point of vantage, had for some moments been observing the movements of the pair with disapproving eyes. He was tall, thin, sallow, with dark restless eyes, a somewhat repellent countenance, and the bearing of one accustomed to rule.
The young people turned at his words, and with unembarrassed audacity, but in respectful tones, Jacques replied, ‘Pardon. Mons., I have not yet been to the village.’
‘And wherefore not, jackanapes An impudent or conceited person.
Before Jacques could reply the maiden interposed: ‘In sooth, my dear uncle, it is my fault solely. I met Mons. Jacques as I came hither and pressed him into my service. Pardon us both. I pray you.’
‘You are fortunate, Monsieur Jacques, in your advocate,’ said the old gentleman, with sarcastic emphasis upon the title. ‘Go now, and do my errand, I will assist my niece.’
‘If Mdlle. no longer requires my services, I am at your commands, sir,’ replied the young man, coolly.
‘You are quite at liberty. Go sir!’ said the young lady, hastily, with a quick glance of reproval; and the lackey, saluting her, turned slowly about, and with much deliberation took himself off, followed by a wrathful explosion from his master. He appeared not to hear it, however, though a close bystander might have seen a malevolent glance scintillate from his black eyes, as he muttered a curse beneath his breath.
‘Insolent rascal!’ raved the old gentleman. ‘Thou need'st teaching, methinks, thy true position, and the respect due to thy betters.’
‘Dear uncle,’ said the girl, soothingly, ‘It is wholly my fault. Blame not Jacques, who is, I have heard thee say, such an excellent valet.’
‘Excellent fiddlesticks! Does that give him the right to bandy words with me, or to dance attendance upon thyself, Eleanor?’
‘Nay then, uncle. I have already said I sought his attendance.’
‘S'death! Has my brother brought thee up in such seclusion, Eleanor, that thou canst command no better cavalier than thine uncle's valet?’
‘I regard him not as a cavalier, uncle,’ said the girl, poutingly, ‘but I required assistance, and took the first that came in my way.’
‘Where, then, was the gardener and his minions? Zounds! they shall make way for others more attentive to duty.’
‘Prithee, uncle, make not others suffer for my offence. Come now,’ she added coaxingly, linking her arm in his—for hers was not a timid nature, and fearing nothing under the sun, she stood in no awe of her imperious uncle. ‘Come to yon garden seat and eat one of my peaches and forget unpleasant things, there's a good nunky.’
Her enticements succeeded, and he suffered himself to be drawn to the place indicated, protesting, however, as he tapped open his snuff-box, that his niece should know it was not seemly for a maid of quality to discourse familiarly with a menial. By degrees, however, his good humour returned, and in the chat which ensued he learned that since his sister-in-law's decease some two years previously his brother had shunned all society, and existence at Radcliffe Hall had in consequence become very monotonous. His own arrival from India, a week since, had formed a break, and one or two dinner-parties had followed, but still life at the Hall was the reverse of gay, and the humdrum routine of a country house unenlivened by the presence of a single guest, dreary in the extreme to a young woman of eager temperament, in perfect health, and craving for the excitement so congenial to the young and light-hearted.
Considering that until a few days previously they had never met since Eleanor's infancy, the girl already exercised a surprising influence upon the ‘Nabob Said originally of an Englishman grown rich in India.
‘Eleanor has never expressed herself dissatisfied, brother,’ said Mr Horace Radcliffe that same evening in answer to the Nabob when—Miss Radcliffe having retired from the dinner-table—the brothers were left to discuss their wine.
‘Maybe not, Horace. But the young naturally crave society, and if her guardians neglect to provide that which is suitable there is danger, great danger, with one of her temperament, of her finding that which is unsuitable.’
‘Nay, there you do her injustice, brother. Pardon my saying it, but the maiden has been carefully trained, and though chafing some-what at control, is discreet and modest withal.’
‘God forbid that I should doubt it, Horace. But that is beside the question. Even for yourself the life of a recluse is inexpedient, and I now propose that a few guests be invited to end the summer here. This will in some measure prepare Eleanor for the London season, for it is my wish that we winter in town in order that she may see something of society. She is too bright a flower to be allowed to fade in solitude, or be plucked by some rustic hand. With her striking beauty she should create a sensation, and, with my wealth, ought to make a brilliant match. What say you?’
‘I can have no objection, Roger, if you desire it, although in good sooth, society has become very distasteful to myself.’
‘And, unless you rouse yourself will daily become more so, until you sink into misanthropy, which is neither a desirable condition to contemplate for yourself, nor a satisfactory prospect for your friends. I quite sympathise with your bereaved feelings, but lonely brooding will not restore the lost, and whilst you live you owe duties to the living. By the way, do you remember Bernard O'Halleran?’
‘In good sooth, do I. But he has long been dead. What of him?’
‘Nothing of him. But his son was a fellow passenger of mine on the stage coach from Portsmouth. I recognised him instantly by his likeness to his father. A fine young man with a commission in the Welsh Fusiliers. His regiment is now quartered in Ireland, but he has come over on holiday leave. I should like to invite him down if you are agreeable.’
‘Do so, Roger, by all means. I have never seen the lad, but if he resembles his father at all he could not be other than welcome. A hare-brained fellow was Barney O'Halleran. Recollect you the prank he played upon Master Thomas Webb at Westminster?’
‘Ay do I, and many another beside. His son, however, seems of somewhat less reckless temper, a fine young man and discreet, and withal a dashing officer. I would he had been left better provided for, but the O'Halleran fortunes are sadly decayed. But a truce to reminiscences. Come to the library, brother, and let us set to work at the invitations, for we have no time to lose.’ And dragging his more portly, but less energetic brother away, the Nabob sat down to his escritoire A writing table or desk.
In less than a fortnight Radcliffe Hall was gay with visitors, and Eleanor Radcliffe's time so fully and pleasantly occupied that she had scarce leisure to remember, much less inclination to coquette with, her uncle's smooth-tongued valet. But it is easier to commit an indiscretion than to evade its consequences, and Mons. Jacques, whose audacious admiration her thoughtless fascinations had developed into a burning passion, had no intention of accepting his congé, and slinking back into obscurity without the prize he coveted. True he had no actual claim upon the heiress, whose indiscretions consisted but of a too easy tolerance of his meaning looks, and the pleased acceptance of acts of service he was ever alert to render for the sake of the opportunities for chit-chat and insinuating compliment they afforded. All chances of this kind were now at an end. No longer was the young lady to be found lounging in garden seats, loitering by running streams, or striving in any way to kill time, which all at once seemed to fly only too fast, since every day brought nearer the end of Maurice O'Halleran's leave. No need now to get her uncle's valet to carry camp-stool or easel, or to gather for her the fruit she could not reach, for the handsome Irishman was ever at her side ready to anticipate her lightest wish, and in his agreeable society past flirtations and former admirers were alike forgotten.
Unceremonious dismissal.
A riding party had been arranged for the day preceding his departure, and by common consent he was left, as the others filed out of the court yard, to attend Mistress Eleanor. Upon the steps of an old-fashioned porch stood such of the seniors as felt disinclined for horse-exercise. About the spacious court still loitered the grooms and others who had been attending to the horses. Among them, with lowering brow, stood Jacques, his eyes fixed upon the heiress, whose perfect form showed to advantage as she sat like a queen upon a spirited bay, sleek and glossy, and eager for the road. In her pleasant preoccupation she was unconscious of his proximity, as he noted with internal bitterness.
‘Jacques, thou art a fool!’ said a voice in his brain, ‘else thou, too, would'st have bestridden a steed in this gay company. Diable! Where are the wits on which thou pridest thyself? Come, man, rouse thee, “faint heart never won fair lady.”’ A sardonic smile broke over his face, and sauntering through the yard he placed himself a little aside in the broad avenue.
Devil.
‘Pardon, Mdlle.,’ he said, saluting, as the lovers were about to pass him. ‘May I supplicate the honour of a word with you?’
Captain O'Halleran stared, and Eleanor seemed for a moment embarrassed. Then somewhat haughtily she replied: ‘Say on, Mons. Jacques.’
The valet cast a peculiar glance at the officer, who, reddening said,
‘I will await you a few paces further on, Miss Radcliffe,’ and wondering what the man could have to say to her in private, he went forward.
‘Hold, Capt. O'Halleran!’ called she, recovering presence of mind. ‘My uncle's valet can have naught to say to me that you may not hear.’ But the Captain had got beyond earshot, and chagrined excessively, she exclaimed.
‘Saucy knave! Thy request is ill-timed.’
A smart cut sent her horse bounding onward, but Jacques, stung into imprudence by her contemptuous words held to the rein so firmly that the animal swerved violently, and the heiress of Radcliffe was within an ace of being unseated.
Capt. O'Halleran, turning at the moment, caught sight of the valet's action, and for an instant his brain reeled at the peril of his enchantress. Then, his Irish blood taking fire, he spurred to the spot, and, without an instant's reflection, brought his whip down with stinging force upon the minion's detaining hand. Paralyzed by the blow, the limp fingers unclosed, and before the owner had time to recover, both horses were cantering down the avenue.
So quickly had the incident passed that it was only partially observed by the bystanders, and not at all understood save by Mr Roger Radcliffe, who, beside himself with fury, strode to the spot and confronted his henchman, just as, muttering maledictions, that functionary turned to re-enter the court.
‘How dared you, sir?’ roared the excited nabob, belabouring him with his cane. ‘How dared you touch my niece's bridle? Zounds! You might have killed her. What—what means this insolence, sirrah?’ His latter words were hoarse with passion, for his servant had dexterous caught the descending cane, and twisting it out of his grasp, sent it flying into the shrubbery.
‘What means it?’ hissed the valet, fiercely. ‘It means this, Mons. Radcliffe, that you have blood enough on your hands without shedding mine.’
The purple face blanched suddenly, the anger-swollen muscles contracted, and the small restless eyes turned sharply upon those of the audacious menial.
‘How dare you, sir?’ he said again, this time in lower accents. ‘How dare you use such words to me? Of what speak you?’
‘Murder!’ replied the other, incisively.
A spasm passed over the rigid features, but with a strong effort at self-command, for his servant was insolently calm, Mr Radcliffe exclaimed, sneeringly:
‘In good sooth! And whose, pray?’
The valet brought his face to close quarters, and looking steadily into his master's eyes, replied quietly,
‘Juanita Pentalengro's.’
The white face became ashen, the nabob caught his breath and reeled, but recovering by a strong effort, he whispered, hoarsely
‘Who speaks of Juanita Pentalengro?’
‘Her son,’ replied the valet, without moving a muscle.
All that human lineaments could express of horrified amazement, mingled with incredulity, was pourtrayed in the nabob's livid countenance. The valet, however, stood as before, coolly self-possessed, with glittering eyes, and face set in hard lines. At length the elder man found voice.
‘Liar! Juanita Pentalengro had but one son, and he is dead.’
His articulation was husky, but clearly enough came the reply.
‘You were misled. I am he, as my papers will prove.’
‘Produce those papers.’
‘Pardon, Mons. This is scarcely a suitable place.’
‘Ha! Come to the library at nine this evening. Meanwhile, silence is golden, remember.’
And wheeling about, the old gentleman recrossed the yard with a step all at once become uncertain, and scarce noticing the various figures grouped around, sought his own apartment, and throwing himself into an easy chair, sat staring straight before him, seeing naught but the visions conjured up by the unexpected assertions of his valet de chambre.
Meanwhile, that self-contained young man lounged down the avenue, not caring at that moment to encounter the jibes of such of his fellow-servants as had seen his chastisement.
‘Ay, silence is golden, mon ami,’ he muttered, ‘et pardieu! speech also shall be golden, or I deceive myself.’
Then raising his right hand—a particularly well-formed one—across the back of which extended the broad imprint of Captain O'Halleran's whip in a livid wale, he ground his teeth, hissing:
‘Sacre! Thy heart's blood, my fine Irelandais, shall wipe out this insult.’
At nine precisely Jacques presented himself at the library door, his audacity undiminished. His master, now quite collected, but pale and stern, bade him lock it and approach the table at which he sat.
‘You made a statement this morning as to your parentage,’ began he, in hard cold tones. ‘If you can produce any documents in substantiation of that statement. I shall be glad to examine them.’
His manner was repellent, and he did not bid his hireling sit, but the latter, nowise disconcerted, placed upon the table a roll of papers, and drawing up a chair, took possession of it, saying airily:
‘Monsieur will, I trust, pardon the liberty.’
He did not pause for acquiescence, but, unfastening the tape, spread the papers out on the table before him, arranging them, apparently, in due order for presentation.
Bending his keen eyes upon the first document handed to him, Mr Radcliffe read it silently, its effect being observable only by a slight tremulousness of the fingers.
‘The marriage certificate of Roger Howard Radcliffe and Juanita Pentalengro. What more, sir?’
Another document was laid before him.
‘Ah, the birth certificate of Roger Pentalengro Radcliffe, their son, at Granada, Southern Spain. Well?’
‘I have the honour, Mons., with your permission, to lay claim to this agreeable relationship.’
‘Some further evidence than these two certificates will be necessary to prove it.’
‘Sans doute. As Mons, can see, the evidence is voluminous, and I am here to be catechised.’
‘How came those documents into your possession?’
‘They came to me from my maternal grandmother, Esmeralda Pentalengro, who, spite the changes of years, recognised you when you visited Spain last year.’
‘Where were you at that time?’
‘I was in France with my adoptive father,’
‘Your adoptive father?’
‘Yes. When twenty years ago, you inquired for the child you had left in Granada, you were told it was dead, partly out of revenge, partly
‘You allude to Juanita Pentalengro?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘Juanita Pentalengro was not murdered.’ A red spot had come into either cheek, and Roger Radcliffe's deep set eyes glowed as he spoke excitedly.
A sardonic chuckle was the sole response.
‘She was not murdered, I tell you,’ he reiterated, rising and striding about the room. ‘Perfidious though she was, false as hell, she had lain on my breast, and I had no thought of avenging myself on her.’
‘Yet you flung her down the deepest crevasse in the Tyrol.’
‘How know you that?’ queried the other, pausing suddenly and catching his breath.
‘There was a witness.’
‘A witness? And whom, pray?’
‘Pierre le Loup.’
‘It was he then? It was that thrice-perjured villain who adopted you, and brought you up to believe a lie?’
‘It is he to whom I am indebted for more than a father's care. For the rest he is prepared to swear on the evangel.’
‘Ha! A case of blackmail, I see. Lookee, sir! I tell you again Juanita Pentalengro was not murdered! Her death was the result of pure accident.’
‘Mons. is doubtless prepared to prove that before the courts.’
‘The courts! Zounds, sir! Mean you to say that you, claiming to be my son, would bring this matter before a public tribunal?’
‘Mons. having married a Gitana must know that with our people revenge is the highest virtue. I have been reared for vengeance,’
‘Reared for vengeance! Upon your own father?’
‘For the death of my mother; yes.’
‘This man, this Pierre le Loup, he has reared you for vengeance?’
‘Precisely. You, Mons., robbed him of his companion, me of my
The cynical tone in which the words were uttered perplexed Roger Radcliffe, whose temper, though inflammable, was essentially generous. With knitted brows and a baffled expression he sat with eyes fixed on the other's face, upon which, it seemed to him, a mocking smile was dawning.
‘You talk of vengeance,’ he said presently, ‘and of wrongs. Is your moral sense quite perverted? See you not that it was I who suffered robbery and wrong? Is the man who ran off with my wife entitled to vengeance upon me for the accident which deprived him of her? Plague on't! Methinks such reasoning somewhat Jesuitical equivocal reasoning.
‘I seek not vengeance on Pierre le Loup's account, but on my own.’ replied the young man, and as he spoke an evil glitter appeared in his eye.
‘And what is the vengeance you have proposed to yourself?’
‘My foster-father is already in England. We propose to accuse you of the crime he witnessed, and leave you to atone for it on the scaffold, in accordance with English law.’
‘God in Heaven! and you thus calmly speak of the possible disgrace and execution of your own father!’ exclaimed Mr Radcliffe, revolted by the cold malignity of his new-found son.
‘The accident of my birth demands no gratitude, Mons., and I pretend to none. To me you have ever been but the murderer of my mother, whose death I have sworn to avenge.’
Again Mr Radcliffe paced the apartment. Re-seating himself after awhile he demanded in studiously composed accents.
‘The alternative? Let me hear it.’
‘I have mentioned none, Mons.’
‘Nevertheless an alternative there must be. Think again, sir.’
Jacques flushed slightly, then appeared to reflect, and presently with bland audacity said:
‘On one condition only, Mons., could I take the liberty of breaking my oath.’
‘Name it.’
‘It is this. That you publicly acknowledge me as your son and heir, with permission to solicit the hand of your niece, Mdlle. Eleanor.’
A horrified cry broke from Roger Radcliffe, upon whose brow great beads of perspiration suddenly appeared.
‘You know not what you ask,’ he presently articulated.
‘I know something of English exclusiveness, Mons., but the relationship will in any case soon be made public. It is for you to say if the scaffold shall end it.’
‘It is not that. It is not that, God knows,’ groaned the nabob. ‘I
‘And wherefore not?’ demanded the other, insolently.
‘Because—in the first place her affections are already engaged’—A sneering laugh interrupted him.
‘A woman's affections are always transferable, Mons., as your own experience should teach you.’
With difficulty Roger Radcliffe repressed the impulse to strike the speaker's mouth, and for a few moments speech was impossible. Then with a painful feeling that he had a mocking fiend and not a human son to deal with, he resumed:
‘There are other and weightier reasons against such a union. Abandon the thought. I beg you, for in good sooth it is impossible.’
‘There is nothing impossible under the sun,’ replied Jacques, determinedly. ‘I love Mdlle., and the liberty to wed with her is an unalterable part of the alternative we spoke of just now.’
Again Roger Radcliffe paced the floor. Pausing at length by the young man's side, he placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.
‘Ask me,’ said he, in a shaky voice, ‘ask me anything but this. You mistake your sentiments. It is impossible that you can really care for one you have known so recently, and when I tell you that there is an insuperable barrier, that ought to be sufficient. Ask me anything else anything else.’
The other looked at him curiously, wondering what could possibly be the nature of the barrier of which he spoke. Then all at once his smouldering passion, fanned into a flame by opposition, broke the bounds of his artificial clamness, and flushing hotly:
‘Pardieu!’ he cried. ‘I care not what the barrier. Eleanor Radcliffe shall be mine, though heaven and hell oppose. Refuse your sanction, and when the scaffold ends your opposition, I'll carry her off by force.’
He ceased suddenly, for Mr Radcliffe had sunk into a chair and sat with his face buried in his hands. When at length he looked up he seemed all at once to have grown aged.
‘Once more I beseech you to abandon the thought. There are many fair maids in this country, and with my name and fortune you may make your choice. But Eleanor can never be yours.’
‘And wherefore not? I ask you again in the fiend's name?’
‘Because,’ and the haggard face approached his own, ‘Because she is your mother's child and mine.’
For a moment the self-contained young man seemed to lose his head, and in a dazed kind of way-he repeated, ‘your mother's child and mine.’ Then, his wits suddenly returning, he said:
‘Mdlle. Eleanor, then, is not my cousin?’
‘No.’
‘But my sister?’
‘Yes.’
He reflected, then leaning back in his chair laughed, a low, amused laugh, which jarred painfully upon the strained nerves of the older man.
‘Pardieu! I never heard that I was so fortunate as to possess a sister.’
‘Probably not. Your mother abandoned her infant to the care of a hireling, and I, fearing my father's displeasure if I owned my secret marriage, bestowed the child with my rights of primogeniture Where the rights of inheritance belong to the eldest son.
‘Pardieu! I swear to you I have made no mistake, Mons. It is truly an affair of the heart, and what you tell me makes no difference.’
‘How sir?’ cried the outraged father. ‘Mean you to say you still entertain the same feelings?’
‘Exactly. And wherefore not? We were strangers until a week ago, despite the accident of common parentage, and she need never know that I am other than her cousin.’
Unutterably shocked, Mr Radcliffe sat awhile as if stupefied. At length he cried:
‘Zounds, sir! This is monstrous. It is against nature. You must surely be jesting!’
‘I am perfectly serious, I swear. Diable! Why is it monstrous! What makes it against nature? The ancients raised no such objections, and even the Bible, which is such a fetish with you Gentiles, records similar instances without disapproval. Moreover, you must know that however we gipsies may adapt ourselves to modern and Gentile conventionalities, they never weigh against our inclinations.’
‘But you have not been brought up as a gipsy, nor has Eleanor. Gentile customs must therefore bind you.’
‘Not necessarily, sir. For myself, I glory in my Romany blood, and will never be bound by Gentile usages.’
‘In this case, however, you must be, for the law would prohibit such a union, even could I sanction it.’
‘But in that case, Mons., the law would know nothing. Mdlle. passes as your niece, and the world need never be wiser.’
‘Lookee, sir. Say no more. Not to escape the gallows would I permit such iniquity. God's curse would rest upon such an alliance.’
‘Bah! Talk you of God to a gipsy? Know you not that we worship no God save our own desires? Such childish bugbears we leave to the slaves of Gentile superstitions.’
A long and oppressive silence ensued, to be broken by Mr Radcliffe, whose voice, though low, had a decided ring.
‘As I have already said that is out of the question. But if you desire it. I will recognize you as my son, and settle an ample income upon you, on condition that you go abroad. Or, if more agreeable to you, I will, on your undertaking to keep these painful matters secret, give you at once five, ten, twenty thousand pounds to be used at your discretion.’
Resting his elbows on the table, the young man covered his face with both hands, and for some moments appeared to deliberate. Then, sitting back in his chair, with face and voice alike composed, he said:
‘Since you are determined, Mons., I must bow to your decision. But, as I may not approach Mdlle., I no longer desire recognition as your son.’
‘Then you will accept my other offer?’ queried the Nabob, his voice, spite of himself, quivering a little.
‘Upon reflection—yes, Mons. It will necessitate the breaking of an oath, but what is the value of an oath, aprés tout, when one fears neither God nor devil. With our people, after the pleasure of revenge comes that of love; then follows the desire of gold. Since the two former are denied me, I perforce fall back on the third. Twenty thousand pounds I think you said, Mons.’
‘Twenty thousand. Swear to me to keep all these affairs secret, and to-morrow night I shall place bills to that amount in your hands.’
‘C'est bien, Mons.’
‘And now you are at liberty to retire—to bed, if you wish, as I shall not need your services again to-night.’
‘C'est bien, Mons. I wish you a very good-night,’ and with unabashed front, the suddenly enriched valet de chambre bowed himself out.
But when he found himself in the secrecy of his own apartment, the mask fell off. His easy exterior became ruffled. Black clouds chased each other over a countenance distorted by passion. Removing the bandages from his injured hand, his eyes shot fire as he muttered. ‘Give her up? Abandon my revenge? Never, pardieu! Never! Never!! Never!!!’
‘ Gipsy greeting signifying. ‘I salute you, mother.’Sacishan, dye.’
‘ ‘I greet thee, my dear. Come here; sit down. The gret Lord be upon thee, my beautiful.’Sarishan, miri kamli. Ava kai, bersh tu alay. O baro duvel atch pa leste, miri shukar.
The utterer of these gushing phrases was a tall gipsy woman past life's meridian, whose erect figure must, in her youth, have been very fine. Around her head was bound a red kerchief, from under which black snaky tresses strayed over her shoulders. Her features were handsome, but the parchment skin was swart and wrinkled, and her coal black eyes, bright as an eagle's, had a peculiar glance that never failed to rivet those of anyone she chose to hold converse with. As she stood now, bending over her visitor with a skinny hand on either shoulder, they seemed to be looking through the liquid upturned orbs into the very soul of the owner.
‘Truly thou art a witch, dye. Thou leavest me no news to tell thee,’ replied Eleanor Radcliffe, for it was the beautiful heiress who thus sat familiarly in the lowly home of the despised Bohemian.
‘Ah, my child, my heart watches over thee always. And so thou hast had grand doings up at the Hall. Little wonder thou couldst not spare an hour for thy old nurse.’
‘In good sooth, dye, since my uncle came home I have had less freedom than of yore. He wills not that the heiress of Radcliffe should run wild, and my father contends not. And since the company came we have all been busy. But now the last guest has departed, and my uncle, who has of late been indisposed, keeps his chamber, so I made haste to come while opportunity offered, for I feared lest you should think yourself forgotten.’
‘Thou hadst another reason also. Is it not so, deary?’
‘Oh, dye! Who can hide anything from you? Prithee, then, tell me
dorriki. See, I have brought a brand new coin to cross thy hand withal; and now read me a fair fortune, I pray thee.’
This word seems to mean fortune-teller, although the only reference that could be found of this word is in Charles G. Leland’s 1888 version of The Gypsies where it is mentioned that this is an archaic term.
‘What the lines say, I can read, and that only, my child, and thine cross each other more than I like, but thou hast met the man who will wed thee, deary, and he who loves thee truly will be true till death. Yet give not all thine heart where thine eyes love most to rest, for the true and the false desire thee, and thou canst not yet discern betwixt them. Also I would warn thee the sky-eyed are oft unstable.’
‘Hush, dye! I will not hear thee if thou speakest treason,’ and the young girl laid her hand on the other's lips. ‘You know not my brave Islander. His eyes are wells of truth, and his heart a fountain of honour. And oh, he is so handsome, dye, my broad-shouldered, yellow-haired Irishman.’
‘Well, well, deary. The young love the gay, and like seeks like, and nature will have its way, and every cloud is lined with light, and there's a way out of the darkest trouble.’
‘Of course there is, dye, and we shall find it, my blue-eyed love and I. But, by the way, dye, why have I not also blue eyes? My mother's eyes, like those of my father, were like sapphires, yet mine are dark as night. You, who know all things, tell me why is this.’ She paused, for the gipsy—who appeared strangely disturbed by the query—had set her dusky orbs in what the damsel was wont laughingly to call her ‘witch stare,’ and seemed searching the young heart for the motive which prompted it. Presently she spoke.
‘Thy question, my child, opens up the vistas of the past, and forgotten memories come thronging through; but I may not answer it, at least not yet, albeit thou art discreet and canst guard a secret. as I know.’
‘In sooth can I, dye, Have I not all these years kept that of thy whereabouts? But thy words are mysterious. Prithee explain them.’
‘I question not thy affection, deary. Thou hast proved it well. Yet should my words offend thee, thou wouldst come hither no more, and the heart of the poor sandererx would pine for the child she nourished.’
‘Nay, then, dye, thou couldst not offend me.’
‘And if by any chance those at the Hall should suspect, they would never let me see thee more.’
‘Marry, then! Thinkest thou so poorly of thy child? Knowest thou not that I am a gipsy at heart, and love the tents of thy people better than the halls of my ancestors. Verily I have broken home rules so oft in vain it thou thinkest I could now be enslaved. Was I not suckled at a gipsy breast? With thy milk I drank in thy nature, dye, and who could ever teach thee to obey? Yet I doubt not thou wert wise in thy generation, nursey. Methinks I hear thee saying. “Yea, yea.”
Then standing before her, the gipsy took the soft cheeks in her two hands, and peering into her eyes, asked:
‘Art thou sure, my beautiful, that thou lovest my people better than thine own—the roving life of the tent better than the bondage of Gentile civilization?’
‘In good sooth do I. Were I but mine own mistress I would pack my knapsack and we should roam the world together, thou and I, and my blue-eyed soldier, and visit all the Romanes scattered through the world. Think of it,
Gypsies.
While she was thus gaily chattering, the old woman had loosened and shaken free of powder her luxuriant hair, which fell in curling masses far below her waist. Then covering the graceful head with a red kerchief, she tied the ends loosely under the chin, and standing back a little, folded her hands, while her piercing eyes grew moist with affectionate admiration.
‘And thou would'st queen it over all their hearts, my deary. Truly there is little of the Gentile in thee. Thy beauty is that of our people. Thy skin only is ivory, not olive; but sun and air would soon amend that. And so thou would'st wander with the gipsies if thou had'st thy way.’
‘Truly, dye.’
‘Verily they labour in vain who will still the voice of nature,’ she murmured, as in self-communing. Aloud she said: ‘Some day, my child, when thou art sick of pomp and pleasure and Gentile insincerities, thou wilt come to us as a wearied child to the breast of its mother. And then, deary, will I tell thee why thine eyes are dark with evening shadows.’
‘But I would know the secret now, dye,’ said Miss Radcliffe, with some asperity.
‘Ay, my dear. The young are ever impatient. But the time is not ripe. Thou first must taste the great city's pleasure, and then will thy dye reveal all thine heart desires to know. And, if in the selfish crowd thou makest enemies, or sufferest wrong; if any dare betray thy trust, thou shalt return hither and learn how the gipsies take vengeance. And then thy dye, shall teach thine eyes the art of witchery, and thy hands the secret crafts. Love philtres thou shalt mix, life elixirs for thy friends, and death potions for those thou hatest, and many a secret art besides unknown to the Gentiles. And now, deary, thy uncle dreams not of thy visits to the gipsy?’
‘Assuredly not. Did I not promise thee to keep the secret always?’
‘Tis well, my child, I would not have him know. He believes me dead; so let it rest.’
‘You may trust me, dye. But now must I leave thee or I shall be missed.’
‘Fare thee well, my dear one. Forget not my words.’
‘No fear of that, dye. Adieu till again we meet.’
About a year subsequent to the interview related above a brilliant company filled the splendid reception rooms of Lady Honoria Glossop, one of the leaders of ton in the great metropolis. The assemblage was composed of the cream of high society. Fair women in hooped skirts and powdered hair, whose eyes vied with the sparkle of their jewels; beaux of the period in lace ties, kneebreeks and buckled shoon; great lords and high-bred ladies; chaperones of all kinds on the war-path; stately nobles and titled rakes; bewigged bucks and powdered blades; all of the polished speech and stately manners characteristic of the age, mingled together in the pursuit of pleasure. Floods of light dazzled the vision, dainty perfumes oppressed the senses. The hum of many voices, and now and again the ripple of well-bred laughter, blent with the music to which the more youthful feet were tripping, while above the general buzz rose, intermittently, the rattle of the dice boxes. Round the faro tables
Fashionable society.
A gambling game in which players bet on the value of the next card to be dealt.
‘May I venture to enquire of your ladyship the name of that demoiselle with the pearls?’ asked a distinguished-looking stranger, with a faintly foreign accent, of the hostess, with whom he was for a moment conversing.
‘With the pearl ropes? Ah, la! Monsieur, are they not magnificent? How softly they gleam in her coiffure, and round her lovely throat and arms! That, Monsieur, is the new beauty, a considerable heiress, and this is her first season. She has been kept back, I fancy, for one rarely sees that development under twenty-five. Is she not splendid? Such eyes and hair! She is an orphan; at least she lost her father suddenly a year since. As for her mother, she has never been seen in England; died abroad, it is said. I cannot furnish you with her history myself, but sooth, I see a wallflower yonder who can, for she is from the same county. Let me present you. Nay, look not so melancholy, my dear
la belle brune. Come, be agreeable, and by and bye if you are very good. I shall present you to the heiress.’
A few seconds later they stood before a buxom damsel, no wise remarkable in point of looks, nestling beside a portly chaperone.
‘My dear Florinda, Monsieur le Comte de Pignerolles desires to be presented to you. Monsieur, my young friend. Miss Florinda Greenacre.’
‘I am deeply honoured. Mees Florinda. May I venture to express the hope that you will favour me with one, just one, leetle dance?’
‘Oh, la! With pleasure, Monsieur,’ exclaimed the enraptured maiden, who would gladly have promised the modest Frenchman half a dozen.
‘There is a cotillon (This word is incorrectly spelt in original text, the correct spelling is cotillion.) An elaborate 18th-cent French dance with frequent changing of partners.
The buxom Florinda did not need much pressing, and as she proved a fairly good dancer, Monsieur le Comte had not such a bad quarter of an hour as he expected. The dance over, he led her, nothing 10th, to the conservatory, where he artfully drew from her an epitome of the history of Eleanor Radcliffe, as it was known to her contemporaries, for it was no other than she whose radiant eyes, or gleaming pearls, one or both, had made such an impression on the noble foreigner.
From the fair Florinda's narration it appeared that about twelve months previously Mr Roger Radcliffe had been found one morning dead in the library where his brother had left him on retiring to rest the evening before. His death the doctors had declared the result of apoplexy, and after the funeral the Hall had been shut up, the family going to the Isle of Wight for change of scene, Mr Horace's health having been seriously affected by the shock of his brother's unexpected demise.
The reading of the deceased gentleman's will had created quite a sensation—short only of scandal—in the country, for by it Eleanor—who had been brought up as the daughter of Mr Horace—was claimed by the elder brother, who had been supposed to have lived and died a bachelor. ‘Whether or not he had ever been married was,’ Miss Florinda said, ‘still problematical.’
‘Perhaps,’ she added with a sage head-shake and a prudish little flirt of her fan, ‘the less said about that the better.’
Another subject of comment had been the fact that while he acknowledged Miss Radcliffe as his daughter, Mr Roger had directed that his wealth should be equally divided betwixt her and his brother, bequeathing each share absolutely. The will had been proved at over a hundred thousand, and as Miss Radcliffe was her uncle's heiress
‘She has a fair figure and modish manners, but I admire not that style myself,’ said Miss Florinda, who was a light blonde. ‘Yet I doubt not that, like the rest of your sex, you think her divine, Count. She has scarce been in town a week, and all the men are raving about her, ready to cross swords over her before breakfast, and to expire at her feet after dinner. Think you she is very handsome, Monsieur?’
‘Mdlle, will pardon me if, at present. I have eyes only for the Saxon type of beauty.’
‘Ah, la! what flatterers men are?’ giggled the gratified fair. ‘But, flattery apart, prithee tell me what you think of her. I am dying to hear your opinion, for you must needs be a judge of female charms.’
‘And wherefore, Mdlle.?’
‘He! he!’ simpered Florinda. ‘You are modest, Count, yet I dare be sworn not a whit less gallant than the rest of your gay countrymen,’ and she leered roguishly behind her fan.
‘Nay, Mdlle., you do me too much honour. But my compatriots would assuredly admire your Mdlle. Radcliffe, for, apart from the question of her beauty, she is undoubtedly tres distingué.’
‘Oh, she is uncommon, certainly. And a good thing too,’ she added inwardly, ‘forward wench.’
Half an hour later the stranger reminded his hostess of her promise to present him to the heiress.
‘In sooth, Monsieur, I shall be charmed when I see her for a moment disengaged. I fear, however, you are too late for a dance for this evening. Nathless, you may secure one for to-morrow night, for you, too, I make no doubt, are going with all the world to Lady Buttercup's masquerade?’
‘Assuredly, Madame. But pardon me—how divinely la belle Radcliffe dances. What dignity! what grace!’
‘She is without doubt an elegant dancer. We were just—for the ninety-ninth time—discussing her points as you came up. She differs so from our ordinary English beauties that we are piqued to discover how she comes by that foreign bearing and cast of feature. You have travelled, Monsieur. To what nationality should you assign her mother? For her father must needs have been married abroad—that is, always supposing that little formality to have been gone through—which the gossips insinuate a doubt upon. Not that anyone believes them, for we all know what liars they be. Come, Count, let us hear your judgment.’
‘It desolates me, Madame, that I cannot positively enlighten you, but to me that supple grace, that pliancy of figure, so to speak, suggests only Andalusia.’
‘Marry, then! Perhaps she was Spanish. Mayhap a Gitana. Who knows? That undulating movement is certainly very remarkable, and it undoubtedly adds to la belle Radcliffe's fascinations. But entre nous, Comte, I like it not. It reminds me of that terrible, beautiful creature the panther.’
‘The panther! Ha, ha! You are truly complimentary. Madame et pardieu, your description is good. Better could not be. To me la belle Radcliffe shall in future be la belle panthere!’
‘Oh, fie, Monsieur! It is not pretty to nickname gentlewomen.’
‘Ma chére Madame, it shall be used only as a term of endearment.’
‘La! Then let me warn you, Monsieur. Sound not your terms of endearment too loudly, or it may end in an early meeting in Hyde Park Ring, for, if report speaks truly, there is a hot-blooded Irishman who arrogates a preemptive right to apply such terms to Eleanor Radcliffe.’
‘C'est possible, Madame? Truly you pique me into a desire to question such arrogance. And how, Madame, does this hot-blooded Irlandais call himself?’
Irishman.
‘He is a Captain O'Halleran, a handsome penniless officer of the 23rd regiment—the Welsh Fusiliers. 'Tis said that the pair are actually betrothed, and that now the year of mourning has expired the nuptials will soon be celebrated.’
‘Le diable! Pardon, Madame, but this is scurvy treatment of us poor bachelors who have hitherto had no opportunity to pay our devoirs at the shrine of la belle Radcliffe.’
‘Alack! Monsieur, you are like the rest, over head and ears in love. But have a care. Let not Captain O'Halleran overhear you.’
‘Pardieu! Madame. I could desire nothing better than to measure swords with le brave Capitaine.’
‘Oh fie! What a dreadful sentiment. I declare you are quite shocking! But see the minuet is ended, and the damsel is being led back to her chaperone. Make we our way to them, and meanwhile, let me advise you that a veritable she-dragon guards the shrine of the new divinity. She is a virgin cousin of Mr Radcliffe, and, as you see, a decided contrast to her beautiful charge.’
‘ An older women serving as governess, companion, or chaperon to the younger ladies in a Spanish or Portuguese family.Dieu m'en garde! That vinegar visaged maypole! Is she then the duenna
‘Scarecrow! Oh fie, Comte!’ laughed Lady Glossop, tapping his cheek with her fan. ‘However, with all her meagreness and frigidity she cannot scare the beaux, and that you will find. But if you desire access to the damsel, take my advice and first become au mieux with the chaperone.’
Close to.
‘C'est bien, Madame. You shall see how I can play the courtier. And how call you, Madame, this attenuated virgin?’
‘Her name is Tabitha Toogood. And beware, Monsieur, that you do not Madame her. Such an affront Miss Tabitha would neither forget nor forgive.’
With honeyed phrases and much palaver the introductions were effected, and the party soon engaged in amicable chat, rippling out every now and again into tinkling laughter as one or another indulged in a sally of wit.
The wily foreigner, whose sounding title and elegant air evidently impressed Miss Tabitha, was quick to note the fact, and careful to deepen the impression by the flatteringly deferential mode in which he addressed her, in tone and manner evincing a respectful homage which sent her home at the close of the rout—which he sat out in conversation with her—in ecstasies with ‘the perfect breeding, the inherent politeness of the French noblesse.’ He had found Miss Radcliffe fully engaged, and expressing his despair with French exaggeration, had won a half promise for the ensuing night, and, rather pleased than otherwise, devoted himself for the rest of the evening to the task of securing the good graces of Miss Tabitha, with the gratifying result that he was graciously favoured by that austere spinster with permission to pay his respects at the home of the heiress on the following day.
In a handsomely-furnished morning-room within a sumptuous mansion in Soho Square, two ladies sat before their embroidery-frames, their attitudes sufficiently betokening their diverse dispositions. The elder—lean visaged, thin-lipped, with long-drawn limbs, and bright, dark, yet cold small eyes—sat bolt upright in a low-seated, high-backed chair, industriously plying her needle, every now and again pausing to inhale the fragrance emitted by an elegant nosegay placed on an antique stand beside her. The younger—in the full glow of warm, voluptuous beauty—lounged indolently in a chair of easier form, her dainty slippered feet extended well in front, and her well-poised head resting negligently against her hands clasped behind it, the pose displaying to the elbow her lovely arms. Her embroidery frame was quite beyond
‘How extremely polite of the Comte to send these delicious exotics this morning,’ remarked the elder lady in somewhat high-pitched tones, sniffing for the hundredth time at the flowers beside her. ‘Such a delicate way of showing attention.’
‘Good sooth, then, Mistress Tabitha,’ replied Eleanor Radcliffe, ‘to me the act savoureth somewhat freedom on the part of Mons, le Comte, seeing that we only made his acquaintanee yester-eve.’
‘My dear cousin,’ said Miss Tabitha, who invariably thus addressed her charge, despite the latter's persistently formal treatment of herself, ‘it is that very fact which gives the act its value. One expects little attentions from one's friends—although, alack! often in vain. Had Captain O'Halleran sent you those flowers, for instance,’ and she glanced at another exquisite bouquet set on an oaken cabinet at the further end of the apartment, ‘twould have been naught surprising, but as the offering of one hitherto a stranger it is a delicate, and indeed I may say, a very significant compliment.’
Eleanor flushed to the temples as her companion named her lover, but without other indication of disturbance, answered haughtily:
‘Captain O'Halleran is, I ween, too familiar with my uncle's conservatory to imagine I need floral gifts. As for this French count, I dare be sworn he thinks us as accessible to flattery as his own country-women.’
‘My dear cousin, when you have had more experience of the world you will judge less hastily. 'Twas my good fortune yesternight to enjoy a long and most agreeable conversation with Monsieur, whom I found as superior in mind as polished in manners; in fact, all that a true courtier should be, and I am not without experience, my dear, for as you are aware, I mingled in Court society before the sad event which clouded my young life.’
Mistress Tabitha here applied a broidered kerchief to her small eyes, and her needlework was temporarily suspended. Finding, however, that her emotion produced no effect upon the young girl, she resumed operations, and with a touch of spite in her voice, continued:
‘Mayhap, my dear cousin, it was scarce reasonable to hint that these refined attentions should come from Captain O'Halleran, for, albeit he is your betrothed, yet in good sooth he comes of a barbarous race.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘Your antipathy, Mistress Tabitha, must needs come out. How have the sons or daughters of Green Erin offended you, that you thus detest them? Come, I am curious to know. Prithee, beguile with the story the tedium of this dreary morning. I am expiring of ennui.’
‘Nay, then, my sweet coz,’ answered the elder lady, whose
‘Good sooth. I am less weary than bored, Mistress Tabitha. But to the story. Have I not heard you say your youth held a romance? That it was in some way connected with Ireland, I doubt not. Prithee tell it me.’
‘Alackaday! you are right, my dear cousin. All the deprivations of my life, all the afflictions of a too sensitive heart, I owe to that detestable land and uncivilized people.’
‘Uncivilized! Fie. Mistress Tabitha! I have heard say Ireland was a seat of learning and civilization when England was a country of barbarians.’
‘Chut! child. It has always been savage. Have not its wretched inhabitants perpetually obliged England to shed her best blood and treasure to keep them in subjection ever since the conquest—of Strongbow and de Lacy The event being referred to is regarding a deposed Irish king, Dermot MacMurrough, who went to England to ask Henry II for permission to raise troops from among his subjects. In return for serving with MacMurrough the troops would be rewarded with land and bounty. One of MacMurrough’s first allies was Richard de Clare, known as Strongbow. MacMurrough gave Strongbow his daughter Aoife to be his wife. The alliance was successful and MacMurrough gained back his former power. After MacMurrough’s death, and after battles to contest Strongbow’s claim for the throne, which Strongbow successfully won, he became the most powerful man in Ireland. Hugh de Lacy was sent to Ireland by Henry II to assert British royal power and perhaps more importantly to keep Strongbow under control (Cronin 2001).
‘Marry, then, I honour them for it. They would have been craven indeed had they meekly submitted to pillage and oppression.’
‘Methinks, my dear cousin, such language is treasonable, and scarce becoming in an English gentlewoman. Let not, I pray you, your fealty to your lover impair that which you owe His Majesty.’
‘Fear not, Mistress Tabitha, but the story, the story. In what way is the Green Isle responsible for your afflictions?’
‘My dear cousin, that I am still Miss Tabitha; that I am forced to feed my grief on the memory of brighter days; that I am dependent for social pleasures on the kindness of friends, I owe to the savages of that lawless land. I should now be a titled personage, a leader of Referring to a class of aristocratic ruffians infesting London streets at night in the 18th century.ton, a dispenser, not a receiver of favours, had not my cousin, to whom I was betrothed, been sent with his regiment to keep the ever rebellious Irish in order. For his services to his king and country he was rewarded with an Irish estate forfeited by an arch traitor with an outlandish name; and—it will appear incredible, my dear—but this evicted wretch, this degraded outcast assembled a multitude of his savage adherents, and—God is my witness—they attacked my brave Rupert on his own property, the free gift of his grateful sovereign, and plunging their gory pikes into his innocent breast, left him weltering in his blood. Oh, the vile wretches! the wolves! the Mohocks
‘Now, my dear cousin,’ she added, after waiting in vain for some token of sympathy from her young companion, who seemed lost in unusual reverie, ‘now you know why can never hear an Irish name
Before Eleanor could resolve upon her reply, the door opened, and the waiting wench announced, ‘Captain O'Halleran.’
At his appearance Eleanor uttered a joyous cry, while her companion, stiffening as under the influence of some affront, bestowed upon him a profound but icy bow, and gathering herself up, begged with frigid politeness to be excused, then turning as on a pivot, talked out of the room.
‘Arrah, thin, Nelly, asthore Darling, my dear, my love (Dolan 10).
‘Whisha Indeed; well (Dolan 255). My dear one (Dolan 151).
‘Faith, thin, I believe if she did I'd shew the white feather, for sure the very sight of her nigh turns me blood to wather. I wonder, now, was she ever young and good-looking at all.’
‘Sooth, then, she may have been, Maurice, for if her story be not, wholly a myth, she once had a lover.’
‘A lover! Had she e'er a lover? Faith, thin, he was a bold man that stood up to Miss Tabby, the crathur Creature (Dolan 65).
And with a shrug and grimace at the door by which the severe spinster had departed, the captain turned, and as if to solace himself for a thought which made him shudder, lifted Eleanor's dimpled arms and placing them about his neck held the owner for some minutes in a fervid embrace, which, truth to say, she did not struggle much to a avoid. But as lover's anties are not invariably entertaining to outsiders, we here drop the curtain and leave the pair for a while to their dalliance, returning, however, in time to hear some concluding remarks.
The young people are seated on a low couch, by no means as far asunder as the poles, and the damsel is speaking.
‘You have no alternative, then, Maurice?’
‘No, Nelly, mavourneen. I must return for a few months, until Fitz is ready to step into my shoes. Then, be sure. I'll fly back on the wings of the wind.’
‘And then we go abroad?’
‘Directly we're married, mavourneen. You won't keep me waiting when the time comes?’
‘I've half a mind to,’ she answered with a rippling laugh, her fan tapping his cheek gently. ‘This running away is scurvy treatment, just at the beginning of the season too.’
‘Faith, it's hard upon myself too, Nelly, asthore, for indeed every
Girl, maiden (Dolan 41).
‘Oh, that I could see into your heart, Maurice. Are you sure you love me truly. Look into my eyes and tell me what I am to you.’
Tenderly complying, his lips quivered slightly as he murmured, ‘Acushla agus asthore machree.’ The very pulse and delight of my heart.
The girl trembled. Her eyelids drooped until her long silken lashes rested on her glowing cheek, and sighing happily she sank upon his breast.
‘Mavourneen,’ she whispered, ‘how I love your sweet language! And you will always, always be true?’
‘Always, mavourneen. Think you I could be false to you?’
‘I know not, Maurice. Men are so inconstant.’
‘Nay, then, mavourneen, it isn't always the men. And sure, I never think you could be false.’
His voice had a pained tone which touched her with self reproach. Winding her arms about his neck she pulled down his face and kissing him voluntarily, murmured:
‘There, there, Maurice, asthore, 'tis only my love that speaks. I couldn't be false to you, but I fear, oh I fear to lose you. Maurice!’ And she started up with white face and dilated eyes. ‘If I were to lose you, I believe I should go mad. If you should be false to me I would kill you. But what am I saying?’ for Maurice looked both astonished and troubled. ‘You will not be false, and—I could not hurt you, my own, my beloved.’
The good opinion of Monsieur le Comte de Pignerolles formed by Miss Tabitha was deepened at Lady Buttercup's ball, where, spite of her mask, he discovered her identity, and devoted himself to the task of making her evening pass agreeably. One dance only could he win from Eleanor, who had resolved to dislike him, all the more for her elderly cousin's open championship. But he really was so courteous and wellbred, danced so well and looked so distinguished, that despite her prejudice she found him not absolutely detestable. He seemed quite unconscious of her cold looks, but neither did he push himself officiously, though he failed not from that evening to avail himself of
‘La politesse de l'ancienne noblesse Française was now a staple topic with Mistress Tabitha, who dwelt upon it with more zeal than discretion, at the imminent risk, which she failed to perceive, of utterly disgusting her wilful charge—a result calculated to disarrange a scheme she had formed, which included the damsel's rescue from the arms of the ‘Irish ogre, whose addresses Mr Radcliffe should never have permitted,’ and her bestowal upon a courtly foreigner, who, with the elderly spinster's connivance, soon became almost a fixture in the family-followed his flowers into the morning room soon after the midday sun had brought out the ladies, scarce recovered from midnight revelries, escorted them to Park or Mall, and made himself generally useful as agreeable.
The courtesy of old French nobility.
Eleanor, although quite resolved never to like him, got by degrees to tolerate a presence she could not without absolute rudeness avoi, and as the days wore on began to find his deferential and always well-timed attentions less and less obnoxious; while at the gay assemblies where they nightly met she could not be insensible to the marked though respectful homage of her courtly admirer, whose attentions were vainly ogled for by a score of disengaged beauties. Quick to mark her waning reserve, Monsieur carefully refrained from seeming to profit by it, lest any such indication should alarm her, and be followed by his relegation to the cold shades of her disfavour, for he was wary, this Frenchman, and as he had in his heart sworn a great oath to oust the handsome Captain and appropriate the heiress, so he determined by no overhaste to mar his prospects of success. He had not been reared in the highest school of morals, and inwardly scouted the idea of female constancy as a virtue rarer, if possible, than chastity, in which he did not believe at all. As for love, well, love with him was simply unbridled passion. He knew nothing of the pure ennobling sentiment—in its integrity the sweetest, best thing on earth and so he mis-appropriated the ill-used name. ‘I love her,’ he said, ‘celte belle, panthére. She shall be mine, she and her gold.’
That lovely panther.
He had carefully followed Lady Glossop's advice to make himself au mieux with the straight-laced duenna—if his and her confidential demeanour during an early interview some two months after Captain O'Halleran's departure might be taken as any criterion. The ancient spinster was seated near a cheerful fire, and Monsieur leaning in an elegant attitude against the high chimney piece, bent over her so caressingly that she felt her pulses tingling with a feeling almost of juvenility, and could fain have wished herself young again, once more to enjoy the delights of coquetry. Knowing very well, however, that
see note page 27.
‘You think then, Mees Tabitha, that matters are ripe for the grande coup?’ he queried, in dulcet accents.
Master stroke.
‘Such is my conviction, Count, although I would warn you, my fair cousin is scarce to be judged by the rules which apply to ordinary gentlewomen. She has ever been a spoiled child, and sooth, it is hard to foretell how she may demean herself.’
‘There is an English proverb, Mees, which says, “He naught shall have who ventures naught,” With your support, ma chere amie, I am prepared to venture, if you think the time propitious.’
‘In good sooth then. Monsieur, you have but little to lose. She chafes alarmingly at lack of news from Ireland. My doubts of Celtic constancy incense her highly, and fancying her Irish barbarian sick, she threatens to cross the Channel to see him. She has been allowed such ridiculous liberties that she is quite capable of such an outrageous proceeding, and sooth, I am dismayed at the very thought of what the world would say of such unmaidenly conduct.’
‘Ma foi! you have reason, Mees Tabitha. But your ingenuity, your ready wit, your wealth of resource, will certainly prevent such an esclandre. I assure you I feel the utmost confidence in your good management. But—this—barbarian—this Irlandais—when say you she expects his return?’
‘In three or four weeks. But I trust, Monsieur, you will both be far enough away by that time,’ said Miss Tabitha, adding, as she covered her tearless eyes, ‘The mere thought of my sweet cousin in the power of a blood-thirsty Irishman rends my heart, I protest.’
‘Be at ease, Mees Tabitha,’ purred the Count. ‘You shall not be so afflicted. I promise von.’
The object of this kindly discourse lay meanwhile fast buried in the heavy matutinal slumber which results upon a wakeful night, a disturbed expression, combined with unusual pallor, betokening, even in sleep, unrest of mind. She had returned somewhat earlier than usual from the previous night's rout, and summoning her tire-woman A lady’s maid (from attire). Low spirits.
‘Welladay, such a pretty head may well be excused for the megrim
[obscure].
‘Hist! I would thy fingers were but as fleet as thy tongue!’ exclaimed Eleanor, irritably. ‘Haste thee, and leave me.’
‘With submission, mistress, I have served titled personages in my time, and never was accused of slackness in the performance of my duties.’
‘Prithee bridle thy tongue, Belinda. I desire not words and would be alone.’
But the irrepressible waiting woman began again, presently: ‘Right bravely a coronet would crown these raven tresses, and of a truth the Count is a handsome gentleman.’
‘I have already said, Belinda, the Count is naught to me.’
‘Yet withal, sweet mistress, he worships the earth beneath your feet. All the world wots that.’
‘Silence, wench! And now begone. Yet stay one moment. Hand me yon miniature. And now away.’
‘Good-even, mistress. God give you sweet rest.’
But her mistress heard her not, being already lost in contemplation of the pictured face beneath her eyes. Fresh and fair, and glowing with the ruddy bloom of healthy manhood, it looked up at her, the frank eyes meeting her own, as their originals had ever done, in an open steadfast gaze. The sunny hair, its warmer tints powdered down, was gathered back from the broad brow and tied behind in the fashion then affected by younger men. The mouth, shaven about, was well-cut and firmly closed, although a smile, in keeping with the general expression of the whole countenance, appeared to be just dawning on the full red lips. Altogether it was a pleasant face to look upon, and one which any woman might have been proud to claim as that of her lover.
Eleanor Radcliffe's own was a study as she gazed at it. Megrim or mental disquietude had driven all colour from her cheeks, and dark rings surrounded the lustrous eyes. Her hair still fell around her like an ebony mantle, contrasting well with the rich crimson of her peignoir, which increased by its vivid tint the pallor of her complexion. She gazed at the miniature intently, as though seeking through the smiling ivory to read the heart of the distant original.
A woman’s loose negligee or dressing gown. (French, literally translates as a ‘garment worn while combing the hair’.)
‘The old A false charge or misrepresentation maliciously calculated to damage another person’s reputation.dye said the sky-eyed were fickle,’ at length she murmured. ‘Fickle! Fickle! Who said he was fickle? 'Tis false! A base calumny
‘Come, Miss Radcliffe,’ she muttered ironically, ‘jealousy does not
‘So, Maurice,’ she apostrophised, you have not written me one line since you left two months agone—or is it two years? God wot, we be fools, we women. We count the hours of our loved one's absence; we scarce can breathe, or eat, or play, while we await with quivering pulses their return; while they in their new-found pleasures forget even our very existence. Have you forgotten. Maurice, you, who professed such love? Even my letter, which Dame Tabby said ‘twas over free to write, you have not answered. Think you the act unmaidenly? Or are you sick, my beloved? My heart would fain have news. Fore God, if you write not soon I shall seek you, and then—if as they say the sky-eyed are fickle—if (as they say) the Celt is inconstant—if other eyes enthral thee, and other lips respond to thine—then—eternal infamy be mine if I wreak not a deadly vengeance!’
Her eyes fairly blazed, and her fingers closed over the miniature in a clasp which would have crushed a frailer thing. Again she started to her feet and paced the floor. ‘But they lie, my beloved,’ she resumed tremulously, sinking again into her cushions. ‘Thou couldst not be false to me. Wherefore, let those beware who would come betwixt us.’
So had passed her night. Small wonder that the noon-tide found the heavy eyelids still closed above bloodless cheeks.
It might have been a week after the foregoing incidents that the trim Belinda stepped lightly into her mistress's chamber bearing the dainty cup of chocolate without which no belle of the period could have risen from her downy couch. Drawing an antique stand to the bedside, she placed the salver upon it, saying as she did so: ‘Miss Tabitha desires her affectionate compliments, miss, and bids me say that this letter arrived for you by the mail from Dublin. She hopes its contents will afford you pleasure.’
A quick flush rose to the face of the heiress, who involuntarily raised herself upon her elbow; but instantly recovering self-possession, she, lay back with an affectation of languor, saying: ‘Leave the letter in the salver, Belinda. I will attend to it presently. Meantime, make my acknowledgments to Mistress Tabitha.’
The maid lingered, ostensibly performing little offices about the room,
‘You are at liberty to leave me now, Belinda,’ exclaimed Eleanor at last, with ill-concealed impatience. ‘When I require you, I shall ring.’
Having no further pretext for remaining, the maid retired and having closed the door, placed her eye over the keyhole, by which means she was enabled to narrate to the elder lady a circumstantial account of how Miss Eleanor, snatching up the missive, pressed it rapturously to her lips, while murmuring unintelligible expressions of delight, etc., etc.
Later in the day, much later in fact, the young lady, who, on the plea of megrim, kept her room until her duenna see note page 27. see note page 7.
‘I have at length received a letter from Ireland, sir, and as Captain O'Halleran was ever a favourite with you. I thought you might perchance like to read it.’
‘I thank you, my child,’ replied her uncle mildly, gazing at her with puzzled eyes. ‘I shall be glad to learn tidings of Maurice, from whom, indeed, I myself expected a communication ere this. But thou art surely indisposed, my dear Eleanor. Thy complexion lacks its usual bloom. I fear me these nightly junketings are playing havoc with thy health.’
‘I am well, quite well, sir, although mayhap a trifle distraught. But read, I pray you, the letter.’
‘Be seated then, my child,’ and Mr Horace, as he was still called in the family, placed her in a cosy chair, and resting his hand for a moment earessingly on her shoulder said pleasantly:
‘It is not every maiden. I ween, who would submit her billet doux to the eyes of her guardians. Thy confidence is pleasing to me, child.’
But her face did not relax, and her voice was hard and cold as she merely replied: ‘Read, sir, read.’
Mr Horace took up the letter and read a few lines, when an expression of dismayed incredulity escaped him; a few lines further and ‘Impossible! It cannot be,’ he cried, while an angry flush overspread his face, and indignation shone in his mild blue eyes.
But Eleanor sat speechless and white, her eyes alone betokening the fiery tempest raging within. She made no sort of response to his exclamation, and refixing his eyes on the writing he read to the end. Then, he turned the missive about looked it up and down, partly
‘Nay, sir, then all the world would know that Eleanor Radcliffe had been jilted.’
‘Jilted!’ echoed Mr Horace as if he had been stung. ‘Nay then, Eleanor, my child, that must never be said of thee. And yet’—he cried, rising abruptly and flinging himself about the apartment ‘my fingers itch to have at him. He must not escape scathless. The infamous scoundrel to dare play fast and loose with the heiress of Radcliffe. “Transferred his affections.” forsooth. The penniless Irish beggar! The black-hearted ingrate.’ He shall not go unpunished. And yet—and yet—thy name must not be bandied from lip to lip.
‘Leave the affair to me, sir,’ said the girl, steadily. ‘Therefore have I sought you. A maid of quality may jilt, but not be jilted. Keep, as I shall, the contents of this letter secret, and if to-morrow one should ask my hand, consent—yet not too readily. Feign reluctance, indifference, what you will, but be tardy, yet never hint that this bond has been severed. Speak of it rather as an existing contract which has your approval, but say finally that I am my own mistress. As for Maurice O'Halleran, leave him to me. I should be unworthy of my mother's race if I knew not how to avenge myself.’
And so it was arranged. Eleanor, self-controlled, pale, inexplicit: Mr Horace incensed, florid, dissatisfied, but pledged to secrecy concerning the contents of the long-looked for letter.
No one who saw the heiress sweep into Lady Teazle's ballroom that same night would have recognised the pale outraged damsel of the morning. Proudly she bore herself as Juno Junoesque; said of a woman: tall, stately, and imposing in appearance.abandon somewhat unuusal. With glittering eyes and cheeks like pomegranates, she smiled and chattered and flirted her fan as one whose cup of joyousness was fairly running over. To Monsieur she was most charming, receiving his attentions with a seductive coquetry which he found quite irresistible, though every now and again entrenching herself in a kind of coy reserve, as though trying to steel her heart against his fascinations. Her acting was so perfect that he might well have been pardoned if he thought her affections in process of transfer from the affianced absentee to his courtly self. Truth to tell, they made, he and she, a very distinguished couple, and many were the comments—some of them not too good-natured—uttered upon their appearance and apparent friendly relations.
‘How well Miss Radcliffe is looking to-night!’ ‘By my troth, a splendid creature.’ ‘Magnificent woman that, by Gad, sir!’ ‘Looks as if the Count stood to win, by St. George!’ So the men, rapping their snuff-boxes.
‘What a charming dancer is the Count!’ ‘How divinely handsome!’
Without doubt the Frenchman was handsome. Dressed in the extreme of fashion, beruffled and bejewelled, he eclipsed, yet was not of the dandies. He wore his garments as though he had been born in them, and carried himself with a lazily assured ease indicative of patrician associations. His coal black hair, powdered and tied back in a queue, displayed fine features, and his piercing eyes were dark as night. As he bent them upon Miss Eleanor after supper that evening, while promenading the ballroom, they expressed all the ardour of a lover whose bosom burned to declare his passion.
‘Zounds! I wonder if Miss Radcliffe has really given O'Halleran his conge,’ said one to his neighbour, as snuff-boxes in hand, they stood watching the dancers.
See note page 9.
‘My faith, it looks like it. Poor devil! I thought that was a love match.’
‘Miss Radcliffe has doubtless found since she came to town that love is an antiquated sentiment.’
‘Marry! and so it is, betwixt husbands and wives at least. But 'twas said the nuptial day was fixed, and O'Halleran has, I know, sold his commission.’
‘Gad! It simply means a different complexioned bridegroom, and O'Halleran may go to the devil. He's only an Irishman anyway.’
‘Marry, sir! Captain O'Halleran is a right good fellow, let me tell you, and a friend of my own to boot.’ responded the other with his hand on the hilt of his small sword.
‘Prithee, be not offended. I know naught against the gallant captain. Yet were his virtues God-like they would scarce tip the balance against a coronet in the eyes of a woman of fashion.’
‘All's fair in love, 'tis said, but damme, ‘tis a scurvy trick to snatch the bride from a man's arms on the nuptial eve so to speak.’
‘Gad! a touch of cold steel should soon make the Frenchman immortal were I O'Halleran, my oath out.’
‘After all, the jilt is the chief offender. See how she languishes. My faith! I've seen her look just so at O'Halleran, and he, poor devil, just worships her.’
‘Marry then, he should have wedded here ere her humour changed, for of all unstable things commend me to a woman's favour. 'Tis yours to-day another's to-morrow. The only sure way with the dear creatures is to take them on the hop, and if you would wed a pretty heiress, do so while her fancy is at fever heat. Delays are dangerous, as we see, for if that lissom-limbed beauty's fancy has not found another object than the gallant captain, why, stap my vitals, I've yet
‘My niece's happiness is with me the first consideration, Count. She is, I may tell you, her own mistress absolutely. But, were the case different. I should not seek to control her in a matter of such moment.’
The speaker was Mr Radcliffe, with whom, on the morrow after Lady Teazle's drum the Comte de Pignerolles was closeted in the library.
‘You are doubtless aware,’ he went on, ‘that a kind of engagement has subsisted betwixt her and the son of an old friend of my brother. If my niece finds your fascinations superior to his, I can only be thankful that she met you before her fate was irrevocably fixed. Her referring you to me is a mere matter of form, as she is well aware that whatever preferences I may have I could never seek to bar her way to happiness. If, therefore, you have her consent. I shall certainly not withhold mine.’
‘A thousand thanks, Monsieur. Language fails me in which to express my obligation, for I do assure you on the faith of a gentleman such is my devotion to your lovely niece that your refusal would have made me miserable for life; and she half feared your disapproval, which, so great is her affection for you, would have made our union impossible. As for the semi-engagement you have named that is a mere bagatelle Something unimportant or of little value.Ma foi! It gives me the horrors to think of it.’ And with an exaggerated grimace, the oily-tongued foreigner shrugged his shoulders, and helping himself to an expostulatory pinch of snuff, daintily dusted his fingers in air, while an indefinable mistrust stole over the mind of Mr. Horace.
* * * * * * * * *
Within a fortnight all was bustle and preparation at Radcliffe Hall, for both the bride to be and her uncle wished the marriage to be solemnized in the parish church, and the family had come
‘Recollect. miri due,’ she had said at parting, ‘No violence must be used. Follow him wherever he goes, but leave the rest to me.’
A brave wedding was that for which the bells rang out merrily on the ensuing day. But there were those amongst the crowded congregation who discounted knowingly the expression of the bridegroom's dark, handsome face.
‘Miss Radcliffe has found her master, if I'm any judge of physiognomy The facial features, especially when revealing qualities of mind or character.
‘Let us hope so,’ responded the other. ‘Her pride needs humbling, Heaven witness.’
‘Happen Miss Eleanor knows best,’ wheezeed an old granny among the more humble spectators, ‘nathless I like not that furriner's jowl. He be a masterful man, he be.’
Eleanor had never looked more proudly beautiful than on this, the last day of her maiden freedom, and alas! the last also of her peace of mind. She had herself a vague but obtrusive consciousness that she was bidding adieu to happiness, but her resolution never wavered, and reckless of her fate, she went steadily on to it. Sleep had not visited her eyes during that last night, and she rose pale as a statue, and not unlike one in her chill unresponsiveness. In silent hauteur she submitted to Miss Tabitha's effusive embraces, and quite unmoved turned a cold cheek to her troubled uncle's affectionate salute. In church, however, she showed no signs of unrest. He manner might have been a trifle automatic, but her eyes were never brighter, her bloom never richer, than when in a clear cold voice—sounding in her own ears strangely distant, like a far off knell—she spoke the fateful words, which, for weal or woe, linked her lot to that of the man by her side.
The service ended, the congratulations over, her new-made husband—into whose close-set eyes had crept a gleam of sinister rejoicing—led her from the sacred edifice. Proudly Eleanor faced the large congregation, for the old church was literally crammed with gentle and simple folk, drawn together by a common interest in what was to
Dressed in a showy manner.
* * * * * * * * *
Some two hours later a handsome travelling coach dashed along the high road to London, from whence the wedded pair were to take ship for Calais, their carefully-arranged tour including a month's Parisian gaiety, a few weeks' sojourn in the Comte's family chateau, and a saunter through the rest of Europe. Even as she sat in the speeding coach, a newly-made bride. Eleanor mentally counted with feverish eagerness upon the gay distractions awaiting her in the French metropolis as a refuge from the company of the man who, hitherto tolerated, had all at once become positively odious to her. They had not exchanged words since the ceremony, for, quite conscious of her repugnance, the Comte had so far forborne any self-obtrusion.
With closed eyes the bride, enveloped in furs, for the weather was still cold, reclined in a weary attitude as far from her liege as the limited space permitted, striving hard to drown in dreams of coming revels the recollections which besieged her brain. The bloom had again left her cheeks, and not the faintest hint of any soft emotion appeared on her chiselled face; yet, as she reclined in her cushions, she was beautiful enough to make any man triumph in her possession. So thought the Comte de Pignerolles, at least, as he devoured her with eyes openly exultant and boldly desirous.
As if disturbed by the intensity of his gloating gaze, the heavy eyelids at last uplifted, and the dark orbs flashed out upon him. while a quick flush spread over cheek and brow. Moved by a sudden access of passion, and for a moment oblivious of all else but her entrancing beauty, he threw an arm around and sought to caress her. So unexpected was his movement that his lips were upon hers ere she knew his intention, but the next instant a gasp of disgust and a decided repulse chilled his ardour, and sent him back to his corner with a terribly evil look upon his livid countenance. He spoke no audible word, but in his heart he said, ‘C'est bien, Madame, mais par Dieu! Tu me le revaudra!’
Very well, Madame, but by God, you will pay for this!
We can only assume Bullock means the town in the South-East of France called Menton. Situated on the French Riviera Menton is known as ‘the pearl of France’.The scene changes to Mentonedejeuner. Eleanor Radeliffe had been Comtesse de Pignerolles just six weeks, and already any illusions she might have cherished were at an end. She knew now the full worth of her husband's dulcet flatteries, of his profuse declarations of love. Had he really caied for her, the shrinking she experienced after taking the last irrevocable step migth perhaps have been succeeded by abiding trust, if not affection; but the nature of his passion, the slightness of his regard, the utter selfishness of his character, were not long in being revealed, and ere many days she had learnt that the courtly Comte was a person without heart or principle, and not only so, but that under a smiling mask he hid a tigerish nature, and a will which, for the time, held her own in subjection. But there was more to come. She thought she knew him thoroughly, but, in truth, she little dreamed of what dark deeds he was capable.
Lunch.
Her tour had been a bitter disappointment to her. Tour it was but in name, for after two days in Paris they had pushed on to Mentone, where, it appeared, her husband had friends—friends, however, whom he never brought to see her—and at Mentone they had been ever since, despite her remonstrances and bitter upbraidings. Parisian gaieties she had not even had a glimpse of. Taken straight to a humble A suburb in Paris.pension in the Faubourg St. Antoine
While her toilet was leisurely proceeding, without even a show of interest on her part, her husband was engaged in successively sampling the various dishes of a tempting déjeuner, with the fastidious dissatisfaction which betrays a captious taste or cloyed appetite. His attire was négligé, and a jaded look on the dark face spoke of midnight dissipations, yet withal he looked no less, perhaps a trifle more,
Slovenly.
Casual.
‘Madame sapproche, Monsieur.’
As though the information was wholly devoid of interest for him, Monsieur airily shook and folded his serviette, and rising as Eleanor entered the room, made her a low obeisance; then, turning nonchalantly to the window, proceeded to roll a cigar, while the waiter attended to the needs of his spouse. Turning presently, he remarked, inclining towards her with mock deference:
‘If Madame is served, you, Antoine, may retire.’
An imperative gesture secured prompt obedience from the menial, and the Comte went on to say with insulting sweetness:
‘You are late again this morning, ma belle dame.’
‘I find but little inducement to be early,’ said Eleanor, disdainfully.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said between his puffs—for he was very deliberately enjoying his cigar, undeterred by her presence— ‘you will have the goodness to be punctual in future, Madame. I require your presence to flavour the dishes, for pardieu! without your sweet looks I find them insipid,’ and he smiled ironically.
Her eyes flashed. ‘You are facetious, sir, but I will not endure your insults much longer.’
‘Brava, Madame! A little fire enhances your loveliness. Yet withal, I must beg you to be calm, for I have exciting news for you this morning. You have been praying for English letters. Here at last is one. If you have breakfasted it is yours.’
A quick flush and eager movement betrayed Eleanor's longing for home news, but curbing herself, she replied, coldly:
‘I have no desire to read your letters, sir.’
‘C'est bien, Madame. I shall take care of that, ma foi! But this is for you. See!’ And he laid the missive before her.
A little cry, hastily suppressed, broke from her as her eye fell upon the superscription. Then taking it up she exclaimed indignantly:
‘This envelope has been opened. Have you dared again, sir, to take this liberty?’
A chuckle escaped him.
‘Must I again explain, Madame, that such a liberty is every husband's right.’
‘A truce to your explanations, sir! I desire them not. Take this letter. Since you have had the insolence to read it, take upon yourself
‘You are impetuous, Madame,’ remarked the Count, softly, intercepting her ere she reached the door. ‘But reseat yourself, I beg, for I would see you read that letter ere handing you another which arrived by the same post, the first being probably delayed on the route. I assure you they are both extremely interesting,’ and locking the door, he led her back perforce, and placing her in a low chair in the full light of the French window, put before her the open letter, and stood back to note its effect upon her.
Spite of her burning indignation and acute sense of wrong, her eyes were riveted by characters well known and but lately familiar. The epistle, which bore the date of her wedding, was brief, and ran as follows:—
‘While false friends are toasting you in conventional phrases. 1. too, though uninvited to the banquet, would record a wish on your behalf. You have deliberately chosen to exchange a heart for a coronet, the love of an honest man for a sounding title. I thought you of nobler mould, but it seems I have misjudged you, and white I scoru the duplicity with which you have acted. I blame myself for being so easily misled. My dream is over, but may you, false beauty, have all the happiness of which such a shallow nature is capable.
Perplexity, deepening into horror, blanched Eleanor's face as she rapidly scanned the lines, while, with a sneering smile, her husband took in every shade in her gamut of expression. Raising her eyes she encountered his look, and her bloodless face crimsoned, while haughtily erecting herself she asked:
‘How long have you had this letter, sir?’
‘It arrived yesterday, Madame, as the postmark will show you,’ and he handed her the envelope covered with the imprints of foreign travel. ‘It has come by a roundabout route, probably owing to our change of plans. Permit me, ma chere, to hand you the other.’
She forced herself to read it with outward calmness, while he watched her as before.
‘Since my hasty note,’ it ran, ‘written in the first hour of your marriage. I have seen Mr Radcliffe, and also Miss Tabitha. I now take the liberty of writing again, partly to withdraw any expressions in my former note which may have pained you, partly in vindication of my own honour. It is due to myself that I prove my own steadfastness, and this I cannot do better than by returning to you all the letters purporting to come from you, which I received while in Ireland. That you did not write those letters, nor receive my replies, is beside the main point. They came to me ostensibly from you, and in good faith I received and responded to them, knowing your handwriting too well—as I thought—ever to dream of foul play. With those who thus impersonated you in pursuance of a vile conspiracy to separate us, it is for you to deal, supposing you think the matter of sufficient moment. I now know that you received but one letter from me, and that one I never penned, and I therefore
Silently staring at the signature, Eleanor sat for some terrible moments as if stunned by this new source of misery. Then letting fall the letter, she buried her face in her hands and tried to realise all its import, while grimly smiling, her husband watched her. At length she raised her head, demanding—
‘The letters! The enclosure! Where are they?’
‘Ma foi!’ he answered, chuckling. ‘Afraid, ma belle, that they might distress you, I took the liberty of destroying them.’
‘Liar! You feared they might be used against you. I see it all—the whole vile plot. You wrote them, perjured villain, fiend incarnate!’
‘Fie, Madame! Such language is not pretty on lips so fair.’
‘Oh, my God, give me patience! If you can speak truth, Monsieur, tell me what this letter means.’
‘Perdien! It appears moderately explicit. In love as in war, Madame, all tactics are fair, and as Miss Radcliffe was not to be won by ordinary methods, her fortunate present possessor had to use extraordinary.’
‘Which means, that fair methods failing, you used foul?’
He shrugged his shoulders, grimacing.
‘And are you not ashamed? Can you unblushingly own to this perfidy?’
‘Ma foi! I am rather proud of my achievement, Madame.’
‘Monster! Have you no moral sense?’
‘None whatever, Madame,’ and again he grimaced, but looked withal so dangerous that his wife involuntarily shuddered.
‘What?’ she cried, in despairing accents, ‘What was your motive?’
‘Love!, ma belle—and—also—revenge.’
‘Love!’ she repeated, scornfully. ‘You know not what it means. And revenge—upon whom?’
‘Upon several people. But you mistake, Madame. I have had some experience in love, and should know its meaning and worth. It is, however, poor stuff at the best, and lacks the flavour one never misses in revenge. It palls with possession, but revenge—ma foi! it sometimes lingers in the mouth forever,’ and the Comte smacked his lips as if tasting it. ‘You, ma chère,’ he continued, ‘proved too unresponsive to keep up the fire of my passion; no doubt your heart was still with le
capitaine; I am proud of my conquest, nevertheless—and shall keep you for my vengeance.’
‘Perjured wretch! I shall not stay. This very day shall I take steps to have the bond annulled.’
He chuckled. ‘Reflect, Madame. A bond must exist before it can be annulled. Here you have no status, for our English marriage would not count, since my parents' consent was withheld.’
‘Your parents?’ she cried wildly. ‘You said they were dead.’
‘Ha! ha! The credulity of English maids, and the carelessness of English guardians is proverbial. They never suspect a titled personage, ma foi! But be reasonable, ma chèr, In England we are man and wife.’
‘Then take me back? I demand it. Nay—’ she went on with a change of manner, as the full degradation of her position forced itself upon her. ‘I implore you, it you ever loved me, take me back to England.’
He smiled. ‘You would be nearer Monsieur le Capitaine. Is it not so? Well, Madame, I am desolated to deny you, but truly I have not the wherewithal.’
‘Not the wherewithal? What mean you?’
‘Pardieu! What I say, Madame. I have been unfortunate lately, and at this moment am penniless.’
‘But you have possessions. You can raise money?’
‘Diable! Think you I should plead poverty if I had a stone or stock unpledged?’
Eleanor paled.
‘Where then is the money I brought you?’
‘Bah! A bagatelle! I have staked more on the cast of die.’
‘You had forty thousand pounds. Surely it is not all gone?’
‘Every son, I had to raise on stocks, and lost on the transaction.’
Some silent minutes passed, then, with outward calmness, Eleanor asked:
‘Is there no way then to leave this odious place?’
‘There is but one, Madame. You have settlements.’
‘Settlements? Yes, you wish to lay hands on them?’
‘If it should be convenient, Madame, to transfer them, I see a way out of our present difficulties.’
‘Ah! You are considerate, Monsieur. What are my settlements?’
‘You have, I believe, the Hall Radcliffe, the town house, and twenty thousand in stocks.’
‘Radcliffe Hall is entailed. If I transfer the rest, will you swear to send me back to England at once?’
‘Pardieu! In that case, Madame, I will myself escort you.’
‘If I give you this money I go to England alone. It shall be the price of our separation.’
‘So, Madame? Then you must permit me to decline it. I have business in England, and we return together, or not at all. You are necessary to my comfort, ma belle, and, moreover,’ he added, breathing hard, ‘you shall swear to me upon the evangel to keep all these matters inviolably secret. If you disclose an iota to any human being, par Dieu! I shall murder you,’ and seizing her two shoulders in an iron grasp, he glared into her eyes until she trembled.
‘There is a mask, my lady, enquiring for you. He refuses his name, and insists on seeing your ladyship. He says he comes from town, and is expected.’
‘Forsooth, he is right, Belinda, Conduct him hither.’
‘La! your ladyship. Hither?’
‘Marry! Said I not hither, wench? He is my man of business, and ceremony is needless; and, Belinda, should Mr Horace ask for me, meanwhile. I am engaged. By the way, at what hour did Monsieur leave?’
‘About three o'clock, your ladyship.’
‘Said he aught of his return?’
‘He said, my lady, you were not to be alarmed if he prolonged his stay a week. I was not, however, to trouble you with the information unless you made enquiries. Rarely considerate is Monsieur.’
‘Considerate, indeed! Close that casement, Belinda, the scent from the garden oppresses me.’
‘La! my lady, and you so fond of roses?’
‘Pour me out a cup of wine, and now bring up the stranger.’
Belinda tripped away, and the Comtesse de Pignerolles drank the wine, and tried with indifferent success to settle herself in a composed attitude.
A month had elapsed since that terrible day at Mentone, when her husband, forcing her to her knees, had extracted—as the price of her return home a fearful oath never to reveal his evil deeds. They were now at Radcliffe Hall, where they had found Mr Horace suffering from indisposition, which since their return had become aggravated.
Ever since coming home Eleanor's sole thought had been how to evade her oath without betraying her intention. Her uncle's illness
must be annulled. Revenge should come after. The Count, for whom a simple country life had no charms, spent most of his time in town, wherefore his wife, in her old home, felt comparatively free from surveiliance. He, however, was kept pretty well informed of her movements.
Her only confidante was the old gipsy, who had been to Southern Spain while Eleanor was abroad, and who now bitterly denounced the Count. He was ‘a villain,’ she said, ‘a cheat,’ Eleanor must get rid of him, and then—. She had paid one or two visits to town in Eleanor's interests, as the latter feared herself to excite suspicion by such a journey. It was in response to a communication conveyed by her that the mask had come down. Eleanor having appointed for the interview a time when her husband would be absent. The fear of discovery, however, the dreadful consequences of his possible return were enough—apart from other sensations—to try her nerves.
It was hard, indeed, to be calm and self-controlled as she knew her visitor expected her to be. She heard them at the door. Belinda threw it wide.
‘The stranger, my lady,’ she announced, and turning mechanically, her face set and colourless, Eleanor fixed on him her heavily shadowed eyes. She spoke no word of greeting, only stood and gazed, and Belinda, most reluctantly closing the door, would fain have put in practice her old keyhole trick had not the key itself frustrated her purpose, for Man of business, forsooth, ‘she said to herself, as if I could mistake that figure. No, no, my fine lady, I've seen it too often. but if my handsome Count gives me not twenty crowns for this news, I take no more of his busses, for though he's well favoured, good sooth. I like my gingerbread gilt.’
Belinda was a fairly good spy, though by no means an immaculate maid, but though in the Comte's confidence, she herself knew less of his movements than she imagined.
Meanwhile the two within stood for some slow-drawn moments silently contemplating each other. Then the visitor, removing his mask, which he cast from him with a gesture of disdain, displayed the familiar lineaments of Maurice O'Halleran, but the face Was pale and serious, the mouth firmly set, and the once kind eyes cold and grave. The sight of his uncovered face, as sadly but calmly he regarded her, restored Eleanor's self-possession, and advancing a step, she said in hard, even tones:
‘It is very good of you, Captain O'Halleran, to grant me this interview. You place me under great obligations. But be seated, I pray
‘Pray speak not of obligation, madam, he said gravely. As a soldier and a gentleman I hope ever to be ready to assist the unfortunate.’
A flush mounted to her brow, but seeking to emulate his self-command, she replied.
‘Believe me. Captain O'Halleran, I would not have put you to this inconvenience, nor invited you into what may seem a false position, had I anyone else in whom to confide, any friend capable of assisting or advising me. As my letters would inform you my uncle is seriously ill, and while he remains so I am practically destitute. I have been so cruelly deceived that I know not where to turn or in whom to trust. From this application to yourself you may be well assured I have naturally shrunk, but my position becomes daily more unbearable, and I see no other way. You are too generous to triumph over me, and I know I can trust you to keep the affair secret until it is safe to take action.’
‘You wish your marriage annulled?’
‘It must be annulled if I am to retain my reason.’
‘I desire not to pry into your motives, but you have, of course sufficient grounds?’
‘Grounds enough, heaven knows, but no proofs, no witnesses. It is here you as a man of the world can aid me.’
‘You have not yet sought legal advice?’
‘I have not dared until sure of evidence lest the affair should get abroad. He has sworn to murder me in such an event; and besides.’ she added, I really have not the necessary funds. In this also you. I thought, could help me. You can understand. ‘she continued, with, a painful effort. how humiliating such an application must be to me, but I am fairly at bay. I have no other resource, and I cannot let slip my one chance t escape from any conventional notions of propriety, or even delicacy. I am appealing to you as any distressed female might to a generous-hearted man of the world, certain that what you would do for one unfortunate you cannot refuse to another.’
‘Pray do not pain yourself needlessly,’ he answered, moved by her evident distress. ‘I do not misjudge the motives of your application. Only let me know exactly in what I can serve you that no time may be lost in useless action.’
I commissioned my messenger to explain what evidence I thought would be regarded as sufficient grounds for a divorce, and also to mention my lack of funds. I thought you might perhaps borrow for me sufficient on the strength of my expectations from my uncle, but haste in the whole matter is imperative, because, should he die while this is pending—and his slate is critical—the Count will not leave me a
‘Have yon, then, no influence over him?’
‘None whatever. He has not a single generous quality, or even weakness to which I could appeal, and could only have married me for my money. He gets daily more impatient at my uncle's lingering, and if wishes could kill, would, I am sure, hasten the end. So you see how urgent is the need of haste, and will understand how I must have racked my brain in devising plans ere sending to you.’
‘If your fears have not exaggerated the danger, I regret you did not apply to me sooner. However, your letters were tolerably explicit, and your messenger more so, and between the two I think I have been enabled to secure what you require.’
‘Already?’
‘Yes. Understanding that the need was urgent. I lost no time in getting to work.’
‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘Pray do not try. On your account it would be unwise to repeat this interview, and I wished to place in your own hands these documents. and as he spoke he drew from his breast a roll of papers. Here are details, easily substantiated, which can at once be placed in legal hands and also bank bills sufficient for the present. Should more be required your messenger knows where to find me. If I might advise, I should say, Go up to town to-morrow, and yourself instruct your attorney:’ and if you indeed fear bodily violence, remain there in quiet lodgings until the affair is decided. And now our interview has, I fear, already lasted too long. The need of secrecy makes circumspection necessary. ‘He stooped to lift his mask. This is a precaution peculiarly repugnant to me, but I suppose it is, as your letter suggested, an advisable one.’
‘I know how you must despise it—and me.’ she replied, her voice quivering, ‘but believe me. I would not have suggested it had I not I thought it desirable on your account as well as my own.’
‘Pray give yourself no uneasiness on my account,’ he replied, with just a tinge of bitterness. ‘My lot is not so happy that I should fear any risk to myself.’
They were standing vis-ú-vis, and near together, her troubled eyes—for all her height-upraised, for he was of grand proportions, The dark orbs had an appealing, timid look quite new to them, which touched his heart spite of his almost stoical self-control. He felt he should lose it if he looked at her long, so, hardening his voice:
‘Farewell,’ he said. ‘I need not tell you how it grieves me to find you so unhappy—but—should you require further: assistance, do not
Her hands were clasped together, her white lips moved, her eyes were very wistful.
‘Say one kind word to me before you leave me—Maurice.’ she murmured, faintly.
He hesitated. She was naught to him now—naught. He had told himself so a thousand times. Faithless, if not fickle, she had passed out of his life. And yet, as he stood looking down upon her pleading, sorrow-stricken, yet still lovely face, he realized the truth of the wise man's declaration, ‘Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.’ Like a flood tender memories surged through his brain until his head reeled and his eyes swam.
‘Why could you not trust me?’
The words escaped his lips ere he knew. Hers parted in an anguished cry:
‘Oh, Maurice Maurice, my love, my darling, have I lost you for ever?’
‘Hush!’ he said, huskily. ‘Pray, pray, be calm. It was your own act.’
‘Yes, yes. I know,’ and she covered her face. ‘Yet, Maurice. I was deceived, imposed on.’
‘I thought you knew me better—Eleauor.’ His voice shook, and as he named her, took on, spite of himself, a tender tone:
‘Yearningly she looked up again. Maurice.’ His eyes alone replied.
‘We can never again be aught to each other, for I know you must despise me, but oh, my life. I love you more than ever! Will you, before we part, take me into your arms once again, and say one, just one, kind word?’
She was so near him, so wistful, so sad, and lately so dear. What could he do? His arms wound themselves about her. Close, close to his heart she was pressed; kisses rained upon her lips. For one or two delirious moments the world and anguish were forgotten, then from his sore heart came the cry, exceeding bitter:
‘Eleanor, my heart's darling, why, why could you not wait?’
The strain was too great to be prolonged. Asunder they must tear themselves, and for ever. Both felt that.
‘I must go, Eleanor.’
‘Yes,’ she replied faintly, his words sounding hollow in her ears and far away. ‘Yes; but, Maurice, I can bear it better now—bear all my trouble better now I know your heart is still mine,’
‘Still yours, for ever yours. Farewell, my life's light, for ever farewell!’ He wrung her hand, pressed one more lingering kiss upon
She reeled as the door closed, and caught at it for support, seeing nothing, hearing nothing for some moments of unutterable misery, during which the blackness of desolation overwhelmed her soul.
‘You are grievously afflicted, ma belle eponse, at the loss of your lover, or is it that he was not more eager, for. ma foi, a maid could not be coyer? My neighbour's wife should not woo me so warmly for naught, pardieu.’
She could not realise it at first, thought herself dreaming, but the mocking voice went on, the mocking tones she knew so well cutting their way to her already sufficiently wounded heart, and turning mechanically, she found herself face to face with her husband. He had been hidden away somewhere, in one of the oriel windows probably, behind the tapestry hangings, and had overheard everything. She felt he would kill her, felt also now that she did not care. All her spirit seemed to have fled, and her fear with it. Like one bent under a heavy weight she tottered to a chair, while her tormentor, with a wicked light in his eyes and a cruel smile, on his lips, watched without hindering her. He turned to the table on which Maurice had placed the papers.
'So, Madame, you would be divorced, and Monsieur le capitaine finds the evidence—and the money. C'est bieu. But I fear, ma belle dame, I must take the liberty of foiling your plans, since they interfere with my own. Von will permit me to glance at the documents. Ha! quite a collection, and one, two, five, ten. Ten bank bills of a hundred. One thousand pounds. Monsieur le Capitiane is generous, very, for a man without means. A nice little sum, and a true Godsend, for I am rather hard up at present. Lucky that for once I preferred my dear lady's chamber to a masquerade. I will take care of these papers. ma chere and spend this money for you, for as I cannot allow you to divorce me, and as you have probably not long to live, you certainly will not require, it. Meantime let me wish you good-night. You are fatigued. I see, and indisposed to conversation. An revoir ma belle. We shall resume the subject to-morrow.
Closing the door softly, he hastened downstairs and out through the main entrance. Then quickened his steps almost to a run until about half-way down the avenue he caught sight of a tall cloaked figure making with rapid strides for the gate.
Meantime. Eleanor sat as if paralyzed. She had spoken no word in response to his observations, uttered no objection to his taking the papers. Where he had gone now she knew not. cared not. Strange to say, it never once occurred to her that he would follow Maurice. If she thought of him at all it was as fingering the bank-notes, the money intended to purchase her freedom.
All through the watches of that weary night Eleanor sat as her husband had left her, too steeped in misery to take note of the passing hours, or even to feel, except vaguely, that they were long, until the joyous trilling of the lark announced the birth of a new day. Then, as if awakening from a stupor, she rose wearily, and dragging herself to a window, looked out upon the delicate beauty of the summer dawn, the minutes later, hooded and cloaked, she was treading the bye path which led to the tent of the gipsy.
‘You were abroad betimes this morning, Madame. I trust no ill tidings from the amiable old dye led you to abridge your rest.’
They had met, the Count and Countess, at luncheon, he suave, smiling, the pink of French politese; she pale and hollow-eyed, but openly contemptuous. She vouchsafed no reply to his observation, though her eye met his in involuntary surprise, whereat he leered maliciously. At the conclusion of the meal he offered his arm saying:
‘Permit me, Madame. I would do myself the honour of holding a short interview with you. The journey interrupted so agreeably yesterday must be made to day, desolated though I am to tear myself. I find myself unexpectedly recalled to the continent, and desire that accounts between us may be quite settled before I go.’
She declined his assistance, and hesitated, as well she might before
I Lead on, she said, waving her hand imperiously, ‘I will follow.’
He shrugged his shoulders, and, slightly in advance, conducted her to the library.
‘Not there! Not there!’ she exclaimed, hastily, turning deadly pale as he threw open the door. ‘Let us go anywhere but there.’ She had not entered the library since the night of her father's sudden death, a year ago, and shrank back now with a swift presage of evil.
But mocking at her distress, her husband insisted, because there they would be less liable to interruption, and once within he prevented the possibility of exit by double locking the heavy door. Flushed now, and
‘Permit me. Madame, to offer you a chair.’
‘Our interview need not. I suppose, be very long, sir, and I prefer to stand.’
‘C'est bien, Madame, but I fear you will fatigue yourself.’ Then taking up his station on the edge of the table. She looked her up and down in real or simulated admiration. She certainly had never looked handsomer, although now somewhat less plump than of yore. Excitement hail lent to her face its old glow, to her eyes their former sparkle. She was attired in an embroidered gown of soft white muslin, brought by her father from India, and its light folds, floating around her perfect form, set off to advantage her rich southern beauty.
‘Pity, ma ehire, you did not take to the boards. You would have made an admirable tragedy queen.’
‘You did not bring me here merely to insult me, I presume, sir.’
‘Far from it, Madame, but, pardieu! times have changed when a gipsy's daughter deems such a reference insulting.’
‘You deal largely in riddles, sir.’ she replied with an access of colour, ‘but as I care not for such diversion, be good enough to proceed to business.’
His laugh had a menace in it.
‘Your time has all at once become precious. Madame, yet I doubt not your little affairs can wait. But since you will have business, tell me the object of your early visit to the old Gitana A female gypsy.
‘What know you of the old Gitana?’
‘Pardieu. Madame, nature has placed me under great obligations to her, as you shall admit presently. Meanwhile, it is enough for me that she is the mother of my fair, if not too faithful, spouse. But permit me to compliment you, ma chére, on the incomparable audacity which enabled the Irishman's rejected mistress, the daughter of the despised outcast, to mate with the representative of one of the noblest houses of la belle France. I do not lay claim to overmuch modesty myself, but I must confess such unhesitating assurance, such vaulting ambition, fairly staggers me.’
‘You forget, Monsieur, that the Irishman's mistress was not rejected.’
‘That is beside the question. She believed herself to be so, and yet she hesitated not to lay siege to the heart and entrap the person of a
pardieu!
Strange to any, however, the noble victim, instead of evincing the indignation proper to offended pride, seemed unaccountably amused, an ugly smile playing round his lips and lighting evilly his sardonic face.
‘You are very jocular, Monsieur. But you are pleased to forget your own part in the comedy. What must be thought of the “noble foreigner” who, for his own villainous purposes, could commit the crime of forgery with the view of ruining a woman's life?’
Pardieu! Madame, that trifle puts us more on a level, and then, as it happened, I knew the woman was but a gipsy. As I have before remarked, “All's fair in love,” but, ‘he went on with a change of tone, I had you not first played fast and loose with me, I need not have had recourse to such tacties. However,’ he added between his set teeth, ‘von know now what rejection means, and in teaching you this lesson I am partly avenged.’
‘You are enigmatical, Monsieur. If you wish, me to understand, pray be more explicit.’
‘That will I, pardieu! Learn then, Madame, that my object in wedding you was less love than vengeance. Hear you? Vengeance! I have tasted some of its sweets. I have made you feel something of what you lightly inflicted on another, regardless of his sufferings, because you deemed him of lowly birth. To-day I mean to finish the work and drink the intoxicating cup to its lregs, for, Madame, I too have gipsy blood in my veins. Ha, ha! And your mother but half suckled you if you know not that revenge inflames the Rom like wine, and once he tastes its sweetness, he stops not till blood has made him drunk. You are pale, Madame! You tremble! But you shall grow paler yet, and when I have done you will have ceased to tremble.
He had come up close to her, and as he hissed these ominous words in her car, his malignant glance transfixed her. Incapable of movement, she stood horrified, but only half comprehending, while he enjoyed his evil triumph. Presently he drew back, playing with her as a cat with a mouse, and she sank into the nearest chair.
‘Ha! C'est bien,’ he chuckled grimly. ‘In that chair Monsieur, your esteemed father, spent his last hour. You have wonderful discrimination, ma chere.’
She started to her feet, crying wildly, ‘Man or devil, who—what are you, in heaven's name?’
‘Ha! ha! I am an old acquaintance, ma chere, but in answering your question you must pardon me if I dispel some illusions. You would be divorced, Madame, for even as the divorece of a tilled personage social distinctions might still be yours, and you doubtless flatter yourself you would always have Monsieur le Capitaine to full back on. Is it not so?
ma chere, for with your witch mother's connivance, I have somewhat misled you, and the match with which you consoled yourself when you thought yourself jilted was less brilliant than you supposed. Moreover. I fear me the courts might pronounce our marriage illegal, and thus you would be completely compromised. The world of fashion would draw its skirts away and even le capitaine might shrink from contact with the disgraced leavings of a vagabond gipsy. You are surprised. Madame. Have you then quite forgotten the valet Jacques—Jacques who in all humility used to fetch and carry for you for the sake of the smile you bestowed so freely before the accursed captain set eyes on you?’
‘Jacques? Jacques? Jacques?’ Her eyes said it, though her lips moved not. Surprise for the moment overmastered all other feelings. She had never dreamed of this possibility. The vengeful wretch had disguised himself, acted his part so well, that never once in their intercourse had the image of the forgotten valet recurred to her memory, waking or sleeping. She could scarcely credit her senses, and involuntarily pressed her brow with a vague impression that she must be dreaming.
‘Jacques?’ she said at length. ‘You are Jacques le Blanc?’
‘Jacques le Blanc, at your service, Madame,’ he responded with a low obeisance.
‘Impostor!’ she exclaimed, indignation overpowering amazement. ‘How dared you perpetrate such villainy?’
‘Ha, ha! How dared I? What will a Rom not dare to carry out his vengeance?’
‘Upon whom, and for what, sought you vengeance?’
‘Upon three people, Madame. Upon your father and lover, who struck, and upon yourself, who discarded me for your new flame.’
‘I could not have discarded, since I was under no engagement to you.’
‘Your eyes had responded to mine. You suffered my attention, knowing well their import, until that tison d'enfer appeared.’
Firebrand.
‘And think you, inhuman monster! such reasons sufficient excuse for your infamous conduct?’
‘Pardieu! I make no excuse. See you this hand?’ and he held that very shapely and well-cared-for member under her eyes. ‘Observe this line—’ indicating a faint scarred line running diagonally across its back.
‘That, Madame, is the indelible imprint of your lover's whip. With that line dripping blood I swore that blood alone should wipe out the insult. Your father dared also to strike me. Me! Let Gentiles use the lash upon their slaves. We gipsies, we are free. To suit our purpose we can smile and fawn, but he who strikes us does so at his peril. That night I swore by the Gentile's God to be avenged upon those who had insulted me, and upon you, the light cause of my disgrace. Now
As with brows bent and eyes glowering he ground out the last words, he drew from his breast a gleaming stiletto, and swiftly upraising his right arm, brought it down upon her heart. Stiffening herself as the delicate glittering blade flashed before her eyes. Eleanor stood her ground gamely, not a muscle quivering, though her lip curled a little. He drew back smiling. He had arrested the weapon as its point entered her bodice.
‘You are a true Rom,’ said he, in grim admiration. ‘Allow me to compliment you on your nerve, my sister.’
She stood erect, in silent disdain. With the sight of the weapon all her tremors had vanished.
Pardieu! ‘Tis almost a pity to shed such brave blood. The witch's daughter is worthy of her parentage. I am proud, ma chere, to claim blood relationship with you.’
A look of loathing was the sole response, and he went on with his deviltry.
‘Yes, ma belle, you would annul our marriage bond, but “the ties of nature can never be dissolved.” So said Monsieur Radcliffe when I solicited your hand.’
Eleanor had left surprise behind, and her only answer now was a calm stare.
‘You are composed, Madame. Let me tell you the story. We were sitting in this apartment. Mr Roger and I, and he had acknowledged our relationship. You had turned your back on me, but I loved as only a child of nature can, with a passion which burnt up my blood. I thought you his niece—for the old dye had told me naught to the contrary—but when I asked his consent to address you, he refused, because, forsooth, among Gentiles brothers and sisters marry not.’
‘Brothers and sisters!’ queried Eleanor, involuntarily, her eyes dilating at the diabolical meaning of his expression.
‘Oui, ma belle. Such was our dear relationship, though neither of us had guessed it, for Mr Roger Radcliffe was my father.’
Her white face crimsoned, her heart beat audibly, she gasped for breath.
His leer grew more fiendish. She was trembling now. ‘Devil!’ she articulated ‘Impostor! You are lying.’ He laughed maliciously.
‘Nay, pardieu! it is the truth, Madame. The old man would not consent, but I silenced his opposition with a potion the witch mother gave me—for she, too, owed him a vendetta—and the good doctors said it was apoplexy. Ha, ha! Then I married you, et pardieu, I begin to be proud of my wife, she is so hard to kill. Permit me one caress, ma chere—the last—for I must be going.’
He again approached, in his right hand the stiletto.
‘Stand off, monster! Touch me not!’ she almost screamed, recoiling, and seizing a bronze from the mantel, while her magnificent hair, which owing to megrim had been but loosely coiled, tumbled in heavy masses over her white-robed shoulders.
‘Brava! ma belle panthère——’
At that moment a knock at the door arrested the movements of both opened it.
‘A packet for my lady, marked immediate.’
‘Ha! What is this?’
Ma foi! Permit me, Madame, the honour of opening the packet,’ and in another instant the unfastened wrappings discovered a pretty casket in delicately illuminated vellum, and upon its cover a letter lying. He held the pretty toy before her temptingly. read the superscription of the letter, then with a strangely compounded expression playing over his dark face handed both over to her.
Mechanically she received them, and opening the letter, ran her bewildered eyes over its brief contents. Then, in a dazed yet excited way, she lifted the casket lid, and for some frightful seconds stood petrified with horror, for then amid snowy shavings, all stained and clotted with blood, lay a human heart transfixed by a slender silver stiletto.
Slowly she raised her head. The infernal glow in the demon face before her told its own tale. Her parched lips essayed to move, her all but paralysed tongue to speak:
‘Hellhound—this—this is your work!’ she articulated, hoarsely, and with a shriek which pierced to the chamber of the bedridden uncle and start led the domestics gossiping below stairs, she sank to the floor in strong convulsions, still grasping the pretty vellum casket, whose gory contents were scattered hither and thither as she fell.
* * * * * * * * *
‘It is nothing,’ said the master of Radcliffe Hall—for such he still was to the domestics—and his bland composure was reassuring. ‘Your mistress was alarmed by a wasp, that is all. Return to your duties; she requires nothing,’ and the venturesome enquirers who had hurried to offer assistance returned without even seeing their lady, who lay writhing unconsciously upon the library sofa, while her fiendish partner composedly prepared a small but potent draught intended to assuage all her sufferings.
He had never meant to shed her blood. That would have been t dangerous there in the library. A potion such as her father had swallowed was a much safer quietus. He mixed it carefully, administered
Gathering up the ghastly contents of the casket, he carefully rewrapped and carried them away. Then, passing softly out of the hall door, entered a coach which had been long in waiting, and before dusk, that evening was chatting pleasantly to a fellow passenger on board the Calais mail packet.
‘Drive like the devil. Tom!’ he had said to the coachman on entering. ‘I have an appointments,’ and as the vehicle dashed off he lay back in the cushions and chuckled.
‘Well done, Jacques, mon ami. Thou hast bamboozled the whole crew. But haste thee now, for Pierre de Loup is on thy track, and the witch mother has found thee out. Ha! ha! They will both be too late. Thou wast an excellent tutor. Pierre, but thy pupil has outwitted thee. We were to divide the spoil, mon ami, but pardieu! I need it all, for thy impatience has lost me a fortune, le diabl, t' importe! A week longer, one little week, and the uncle would have been under the sod. But thy itching palms could not wait, it seems, perdition seize thee! And the witch has made discoveries. Would that I could have seen the she-devil when she found that her pretended nephew was a cheat, and all her good offices and precious documents thrown away upon a stranger, Ha, ha! It is an excellent comedy. But the last act was the best. Yet the girl bore herself well, and showed the spirit of the I Rom. 'Twas almost a pity—Bah! Jacques le Blanc! Art thou growing soft-hearted, thou? But she bore up well, saprisli! Yet the claim to kindred tried her. It was good to see her on the rack. Ha! ha! The credulity of these English. They never question. Ha! ha! She did question though, nom de chien! But that was the gipsy strain. Our people believe naught. She, However, believed like her of a father—when I said we were brother and sister. The credulous simpletons! Ha! ha! And she suffered, ay, suffered, la belle, painthers. But it was the last straw that did the business. Ha! That touched her. That Scabbed her proud heart, as I stabbed her accursed lovers, and as she scrupled not in her pride to stab mine. I was a menial, therefore a stock, a stone, a block of wood, without heart, without feeling, without the power of resentment. Ha! ha! Well, I have had my revenge. But, haste thee. Jacques. Thou hast still much to do. How slowly the coach moves—Faster. Tom, Faster!—Thou must change thy garb and thy mien, thy name and thy speech, mon ami, and get thee to Monaco, and break the bank ere Pierre le Loup can track thee, and then—Faster, Tom Faster!—then—come what will. What matter? Let us do what we will—eat, drink, lose, play, revenge—to-morrow we die. Bah! What is death? A long sleep. What comes after? Naught? Who cares for death? Not I. diable—Faster, Tom, Faster!’
‘Bon jour, mon cher capitaine.’
Good day to you, Captain.
‘Bon jour, mon ami, Comment rous portes cous deputs que je n'ai cu le plaiser de cous coir?‘
Good day, my friend. How have you been since I last had the pleasure of seeing you?
The speakers, as their language implies, were Frenchmen, Their dress bespoke them naval officers, their tones, indicated a liberal education, and they had met at a Parisian cafe. They were soon earnestly engaged in conversation, the substance of which, to save the reader needless trouble, we give in the following free translation, skipping the introductory portion.
‘I know nothing of his antecedents. Du Fresne. He carries himself well, and appears educated, but what is more to the purpose, he has money, and the uncontrolled use of it. And yet, parbleu! he eraves for more, ever for more. He is a lucky dog, too, if he begins by losing, he always ends by winning. His theory is that one can always win if one sticks at it; but, as I tell him, there's the rub. With some of us poor devils 'tis win early or lose all; and then what is left but a short shrift and a cold plunge. But his purse is never empty, though parbleu! it has been near it once or twice, so he tells me. But he is also a dare-devil, and fears naught: therefore in that also he will suit our purpose. I believe he would enter l'enfer itself in search of gold, and he only laughed when I told him the islanders were cannibals. “
Hell.
Island of gold.
‘You have brought him to Paris with you?’
‘He is now at l' Anberge Ruyale, for I half promised you would call and see him.’
‘H—m. I could have wished, D'Arblay, that you had known something of your new friend's people. You see caution is incumbent upon us, not only because our expedition will be full of danger, but because secrecy is indispensable.’
‘But I thought, Du Fresne, that more capital was needed.’
‘You are right, mon ami, and if your friend—how name you him?’
‘D'Estrelles, Conrad d'Estrelles.’
‘If, I say, your friend D'Estrelles prove a suitable person, and willing to hazard his money, we shall welcome him. Only, D'Arblay,
‘That is all he desires, I believe, Du Fresne. But I suppose there is no reason to doubt the existence of this golden isle. He is a man who might be troublesome if he thought himself misled.’
‘As to that, D'Arblay, we can furnish no proof. All we can do is to place before him our own information. All the world believes that England has discovered a golden island in the South Seas, and the failure of De Surville's (1717 – 1770) French explorer who had arrived in New Zealand on 17 December 1769, remaining for only fourteen days at Doubtless Bay (Duyker 138).
‘You are right, mon eapitaine. Their turning up just now was a lucky circumstance. But now, what say you to paving D'Estrelles a visit? That would commit you to naught, and you could then form your own opinion as to his fitness.’
‘On that understanding, mon ami, I shall be pleased to make his acquaintance.’
‘Allous done.’
In a spacious well-furnished apartment of the Auberge Royale lounged the subject of the foregoing conversation amusing himself with the latest number of the Encyclopedie. He was a dark handsome man in the prime of life, with a nonchalant air, and a sneering expression, which deepened as he lightly glanced at the seductive heresies of Messrs
French encyclopedia published in Paris between 1751 and 1772. The Encyclopedie was one of the most notable projects to come out of the French Enlightenment (Reill and Wilson 127).
Voltaire was a contributor to the French encyclopedia. See note page 71.
‘Arnaud,’ said his master. ‘I am expecting some friends. When I ring, bring in the liqueurs yourself, and, as my friends will probably dine with me, order a good menu and covers for three. And, Arnaud, when you fetch the liqueurs come without your eyeshades.’
‘C'est bien, Monsieur, but my eyes——’
‘Yes, yes, I know all about your eyes, but a few minutes' exposure will not hurt them, and it will amuse me, pardieu! to see their effect upon my friends.’
‘C'est, bien, Monsieur, I am at your service.’
A considerable time elapsed ere the lackey heard his master's ring. When at length it sounded, he removed his eyeshades and quietly glided into the salon with the refreshments, to find that gentleman engaged in animated conversation with the friends of the cafe, who seemed to have left doubt and hesitation behind, and were chattering and gesticulating as only Frenchmen can. He entered with eyes cast down, but as he set the salver upon the table, raised and turned them upon the guests, who both arrested their words open-mouthed, as if startled by the appearance of something uncanny. Politeness made them instantly avert their gaze, but, as if fascinated, it perpetually returned while he remained, in attendance; to the singular being who acted as valet to Monsieur d'Estrelles.
Dressed in a plain suit of snuff brown, of almost the same tint as his skin, his lean figure was supple as an eel, and its snaky movements as he glided to and fro produced in the lively Frenchmen a feeling of wonder and repulsion. But it was not his figure so much as his countenance, particularly the visual organs, which chiefly engaged attention. Not so much sallow as downright brown, his skin somewhat pox-pitted.
‘Mon Dien! D'Estrelles, where on this earth found yon that extra-ordinary specimen of humanity?’
The question was asked by Du Fresne when Arnaud, having supplied, their wants, had left the apartment.
‘Ha, ha! I thought he would interest you. He is my show beast, my caged tiger, whom I keep for my diversion and that of my friends.’
‘Ha, ha! very good of you, my friend; but I hope you have extracted his claws, since you let him out of his cage at times. I fear he might be dangerous if he once, drew blood. I confess his look gave me a chill, mon Dieu, oui.’
‘His eyes are rather startling until one gets used to them, but he usually veils his celestial orbits; lest their glory should blind ordinary mortals. I suppose. He says, however, it is because they are weak, though pardieu! I have never found them so.’
‘Ha, ha! an excellent joke. Why, they draw like Spanish flies. But what makes them so peculiar?’
‘I think it is partly the want of eyelashes. You would not notice it, perhaps, but the poor devil has none. He says they fell out a year ago, after his recovery from small pox, and left his eyes permanently inflamed.’
‘What is he at all?’
“A sort of man, I suppose.”
‘Ha, ha!’
‘But, pardieu! Like yourself, I am not sure. I sometimes think he is more snake, at others, all devil.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Du Fresne, crossing himself. ‘How have you the courage to keep such a monster near you?’
‘As I have said, he diverts me.’
‘Have a care, however, D'Estrelles. I have heard of men possessed, and certainly there is something preter-natural about him.’
‘Ha, ha! You are surely not superstitious, mon ami!’
‘If to believe in a spirit world is to be superstitions, then am I so, Monsieur.’
‘ French philosopher and writer. One of the fathers of the Enlightenment in France(Reill et al 436). Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778). Swiss writer and one of the most original thinkers of the Enlightenment (Reill et al 369). (1689-1755) French political theorist, historian, satirist and philosopher of the Enlightenment (Reill et al 288).Pardieu! In this enlightened age? In spite of
‘Oui, Monsieur. Spite of the whole army of the Encyclopédie, I believe in the Church, and hold the faith of my forefathers.’
‘Pardieu You amaze me. As for me, I believe in nothing. Even what I see I doubt. How then can I believe what I have not seen?’
Good heavens.
!‘Pardon, Monsieur. You believe in the existence this golden isle of which we have been talking?’
‘Nay, there you mistake, mon ami. I believe not, but for a good which is possible I am willing to seek. If it exist, so much the better; if not, at least we shall have adventure, excitement, strong sensation. That is real while it lasts. But as for supernaturalism. Bah! It amazes me that men who can reason should believe in such folly.’
‘Believe you not in a Supreme Being then, D'Estrelles?’
‘Not I, pardieu! no.’
‘Yet you say pardieu.’
‘Ha! Ha! That is the force of habit, and after all, what matter! One must exclaim. But as for God and devil, heaven and hell, saints and angels, I laugh at them all. Yes, pardieu!’
‘Pon my honour, D'Estrelles, I shall fear to take you to the southern ocean. You would sink the ship.’
‘Ah! Revenons à nos moutons. Our conversation has become very discursive.’
Let’s stick to the subject.
‘Yet before we recommence tell me more about your valet. I feel strangely interested in him. Has his peculiar gaze no effect upon you?’
‘Only if it opens upon me unawares. Then I feel myself caught. But I have forbidden him to look at me unless I bid him, and then I am prepared. He has a snake's fascination, but I have also a strong will.’
‘Yet it is really a dangerous game to play, D'Estrelles. Suppose you should fall ill.’
‘Pardieu! Then he should not come near me, otherwise I should lose my head.’
‘Mon Dieu! What an objectionable servant! What is your own theory regarding him?’
‘Well, I believe he is an Asiatic; perhaps not pure blooded, but descended from the ancient snake charmers of India. He must have roamed about the continent for years—generations I should not wonder—for he speaks our tongue like a native, and Spanish and German also,
dernier ressort when other amusements pall. He has only one fault.’
‘And what may that be, D'Estrelles?’
‘He has an unconquerable dislike to women. I fancy some antediluvian belle must have played him false, for nothing will induce him even to carry a billet to one.’
‘Ha, ha! Why D'Estrelles, that should be a recommendation. He is less likely to interfere with your gallantries.’
‘He? pardieu! When women caress mummies, he will be in request.’
‘If you come with us you must bring him, D'Estrelles. Should the savages prove troublesome, we can set him to mesmerize them.’
‘A capital idea. He could do it, I believe, for of course aboriginals would have no power of resistance, and then, pardieu! we could test his capacity in the matter of languages.’
‘A happy thought. I trust he has the faculty he boasts of. But what should you do, D'Estrelles, if you found him obtaining an influence over yourself?’
‘Kill him! You stare. I should do so in self-defence, for I should know then that he had some evil purpose to serve. But look not so grave, mou ami. I fear no such contingency. Meanwhile about this isle d'or?’
About a month after the conversation of which the last chapter is a partial abstract, two completely equipped French frigates, the Marquis de Castries, and her consort the Mascarin, under Captain Marion du Fresne, and Lieutenant Crozet, second in command, both bound for the South Pacific, were ploughing their way over the broad Atlantic, their ultimate destination being the islands of New Zealand, so named by the Dutch navigator Tasman more than a century before.
The hearts of all on board, from commandant to cabin boy, beat high with hope of varied adventure, boundless wealth, perchance of distinction
a French navigator in the 16th century who sailed in the southern hemisphere in his voyage of 1503-1506. It has been suggested that Dufresne was in search of Gonneville’s lost continent (Duyker 113).
The utmost care had been taken to secure the right kind persons for an undertaking of such importance, and the Commandant, himself a man of generous temper, impressed upon his subordinates the paramount importance of just dealing and kindly forbearance in their intercourse with the native tribes they were so soon to meet. It was subject for constant gratulation that the expedition had the benefit of the experience of Jean and Jacques two seamen who had belonged to the crew of the St. Jean Baptiste, which vessel, under Captain de Surville See note page 68.Petit was the former's sobriquet on account of his small stature, and both he and his mate seemed to have made fair use of their eyes during their short stay in the country. The crew never wearied of the details of their life ashore, and the and dress and customs of the New Zealanders, their size, appearance, taste, habits, etc. formed a never failing theme of conversation and enquiry whenever Jack Tar—loup de mer sea wolf the French call him—had a moment's leisure, each individual Jack betraying by the nature of his queries his hopes and propensities, his crude conceptions, garbled information, or absolute ignorance.
‘Is it true, petit, that the natives are giants?’
‘Petit, do those barbarians there really eat all their infants?’
‘How do the islanders cook their food, Jacques?’
‘Do they go about quite naked?’
‘And the women, petit, what are they like?’
‘Saw you any gold, Jacques?’
‘Is it possible they eat their enemies alive?’
‘What like are their weapons, Jacques?’
‘Is it true, petit, that feathers grow out of their heads?’
‘What made De Surville think the natives stole the boat While De Surville was in New Zealand, one of his ships boats was stolen by Māori. In retaliation for this theft he had a number of huts, nets and a canoe burnt. He then kidnapped Ranginui an innocent chief, who later died on board his ship (Duyker 201).
‘Think you the captive chief died of a broken heart, petit, or was it mal-de-mer?’
Such and such like were the questions poured incessantly into the ears of the two sailors, until, from feeling themselves something like heroes, they began heartily to wish at last that they had never seen the St. Jean Baptiste, nor set foot on the shores of New Zealand, and not infrequently treated the most pertinacious of the inquirers to maledictions instead of information. They, however, continued on excellent terms with Arnaud, the incomprehensible valet of Monsieur D'Estrelles, for according to promise, that gentleman, having decided to join the expedition, had brought his valet along with him, and the latter, as much apparently from inclination as in obedience to orders, applied his energies to acquiring from the two seamen whatever knowledge they possessed regarding the barbarous people presently to be encountered. He had acquired a surprising influence over both men, and with one or two others of mature age and staid manners—among whom was one Pierre, a taciturn Northman, nicknamed Rouge from his coarse red hair—employed every available moment in extracting all they knew about, and thus obtaining a real—though necessarily limited—acquaintance with the words and ways of the Maori people.
It would occupy too much space to record in detail the various incidents of that eventful voyage. Suffice it that in the early days of May, 1772, the expectant mariners knew from unmistakeable signs that they were approaching land of no inconsiderable extent. All around them extended the wide ocean, the level line of the distant horizon still unbroken, but the changing hue of the sea, the weeds floating on its bosom, the occasional flights of birds, all told one tale to the observant seafarers. Like a pair of huge waterfowl the ships kept on their lonely track, forging ever ahead, men at the mastheads keeping a good lookout, possibly for indications of human activity, for land was not likely to be sighted for some days.
‘What make you of it, captain?’
The query came from a dozen different throats, whose owners assembled on the p poop the Marquis de Castries were grouped excitedly about the commandant, who, glass in hand, was anxiously scanning some object which the look-out hail reported, but which was still too distant for the others' range of vision. All available glasses were in request, but the excited observers were fain to fall back upon the captain's telescope. Captain du Fresne, waving back the more impatient, continued to gaze, his expression one of perplexity and wonder. The wind, though favourable, was very light, and the vessel in consequence making but little headway. At length hasty exclamations announced that one and then another of the group had caught sight of the floating object, and as they described its appearance to the unfortunates not provided with glasses, speculation ran riot as to its nature and significance. The captain drew a long breath at last.
‘Bid Jean and Jacques come aft,’ he said, and his behest was obeyed with alacrity.
‘Can you make it out, Jacques?’
‘Oui, mon capitaine. It is a canoe, a New Zealand war canoe. But I know not what it does out here, adrift on the sea.’
‘A canoe! A New Zealand war canoe!’ passed from lip to lip.
‘It is full of natives!’ cried petit Jean, who now held the telescope.
‘But they must be asleep, or, maybe dead, for they lie heaped upon one another, and none stir.’
Again the captain took the glass.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he exclaimed, ‘you are right, Jean. It cannot be sleep, they lie pell mell. What can it mean?’
Soon it was apparent to all who had glasses that the occupants of the canoe—seen intermittently as she lightly rose and fell on the gentle billows—were indeed either all dead or in a very exhausted condition. Their contorted attitudes and motionless appearance put sleep out of the question.
The ship was hove to When a vessel has been sailed almost directly into the wind and stopped.Le docteur and a liberal supply, of cognac
Attentively were the movements of the doctor noted, when, the boat having reached its destination, he stepped aboard the canoe and began examining the motionless forms lying piled against and upon each other. At length one, and presently another, was transferred to the boat and carefully ministered to, while she, with the canoe towing astern, returned to the ship.
Once alongside, a strange and dismal sight presented itself to the view of the excited spectators who crowded the bulwarks. A canoe was a species of craft quite new to most of them, and such a canoe as this they had certainly never dreamed of. Hewn out of some noble tree (kauri pine Early European explorers favoured the kauri tree for its long straight trunk which made it ideal for replacing broken masts. Māori used the wood for canoes and large carvings (Crowe 54). Phormium tenax)
Because of its strong fibres flax used to be used for making ropes. Flax is also hand woven by Māori woman and used for making cloaks, baskets and craft work (Brooker et al 22).
However, at first they had no eyes for this tine specimen of Maori handicraft, for its ghastly freight absorbed their whole attention. Their chattering ceased, their eyes dilated, a thrill of horror passed from heart to heart, and many a ‘Mon Dieu!’ escaped involuntarily from reckless lips as they perceived that it was filled with the fleshless remains of what once were men. Nigh upon a hundred copper-coloured figures emaciated to the last degree, their hair leathered up into feathered top-knots, their long gaunt faces covered with dark blue curved lines, lay rigid in death along the whole length of its bottom. In ever conceivable attitude, doubled up, stretched out, with clenched hands, distorted features, and glassy, staring eyes; with shoulders, bent and heads bowed; with upturned faces and teeth set; some yet holding on to their paddles, others with bony fingers still clutching weapons; but all silent in death—a death whose cause was but too apparent. How it had come about there was nothing to show, but Famine was written on their hollow cheeks and skeleton limbs. Beside them lay their paddles and weapons of war about them; over the shoulders of some, around the loins of others, were handsome draperies; but nowhere a sign of food.
Awed into silence by this terrible spectacle, the crew bent over the bulwarks, peering down upon the distorted forms as if fascinated by those dead eyes so ‘dreadfully staring.’
But meantime the doctor had come aboard, and the two lank
‘Think you, my dear doctor, you can save them?’
‘I have hopes, captain, but they are very low.’
‘Mon Dieu! They look to me like dead men.’
‘An hour more, and they would have been so, parbieu! but the cognac has already taken effect. I believe they will recover.’
‘The good God grant it,’ and the captain crossed himself devoutly. ‘In His hands and yours, my friend, we leave them. Come aft Messieurs. We incommode the good doctor.’
Monsieur D'Estrelles stood at the captain's elbow, and the latter, as he turned, caught sight of the mocking light which played over that gentleman's visage.
‘You smile, my friend. 'Tis well. You are a sceptic, but I—I believe in God.’
‘Yes—in the good God—the Father?’ sneered D'Estrelles.
‘In the good God? Yes, why not?’
‘The savages. Are they also his children?’
‘I do not doubt it, Monsieur.’
‘Will you say he has been good to those in the canoe yonder?’
‘Pardon, my friend. I am not a churchman to expound mysteries, yet withal I believe in le bon Dieu. But come, D'Estrelles, let us talk of something upon which we can agree. See you not how valuable the lives of those two savages there may become to us.’
‘Pardieu! yes. They may become our passport to l'isle d'or.’
‘Exactly, To the shores at any rate. Should they recover, then nothing more fortunate could have happened than our falling in with this canoe. Another thing occurs to me, D'Estrelles The poor Maori has been grievously mis-represented. He has been called a cannibal. But a hundred men have perished in that canoe of hunger, and not one is mutilated. Observed you?’
‘I did, and pardieu! the thought occurred that Europeans in the last stages of starvation would scarce have exercised such stoical self-control.’
‘You are right, D'Estrelles. Those warriors there must have been ravenous as wolves, yet there is no evidence of cannibalism. Depend upon it the gentle savage has been maligned.’
‘By the way, how shall you dispose of that array of corpses yonder?’
‘That is a point I want to consider, D'Estrelles. They are probably warriors separated from their comrades in a gale. I wish we knew a little more of native customs. Their friends might be glad to have them back for burial. If I thought we should make the land to-morrow. I'd be inclined to tow them in. What say you, D'Arblay?’
‘Mon Dieu! captain. The crew would mutiny. No one could possibly rest with such a fearful company in our wake. Besides they would attract sharks, and, mon Dieu!’ the young officer ejaculated casting his eyes over the sea, ‘here they are.’
And there indeed, in all directions, were seen protruding above the water's surface the dorsal fins of a whole army of these voracious brutes. There were hundreds of them; and now cries of ‘ Sharks! Sharks!Les requius! les requius!
‘I fear, my dear captain, your philanthropic intentions must be abandoned,’ laughed D'Estrelles. ‘Apart from the sharks it is, as D'Arblay says, who could rest or sleep with such a company astem?’
The captain looked grave, and after some further discussion it was resolved to tow the canoe to some distance and commit the defunct warriors to the deep sea's keeping. A boat's crew was at once told off for the purpose, and this being effected with as little delay as possible, the ship resumed her course, taking along with her the empty canoe.
Tattoo applied to the face. The operation would be performed with a small bone chisel and a bluish pigment would be rubbed into the wound (Phillipps 133). This was known as a rāpaki. The rāpaki was thickly woven and covered with fringes of raw flax which created the rattling noise (Phillipps 58). The Māori term for cloak is kahu. There were many types decorated with birds feathers or made from sealskin (Phillipps 58). This weapon, more often formed of greenstone; was known among the natives as a mere, pronounced mary.Meantime one at least of the good doctor's patients was showing signs of recovery. He was apparently the elder of the two brought on board, and had probably reached middle life, though his condition made his age difficult to guess. He was considerably above the average French height, and his leanness made him appear quite preternaturally tall. The leathery skin seemed all that held his fleshless frame together, but he had never been very fat, as one of his names—learned later on—implied. It was Whanau-tu-oi (born lean), though he was commonly called Taranui. His scalp locks, drawn up to the crown and fastened with a tuft of feathers, were of a rusty black, but not a vestige of hair appeared on his coppery phiz, every inch of which was covered with dark blue lines forming symmetrical figures, those on one side of the face exactly corresponding to those on the other. These lines, the Frenchmen afterwards learned, were produced by a painful process
would cluster round. malyr prohibition, a shulder passed through them, as simultaneously they thought how unpleasant it would be to fall into the power of a tribe of such as he, in full vigour, on the war path. Just now. however, Taranui Whanau-tu-oi was quite harmless, and opened and shut his eyes many times with long rests between ere he regained strength enough to wag his tongue, let alone his mere. He had, however, absorbed a good deal of nutriment in the shape of warm soup, which le docteur had perseveringly dribbled into his stomach, not to mention repeated doses of that superlative revivifier, brandy, and he continued to improve until on the following day he astounded those about him by suddenly sitting bolt upright, and, pointing a skinny finger at the liquor stand, exclaiming in grating tones
.‘Kapai te wai piro! Homai!’ (Very good is the stinking water! Give me some!)
Of course his lingo was much less comprehensible than Dutch to the Frenchmen, but his gestures were intelligible enough, and a fellow-feeling sharpening their perceptions, they at once jumped to the right conclusion, and pleased to find in a savage evidence of such susceptibility to civilizing influences, hastened to give him enough cognac to have choked an ordinary Christian. The doctor reprimanded them sharply when he next examined the patient's pulse, but neither he nor they foresaw (how could they?) the ultimate consequences of thus carly implanting Christian tastes in a heathen breast. The heathen, however, continued to make rapid strides towards convalescence, and soon showed himself possessed of a most capacious maw to which very little in the shape of food came amiss.
But though Taranui thus repaid the doctor's efforts on his behalf, his companion, known among his people, as subsequently appeared, by the name of Naku-roa (long scratch), seemed to defy every endeayour to
médecin's devotion.
‘If Monsieur le docteur will permit me,’ spoke a voice in that gentleman's ear, as with incredible patience he was for the ninety-ninth time feeling for a pulse, ‘I have a remedy which I believe would restore Monsieur's patient.’
The voice was low and insinuating, and the speaker was Arnaud, Monsieur d'Estrelles' valet.
‘Indeed my friend! And what may that be?’ queried the doctor, incredulously.
‘I have it here, Monsieur,’ and Arnaud handed him a small metal case containing a phial.
The doctor look it, removed the stopper, looked at the contents, smelt it, and then handing it back, exclaimed impatiently:
‘Rubbish! as I might have known. Begone, sir; you are too officious.’
‘Nay, then, Monsieur, believe me, it will surely restore him if he be not already dead.’
‘He is not dead, rascal. But since you are so pertinacious, where got you the stuff?’
‘It was given me, Monsieur, by one skilled in medicaments, and it will restore life even at the last gasp, unless, indeed, the system be quite worn out.’
‘H—m. Well, my friend, if it be not “warranted to kill” you may administer it, forpardieu! I can do no more. But have a care, villain, for should it fail, pardieu! I shall give you a dose out of the same bottle for your presumption.
A gleam shot from behind the valet's eyeshades, but he only answered quietly; ‘C'est bien, Monsieur.’
Then mixing a few drops of the tincture in a little water, he gently raised the prostrate Maori's head, and carefully administered it. Whatever it was it proved a very elixir vitæ, at once quickening the almost imperceptible pulsations of the dying savage. In a few minutes a movement of the limbs was followed by a quivering of the eyelids and parched lips, and before long a pair of dark languid eyes opened wonderingly upon the strange figures clustering round in the gathering gloom.
‘He'll do,’ cried the doctor, joyfully. ‘But, pardieu! Arnaud, you must give me that phial.’
‘It desolates me to disoblige you, Monsieur,’ replied Arnaud, softly.
‘What, you refuse me? Come, my good Arnaud, I will reward you handsomely.’
‘Cest bien, Monsieur. But it is impossible.’
Further negotiation was abruptly ended by Naku-roa, who, though 100 weak to uplift himself, had all at once become very much alive, and prompted by the cray ngs of a flat stomach, had found tongue.
‘‘Homai te kai Give me food.Te kai, homai.’
Give me food.
‘He wants food,’ cried petit Jean. ‘Kai is the Maori name for food.’
‘Ha!’ laughed the doctor, rubbing his hands. ‘He'll do. Now, my friend Arnaud, I'll leave him in your hands. You recalled him to life. he shall be your patient, and we shall see how you get on. But mind you, not too much food: he'll gorge if you let him—and—perhaps eat yourself if you don't. Ha! ha! I wish you joy of your task. mon bon garcon. He's a huge monster, a real giant. and hungry as a shark. 'Tis said the Maori is a man-eater. Ha! ha! You have called back to life a wolf: let us hope he will devour you. But I am tired. I must have a promenade and a cigar.
Dear lad.
Good-bye, my friend.
And laughing pleasantly to himself at his very cheerful suggestions. Monsieur le docteur skipped away to join the groups see-sawing on the quarter deck.
‘La terre! La terre!’
Land! Land!
The welcome announcement from the masthead was taken up joyously and passed on from mouth to mouth until from stem to stem the glad cry echoed and re-echoed. ‘ The northern most part of the North Island of New Zealand.La terre! La terre!.’ They were off the North Cape
Three days had elapsed since picking up the war canoe canot. and the most had been made of the time in the way of gaining the good will of the rescued savages, and obtaining from them information as to their tribe's location, the character of the country, etc. Māori tribe that occupies the Bay of Islands. Probably referring to the Māori tribe Te Aupōuri from the very north of New Zealand.Pald jean. Jaequies. and even Arnaud. were ordered aft, and with the convalescents, formed, on the poop, the centre of an interesting circle, not a little amusement being derived from the repeated blunders of the very imperfect interpreters. The native gestures were, however, emphatic, it their language was but partially understood, and it was gathere i that they were warriors of a great nation, the Ngapuhi
Remembering the horrid accusations which had been made against the natives of New Zealand, Jacques rather incautiously asked them in his halting Maori how it was that when starving they had not eaten each other, and the angry horror excited by his question when at length the savages perceived its drift convinced even the least favourably disposed that the devil was less black than he had been painted. This incident relieved the Frenchmen's minds of a very unpleasant doubt. and disposed their volatile natures to a confidence altogether reckless.
The joy of the two warriors when the vessels approached near enough for them to disern the outline of the coast may be imagined. They, however, were very dignified in its expression, particularly Naku-roa, who probably feared his youthfulness might be betrayed by a yielding to emotion. Despite his lank condition he was a fine specimen of Nature's nobility: large-limbed, strong-framed, and of majestic mien, when standing with his great flaxen wrapper enveloping his tall figure like a Roman toga—although decidedly less imposing when squatting on his hams, a favourite position with both chiefs (for such they turned out to be). His jet black hair was bound up like that of his comrade, but his face was much less disfigured with the moko, a point in his favour he would probably outgrow. His dark eyes were agreeable in expression, and other features fine for a savage, and of a somewhat Jewish cast, the large mouth, fairly shaped, and showing, whenever he opened it, a fine set of teeth.
Whether fascinated by the singular eyes or brown skin, or won by his ministrations, he had attached himself inseparably to Arnaud, who had waited on him assiduously, and who seemed to have an intuitive apprehension of his wishes, and the meaning of his gestures and jargon, humouring his whims with almost feminine tact. Arnaud knew what he was about. For reasons of his own he hankered after a clearer insight into Maori manners and customs, and fully appreciated the importance of possessing a friend at Court in the event of unpleasant eventualities; but how he discovered that the young chiefs practice of smashing every vessel out of which he drank, was an act of grace and not of malice prepense, was a marvel. He had smiled at first as if he thought it funny, then looked a little grave, and then gently expostulated. Then Naku-roa explained the matter in copious Maori, of which his hearer understood about one word in twenty, but Arnaud seemed quite satisfied, and uttered no more protests, nay even undertook to prove to
Deliberate evil.
Both chiefs seemed addicted to this singular practice, which the more hypercritical attributed to barbarian diablerie. But the captain anxious
Devilry.
Eventually, however, the Frenchmen found that these seemingly mischievous acts had really been prompted by good-nature, for their visitors, it appeared, being chiefs, were sacred (tapu), and their using any vessel at once made it sacred also, and by consequence noxious to others. Hence they evinced their benevolence by destroying it as quickly as possible, thus averting the disastrous consequences certain to follow its unguarded use by some entirely mundane mortal.
That this belief in their own sacredness was not a fancy but a deepseated conviction, the foreigners had evidence when they saw them at home, and found that the chiefs never handled utensils of any description, but submitted to be fed by attendant slaves, and conveyed liquids to their throats by means of their hands, through which, joined together as a funnel, their attendants poured their drinks from upraised calabashes. This sacredness, it appeared, was a quality inherent in natives of high caste only, and resulted from their divine origin, for their great progenitor Tiki was God begotten, and all his male descendants were therefore holy (tapu). The broad back of the ancient Maori chief was especially sacred, his tufted head more sacred still, and the tuft itself the holy of holies. To speak of a chief's head was to run awful risks; to speak lightly of it to incur certain suffering; to touch it to ensure destruction. No wonder the superstitious and ignorant slave-begotten commonalty regarded him with awe. His very bones were potential. The cave in which they had lain, the tree in whose branches they had rested, any and every place of sepulture was saturated with sanctity, and therefore barred or tapu to all save the priestly order. No man might handle the bones of the illustrious dead, cut down the tree which had supported them, or step on consecrated ground and live. Had our voyagers but known all this at the commencement of their intercourse. what horrors might not have been averted.
As time wore on the strangers found the word tapu in constant requisition, and so generally applied that they began at last to joke about the Holy Land. They, however, gave the native explanations too little attention to gain other than a very hazy conception of the meaning of a word more significant than any other in the Maori language, expressing, as it did, time-honoured usages, which, though almost inconceivable to early European visitors, and not very comprehensible to those who succeeded them, had for the Maori all the force of supernatural laws. The tapu, in all its varieties, was so inwoven with his traditions, so far-reaching in its effects, and so important in all its bearings upon the daily life of the ancient Maori, that an intelligent understanding of it.
A Maori gentlemen.tapu-ed object was an object set apart. Its inherent sanctity might be the cause, or its irremediable pollution. The will of the chief might impose the tapu, the weal of the commonalty necessitate it, but by priestly incantations only could it be removed. There were several kinds—personal, priestly, ordinary, extraordinary, and unclean, the last the most dreadful of all. Besides the bodies of priests and other rangatiratapu-ing what they chose, numerous other objects were permanently tapu in the sense of being prohibited, as wood of old dwellings, food touched by anything tapu, war parties, fishing expeditions, first fish or fruits of the season, food and seed stores, sick persons and their attendants, dead bodies, corpse-tenders, priest's slaves, kumera planters, etc. Others were often temporarily tapu, such as fishing grounds, pipi banks, trees suitable for canoes, rivers, roads, etc.
Probably all the terrible deeds of bloody cannibalism, which, in the beginning of the century made civilized cheeks pale at the name of New Zealand, were but reprisals for some infringement of this unknown law, and might have been avoided had the pioneers of settlement been acute or heedful enough to master its meaning.
But this is a digression.
The two warriors had described themselves as chiefs of tribes living on the shores and islands of a large bay no great distance down the coast, and as neither Jean nor Jacques had seen either of them before, it was-naturally inferred that they hailed from some point south of Captain de Surville's landing-place, so, keeping well away, the ships bore slowly down the east coast, the captain examining carefully the deep indentations and precipitous bluffs which characterize it. Very soon its familiar features were recognized by the chiefs, and under their directions the vessels steered for the magnificent harbour, since become famous in New Zealand history as the Bay of Islands. It appears that upon one of the islands with which it is studded was located the Wai-iti is not an island but a cove on Moturua Island where Dufresne and his crew established their forge and housed their sick (Duyker 144).kainga (village) occupied by the hapu (tribal division) of the chief Taranui, and that dusky dignitary, in the warmth of his gratitude, gave the marines a cordial invite to disembark there and pay him and his people a lengthened visit. This chief was, when he saw fit, a great stickler for etiquette, and very early showed an acute perception of differences in rank among the strangers. With the captain he was on an equality, called him Marion quite fraternally; with the other officers and gentlemen, tolerant, but reserved; with the general crowd of pakehas (white strangers) haughtily taciturn. They were tutuas (nobodies), he said afterwards when introducing them in a body to his friends. However,
terra firma.
Naku-roa. however, lived on the mainland, and would on his return become the head of his tribe, his father having perished with the rest. The canoe, it appeared, and the bulk of the deceased warriors belonged to his tribe. Taranui. who was related to them, and whose hapu and fortunes were in a decaving state, having only contributed a limited contingent. The lean chief's personal loss, however, had been great, for his son and nephew had both perished, as well as the handful of braves he could ill spare.
The young chief would have a painful duty to discharge on meeting his people, and perhaps it was this which deterred him from following Taranui's hospitable example. Anyhow, he invited only Arnaud. He was chief of an influential tribe, and therefore a great rangatiru (gentleman), but though he must have seen that his deliverer occupied a subordinate position, he and the valet were as thick as thieves.
‘Have you slept better lately, mon ami.’
The speaker was Captain du Fresne. and the question was addressed to Monsieur d'Estrelles, who lounged over the taffrail A rail around the stern of a ship.
‘There must be something amiss with this cursed ship, Du Fresne. I never was so affected in my life until I came aboard. Never had a dream since I was born, and now such infernal visions that I might as well be in hell at once, pardieu!’
‘Tis passing strange. And removing your valet has made no difference?’
‘Not an iota. I told you it it was not Arnaud. He never looks at me; 'tis more than he dare; and he sleeps like a stone. I used to lean over the bunk sometimes hoping to catch him at some diablerie, but
‘Have you had any repetition of the voices?’
‘Hear them every night. That is what puzzles me most. If I only heard them when asleep it would not be so infernally odd. But I hear them when awake, often.’
‘And they are familiar voices, you say?’
‘Voices of people I know to be dead, damn them! If I believed in spirits I should say the cursed ship was haunted, but as I don't, and don't intend to. A voluptuously beautiful young woman.pardien; I suppose my liver is disordered, or maybe the sea and I are incompatible. I shall sleep better ashore, doubtless. By the way, I wonder if the wahines (native women) are such houris
‘We shall soon see, mon ami. Petit Jean also says they are fine women, with large dark eyes and velvet skin. Ha! ha! Who would have imagined the little man was a chevalier aux dames? But you,
Ladies' man.
A shade of annoyance passed over D'Estrelles' countenance, but suppressing the imprecation which rose to his lips at the captain's banter, he replied jauntily:
‘Not at all, mon ami, but pardien, want of sleep plays the devil with one's comfort. I'll try the shore to-night, and then, nous .’
Great was the excitement on board both ships, as, sailing up the broad isle-dotted bay, the weary seafarers, hungering for a sight of dry land, feasted their eyes upon the lovely scenery and luxuriant vegetation which everywhere met their delighted gaze. On all sides of the splendid harbour they saw spacious inlets affording safe anchorage; winding streams opening up ravishing vistas; verdant valleys flanked by wooded ridges; and away in the background, far as the eye could reach, the everlasting hills, rising tier above tier, the emerald green of their distant foliage toned into tender blues by intervening vapours.
And, as they approached nearer and caught sight of the villages
The ships cast anchor, and barely had they done so when several canoes from various points shot into sight. The islanders were evidently not panic-stricken, though astonished. They came round the ships gazing enquiringly, keeping, however, at a safe distance, untill a ery from Taranui—‘ Maori Good day to you. A Māori form of greeting by pressing noses together.Tena koulou,’
They were ‘holding a tangi (mourning) for the dead,’ so Jacques said.
In ungovernable curiosity the Frenchmen at first drew near the savages, taking stock of their appearance and dress, the latter in most cases little more than a figleaf, but instinctive respect for such overwhelming grief soon made even the most inquisitive retire to a decent distance, many of them with their fingers in their ears, and before the tale of sorrow ended they were pretty full up of it, for it lasted over an hour—almost double the usual period of the tangi, Jacques explained—a spinning out due doubtless to the terrible nature of the calamity afflicting them. During the whole time their tears ceased not for one instant to roll piteously down, affording the lively strangers ample subject for wonder as to the source of these abundant streams.
But human nature was human nature even in old Maoriland, and long before the principal actors in this doleful scene had wiped away the last pearly drop, the outside squatters, particularly the more youthful of them, found their natural curiosity regarding the strangers besting their sturdiest endeavours to sit out the affair decorously. It was natural to desire an account of the actual fate of their warrior friends. It was a relief to bewail their loss and recite in high-flown dirges their virtues and prowess. It was See note page 74. Bullock is referring to Mangonui which is situated on Doubtless Bay.tika (the correct thing) to squat with body bent and eyes cast down, with wailing lips and streaming tears, until the chiefs should signify that the tale of woe was ended, and not being wahines, the young warriors stoically braced themselves to do the ‘correct thing’ spite of all counter attractions. But it would not do. To eyes unused to nobler seacraft than the buoyant war canoes, to imaginations whose highest flight was this same canoe decked, the tall-masted, white-winged ships, gliding like things of life into their beautiful bay were a revelation. They had doubtlesss heard of De Surville's disastrous visit to Mongonui
The blue-blooded Maori, the great rangatira of ‘Ye Olden Time,’ had too much self-respect to stare in gaping wonder, however much he might be impressed. It was due to his dignity not to be taken by surprise. To exhibit such at the doings or belongings of strangers would be to proclaim his own lack of knowledge, to write himself down a tutua. sang froid, which presented such a contrast to their own impulsive vivacity. They had now still further reason to wonder—sorrow so deep as to render its subject utterly oblivious of external things; self-command strong enough to hold curiosity in check were alike unintelligible to their volatile minds. But despite the sorrow, in defiance of the self-control, many a sidelong glance shot from under bent brows; many an abbreviated wail, many an interrupted tearflow, indicated the mental conflict of the rank and file; and the tangi was no sooner fairly ended than, buzzing like bees, they swarmed over the ship, carried out of themselves by the novelty of everything they saw.
Taranui's account of the services rendered to himself and comrade at once won his countrymen's goodwill, and all the chiefs of note, particularly Te Whatu Moana (eye of the ocean), head of a large settlement on Motu-Arohia Motuarohia Island southwest of Moturua Island where Dufresne set up the hospital camp.hapu on the mainland. gave the captain and officers a pressing invitation to visit them at their villages. The first-named, indeed, insisted on their visiting his island that day before landing the sick at Wai-iti, where Taranui promised to have accommodation provided ere nightfall.
The company, having had a peep round the ship, then took their de-parture loaded with presents and greatly prepossessed with the foreigners, whose use of a few of their own words, and apparent acquaintance with some of their customs, surprised and delighted them.
Habited in the handsome uniform of the French navy and wearing all the insignia of his rank and office. Captain du Fresne and his brilliant company of officers and gentlemen must have made a decided impression upon the inhabitants of Motu Arohia, who from all quarters of the island were assembled at the village overlooking the landing-place to do their visitors honour, possibly to impress them with a just idea of native strength and resources, but no sign of emotion appeared in the grave and dignified mien of the principal personages who stood around their chief as he received the strangers within the palisading of their kainga.
Village.
Being invited guests, they were treated ceremoniously, as much preparation having been made for their reception as the limited time allowed. As their boats entered the pretty cove where canoes of all sizes attested the numerous population of the island, a small army of stalwart youths in the garb of Eden dashed into the water, and in a trice drew them up high and dry on the tiny beach. Then, forming together in a dance of welcome, they conducted the visitors up the winding pathway which led to the village entrance. All around them extended enclosed cultivations, but the dwellings of the owners appeared to be all located within the substantial palisading, which, now that they were close to it, quite obstructed their view of the interior. Passing through the gateway—or rather hole, and a small one at that—they found that another and much loftier fence yet intervened between them and their entertainers. Between the two was a dry ditch, and as they advanced they noticed that their approach was being observed by dusky spectators ranged on quadrangles at the corners, evidently there erected for purposes of defence in wartime. The inner fence of tall poles bound firmly together, exhibited an array of grotesque wooden figures, some of them elaborately carved, but whose proportions gave no very elevated idea of the state of art in Maoriland. Two of these images, marvellous in their ugliness, with gaping jaws and protruding tongues, surmounted the side posts of the main gateway, through which the voyagers were now ushered amid vociferous cries of ‘Haere mai, Haere mai,’ (welcome).
wahines in soft monotones:
Of course, the song being sung in Maori, its full significance was lost. However, the visitors took it amiably, convinced that it was well meant from the eloquent glances of the singers' dark expressive eyes. In the marae (courtyard) of the principal house, which they supposed to be the residence of the chiefs, but which they found afterwards was the village reception hall (whare-noa), they were received by Te Whatu Moana, who advanced to meet them with an air of lofty respect. To Captain du Fresne's relief the dark skin did not fall upon his neck. but he did him the honour of laying against his nasal organ his own mako-decorated proboscis, much to the covert amusement of the pakeha company, who inwardly congratulated themselves on their lesser rank when they found they were not favoured with a similar attention.
The chief was a noble-looking man (not only, as subsequently appeared, the greatest warrior of his Hereditary chiefs frequently exercised the sacerdotal function.hapu, but also its high priestwahine, known by the name of Ma-rika-rika (the pleasant) in their midst. All, including the thronging villagers, seemed in gala dress: in their hair feathers and flowers, on their faces streaks and patches of red paint, around necks and in earlobes various ornaments—in some cases feathers were drawn through the pierced cartilage of the nose, giving a singularly grotesque appearance to the face—and all the women and large numbers of the men were robed in richly bordered flaxen wrappers or cloaks of feathers or dogskin. None were absolutely nude save the brown-limbed youngsters tumbling about among the odd-looking native dogs, which, by their yelping, had added materially to the din of welcome accorded to the strangers.
Te Whatu Moana led his visitors to the verandah of the whare-noa, in and about which were congregated the ‘upper ten’ of Maoridom, and
gaucherie, but of strict etiquette, the result of native politeness. Not the slightest constraint was visible anywhere. All sat with eyes full of interest, kindness, or curiosity, as it might happen, but with lips studiously silent, until such time as it was supposed their visitors might have become familiar with their surroundings. The visual organs of the Frenchmen, indeed, were not slow to rove. Nothing escaped them, from the curiously carved posts of their lodging to the rounded limbs of the shrinking Maori maidens. The most conspicuous object from where they sat was a compact and apparently impregnable fortress built upon the sloping side of a wooded height on the mainland, and a future visit to it was among the unspoken vows of the occasion. Nearer hand were objects full as interesting. The habitations of the Maori, built promiscuously near together, and of varying size, were extremely picturesque, although not exactly fulfilling European ideas of healthfulness and comfort. Their walls were too low, and their ventilating and lighting arrangements too primitive for that, but to the artistic eye they were eminently satisfactory. Their form oblong, deeply gabled; their dark red pilasters and carved ridgepoles; their low walls, coated with bulrushes, ornamented with reeds; the soft colours of the painted woodwork, combined to form a whole interesting at least to look at, despite the
Awkwardness.
Very soon the The berries were also made into pudding-like cakes and cooked for two hours or more in a hāngi (earth oven) (Crowe 28). Konini berries are the fruit of the Kōtukutuku tree. They were eaten raw or as a jam, stewed with honey or eaten in a pudding (Crowe 57). The Karaka tree was one of the few trees that Māori actually cultivated due to its importance as a food source. The kernel of the fruit is highly poisonous if eaten raw, but cooked thoroughly for several days (in a hāngi) and after soaking for several weeks’ in a stream they apparently taste like sweet chestnuts (Crowe 51). Tutu juice was often mixed with seaweed to make a jelly or with the pith of the Pitau fern tree. Both apparently being very palatable (Brooker et al 112).pakehas were invited to partake of food, which looked clean and appetising enough, served up in small flat baskets of green flax. The dishes were various; taro and kumara steamed and served
The Frenchmen could willingly have foregone the banquet, but dread of wounding the susceptibilities of their new friends overcame their natural repugnance, and some of the dishes really tasted very well. The more doubtful-looking they avoided, asking no questions for digestion's sake.
The lion-feeding came to an end more speedily than the banquet of civilization, and then ensued a korero (talk), preceded, however, by a liberal distribution of pakeha gifts. The speechifiers, all and sundry-seemed glib of tongue, dealing largely in figures of speech and flourishing of clubs, moving to and fro with a stately and emphatic tread. Although but half understood, it was evident that they were anxious to divine the object and intentions, and to discover the whence of the white strangers.
The korero over these were escorted back to the boats amid pressing invitations to repeat their visit, and friendly cries of ‘Haera ra’ (you proceed).
* * * * * * * * *
The foreigners now steered for the island of Wai-iti, from whence sounds of mourning had now and again been wafted to their ears at Motu Arohia. They were welcomed by Taranui with considerably less of ceremony, perhaps because his sojourn with them made him feel more familiarity, perhaps because of the distractions agitating his people, for nearer proximity proved an alarming hubbub in progress in the rear of the kainga. This was situated on rising ground, and so effectually protected by a pole fence of extra strength that it bore the appearance of a stockade. The hideous wooden figures the voyagers had remarked in such numbers at Motu Arohia were here equally abundant, and they therefore jumped to the erroneous conclusion that they were idols, and as such, reflecting but little credit upon the intelligence of their worshippers. Later on they found that though the Maori had ‘gods many,’ he was not an idolator.
Taranui, who, like some civilized husbands and fathers, seemed to have grown more taciturn since his return home, after pointing out to the captain some The Maori of to-day is himself becoming sensitive in respect of unpleasant odours, as was exemplified in the case of a tawny masher, who at a recent native meeting at Sutiki pa, Wanganui, was seen to hold his nose while exclaiming in disgust: ‘Oh, Clips! Beetly tink!’ranpo (bulrush) huts in a pleasant vale at some distance from the kainga, beside which busy labourers were erecting, similar structures, gave him to understand that these were to be his people's quarters during their stay. Captain du Fresne was for various
kainga itself. In case of treachery, which, however he did not fear, they would be safer outside, and besides, although the Maori villages were remarkably clean for barbarian settlements, and free from absolutely offensive sights and smells, yet the air about was heavy with a rank fishy odour by no means agreeable to European nostrils.utu, imagined their new friends regarded their tiny foes as gustatory dainties.
Conversation—if that can be called such, which consisted chiefly of pantomimic action—dragged considerably, and every now and again, as a higher note of lamentation from the rear denoted an accession of grief in the invisible mourners, the chief's serious visage would lengthen and his aspect become more sombre, until his visitors began to feel themselves somewhat de trop. It was observed that both he and his attendant warriors had circlets of green leaves upon their heads, but neither their get up nor demeanour could be described as festive. A ray of gratification dawned upon Taranui's sober countenance when he found that among other gifts the captain had brought him some cognac, but the momentary light died out, leaving it gloomy as the grave. He had made the captain share his mat, allowing the others to take up their own positions, and presently these, tired of the monotony of the interview, and maybe a trifle inquisitive with respect to the dismal din in the background, wandered off through the settlement in company with such of the natives as seemed most companionable.
In the way.
Meanwhile, a party of natives was seen entering the principal gateway and making for the spot where Taranui sat. Their leader, advancing, fell upon the old chief's neck, and, with heads buried beneath their wrappers, the two tangi'd until Captain du Fresne thought his ears would split. The other members of the new party had each found fellows, and as they rent the air with their lugubrious outcries it seemed as if Bedlam had been let loose. Etiquette kept the captain a prisoner till they should cease, but he mentally vowed that if he survived the doleful ceremony no power on earth should keep him longer.
solus, and perforce had to endure his unenviable position some time longer, for his late companions had come upon a scene which held them spellbound by its revolting barbarity. They had wandered slowly through the intricacies of the
Alone.
The visitors felt no inclination for a nearer inspection of these ill-fated creatures, and were about retracing their steps, when a heart-rending outburst of grief again attracted their eyes to where a large number of natives, chiefly females, were massed together, with crouching figures rocking to and fro, and bowed head chapleted in green. To these had arrived the party whose tangi had so upset Du Fresne. In the centre of the crowd they had halted and repeated that performance with even more emphatic demonstrations of sorrow, real or simulated. Suddenly, when this had lasted some little time, the friends separated, and those of the village, starting to their feet, gave vent to a series of soul-harrowing howls mingled with violent bodily contortions.
Irresistible curiosity drew the Frenchmen nearer, and the saw to their horror that the writhing figures, all apparently those of females, were in a frightful state of self-laceration. With sharp instruments in either hand, or changed from one to the other, they were gashing their bare breasts and arms in the most frightful manner. The faces of some were horribly disfigured with gaping wounds and clotted blood, and at the feet of all were coagulating pools of the same sanguinary fluid. It was a horrid spectacle, and Arnaud, as he learned from his companion, a pleasant-faced youth, that this was an invariable custom of Maori mothers, wives, sisters and sweethearts on the untimely death of their loved ones, wondered no longer that his friend Naku-roa had postponed any proffer of hospitality to the strangers until he had got through such a very unpleasant business. His tribe having lost nigh fourscore warriors including his father, the scene of mourning in his settlement might be expected to rival pandemonium.
The gay Gauls had by this time had enough of native institutions for one day, so turning their backs on the ghastly sights, and fearful outcries of the interior, they sought the front of the stockade, where they found the commandant impatiently awaiting them.
The following day Captain du Fresne was honoured with a return visit from Te Whatu Moana and his people, who came off to the ships chattering gaily, and, as they drew nearer, chanting what was supposed to be a song of amity. The canoes on this occasion, instead of containing, as on the previous day, a double row of nearly nude warriors, held an almost equal proportion of the female element, with a sprinkling of youngsters, all, save the lastnamed, robed in handsome wrappers of native weaving, and wearing feathers and other adornments.
As the first canoe came alongside, Te Whatu Moana stood up, and holding aloft a freshly cut green bough, uttered some cabalistic words, and then gently struck the ship's side with it several times, after which ceremony—which the voyagers took as signifying friendship—his people swarmed aboard like so many bees—bees, too, which carried their honey with them, for, as if resolved not to be outdone by the pakeha, they had brought a regular cargo of such edibles as they had the day before observed the strangers select at the island banquet.
The chief, with the captain and a party of officers and rangatiras, made the tour of the vessel, Te Whatu and his followers interested but impassive. Their phlegm did not, however, extend to the wahines, who were open-mouthed and vivacious in their expressions of surprise and pleasure at everything they saw, Ma-rika-rika, the beautiful wife of Te Whatu, not excepted. This young woman was accompanied by her sister, Rau-kata-mea (leaf that ever laughs or makes music), a damsel whose attractions as far surpassed her own as the golden sunlight the pale moon's beams. Decidedly the belle of the party, she engrossed the regards of all on board, and the attentions of such of the voyagers as were by their rank entitled to consort with
Māori term for women.
See note page 81.
But there was one among them who had marked the beautiful Maori maiden for his own, and he was one not used to let trifles stand in the way of his designs. Who should this be but the gay Monsieur d'Estrelles, whose reputation as a lady-killer had been jestingly referred to by Captain du Fresne by way of warning against thoughtless intercourse with the native women. But Monsieur d'Estrelles was not so much thoughtless as reckless. For self-gratification he would dare all risks, leaving to the chapter of accidents and his native wit his safe emergence, and, indeed, were the truth all told his experience hitherto almost justified his bold self-confidence. The fact that Rau-kata-mea received his attentions with exactly the same charming smile she bestowed upon the least considerable of her admirers did not disquiet him. He had in his time, carried much more difficult citadels than the heart of this child of nature was likely to prove, and had learned by experience that other things being equal, agreeable pertinacity would eventually carry the day against intermittent fervour. So, without obtruding himself he contrived to keep by her side during her people's somewhat lengthened visit, taking in all her visible graces, and learning from her laughing lips many a Maori idiom, quite unconscious that there was one who marked his behaviour with a smile indicative of mingled satisfaction and contempt, and, divining his intentions with unerring precision, registered a secret vow to thwart his purpose on the eve of its fulfilment. Could he have looked into the heart of his accomplished valet, could he even have caught the expression which flitted over that functionary's visage as he so resolved. Monsieur would soon have
During the remainder of the day, which was all too short for antipodean curiosity, both ships were besieged with visitors, all coming in a friendly spirit, having doubtless heard a good account of the pakeha, and as every canoe was laden with produce designed for gifts or barter, the strangers had every facility for a radical change of diet. The aboriginals, however, did not greatly appreciate French cookery, of which the condiments sometimes occasioned a humidity of eye scarcely in keeping with rangatira immobility. As for wines and liqueurs, they were, except to a very few, unendurable, and this repugnance continued during the Frenchmen's stay. But it was soon found that those who ‘took to’ the ardent beverages of civilisation became troublesomely fond of them, their thirst growing with supply until it became insatiable.
Subsequent intercourse between the two races was of the most intimate character, and the exchange of civilities and commodities continuous. The vivacious foreigners became prime favourites with at least the softer moiety of the population, and before long most of them were as well acquainted with the interiors of the whares as with their exteriors, visiting their new friends as inclination prompted, without apparently a single thought but that these pleasant relations might last for ever. Delighted with the natives' amiability, they imagined their good nature limitless, and confident in their own luck and resources, they not seldom as time wore on committed indiscretions calculated to sorely try the patience and test the amity of the darker race, whose institutions the majority were at small pains to study, though every day acquiring more proticiency in the language.
One there was, however, who lost no opportunity not only of discovering the full significance of every unwritten law of his dusky hosts, but also of quietly ingratiating himself with them. Female attractions were lost upon Arnaud. He would sooner squat on the sunny side Many of the priest chiefs were so sacred that their very shadow would The tapu whatever it fell on.moko though produced by a different process, resembles tattoo, and is so called by Europeans.tohunga (priest) of boasted celestial origin than rub noses with the fairest wahin of the kainga, and his unostentatious attentions were not lost upon the old rascals. His ready tact and understanding of their language, his quick perception of their metaphors, and his daily increasing knowledge of their institutions, combined, perhaps, with his tawny skin and odd compelling gaze, to please and fascinate them. However it was, he rapidly advanced in their good graces, and in a short time no other of the ship's company, not even the genial and
en rapport with the more influential tangatas (men). Naku-roa, now the head of his tribe, had retained his affection for, and his powerful friendship was fully appreciated by, this strange being, who also found him a never-failing spring of information on Maori matters, his youthfulness rendering him less wary and more easily wrought upon than the old tohungas, who were somewhat chary about talking of some of their institutions. But Naku-roa. himself an hereditary priest, was much less reserved, and many a chat the two had together, and many a compact entered into, the details of which would have caused some eye-opening had they been known.
But this is anticipating. Things had not quite reached this stage on the day after the visit of Te Whatu Moana and his company, and the third of the French arrival in the Bay of Islands. On this day the captain and suite had promised to pay a formal visit to the settlement of Takori Hiko-o-te-rangi The equivalent of the real chief Te Kuri.
‘You accompany us to-day, D'Estrelles, do you not?’ enquired the commandant gaily of that personage, who with glooming eyes stood idly watching the party's preparations. He had returned from Wai-iti, where he had passed the night with Arnaud, whose services as interpreter the captain had requested.
‘No,’ he replied, shortly, ‘I don't feel inclined.’
Du Fresne, looking at him in some surprise, noted a worried look on the handsome face, which shadowed in irritation at his regards.
‘As you will, mon ami,’ he said lightly, and turned away, not wishing to annoy his sensitive passenger.
Arnaud, who, standing in the background, had overheard the remarks, chuckled softly. ‘O'est bien, Monsieur,’ he said inwardly, but his face was as expressionless as that of an ancient tohunga.
The captain's party was scarcely lost to view when Monsieur d'Estrelles, who had watched them off leaning indolently over the bulwarks, hired one of the numerous light canoes lying alongside to paddle him to the Island of Motu Arohia. This was why he had declined to make one of the party he had previously promised to join, that, free from unseasonable interruptions, he might do the agreeable to the captivating Mademoiselle Rau-kata-mea. But Monsieur had reckoned without his host, and when, after propitiating the ruling powers of the kainga by liberal donations, and doing the amiable to them until his patience was nearly exhausted, without ‘Laughing Leaf’ appearing—he ventured guardedly to inquire after her, he discovered that she was the daughter of the very chief the captain had gone to visit, and had returned to her father's kainga to be present at the pakehas' reception. His dark face flamed with angry mortification at his ‘ill-luck,’ as he was pleased to consider it, but he endeavoured to carry the matter off lightly, and perforce consoled himself with the company of ‘the pleasant’ wife of Te Whatu and her handmaids, with whose help, after lounging some hours in the warm sunshine, which streamed full on the verandah of the whare-noa—apparently the rendezvous of the hapu—he set off to inspect the curiosities of the settlement.
From the gay, unoccupied demeanour of such natives as the Frenchmen had met, and who seemed, so far, to have literally nothing to do save bask in the sun, it had been rather hastily concluded that they were a people averse to labour. This assumption D'Estrelles now found to be quite erroneous. As he sauntered through the kainga, he noticed on all hands groups of busy workers. Slaves bringing water or dragging wood; freemen scraping the outsides of their canoes with knives of flint or obsidian, shaping paddles, tying up fences, forming weapons, mending nets, etc. Women building fires, scraping potatoes with pipi shells, weaving ropes or garments, cleaning fish, plaiting food baskets, beating the flour from the woody fibre of the dried fern root and so on ad lib
But these toilers had very little interest for the luxurious foreigner, who, like most people who live by the sweat of other brows, cared
moko all there; the perforated ears, the hair even, gathered up into a feathered top-knot. Native art never fashioned that head, or the frightful caricatures around him were libels on the artists. His curiosity was excited. ‘Were these the heads of enemies?’ he wondered, ‘and what had hap pened to the bodies?’ He was not nervous in the least usually, but of a sudden a creepy feeling ran through him. He shook it off, however, and asked the smiling Ma-rika-rika for particulars. But his Maori was limited, and he was benefiting but little from her explications, when, in the nick of time, he espied petit Jean skulking along one of the narrow lanes which separated the whares. The rascal was doubtless on pleasure bent, but D'Estrelles at once impressed him, and with his aid learned presently that his conjecture as to the humanity of the head frowning down upon him was correct. It was one of a number brought back by Te Whatu a fortnight previously from the Northern coast. It was customary, Ma-rika-rika explained, for the victors in battle to decapitate the bodies of fallen foes whose rank rendered them worthy of the distinction, and, being preserved by a certain process, to bring them home to grace their own triumph. They were stuck up round the pah (fortress or fortified village), and, as if the death penalty were not enough to exhaust the bitterness of hate, jeered at and taunted as the individual would have been had he fallen alive into the hands of his enemies.
‘And the preserving process?’
Ma-rika-rika had never seen heads cured. The custom was to prepare them on the field of battle, but she understood that after removing the brain, tongue, and eyes, the cavities were filled up with fern, flax, or dried grass. A piece of wood was then inserted in each nostril to preserve the form of the nose, the lips were stitched together, and the skin of the neck sewn round a small wooden hoop that it might not shrink. The head was then boiled, then plunged into cold water, and after wards baked. This caused the muscles to shrink, but features, hair, skin, and moko remained intact. The heads were finished off by being smoked, or dried in the sun or wind.
Very interesting this. D'Estrelles again caught himself speculating as to the fate of the headless bodies. He would like to make a closer inspection. ‘Was it permissible to take the thing down? Might he handle it for a moment, or, would they sell it?’
Ma-rika-rika hesitated. ‘She could not say, but Te Whatu would
‘What? You would rob me of my utu? What? You would carry away my best, my favourite head—the head of my hated enemy, Kai-tangata?’
He had come so very near in his apparently ungovernable rage, and used his weapon so threateningly, that his visitor involuntarily drew back a pace; but suddenly turning his eyes upon the bodiless cause of his excitement—
‘Ha, Kai-tangata?’ the irate chief exclaimed, tauntingly, ‘you are a great warrior, you! Verily I tremble before you! Where is your club, man, and what has become of your arms? And your legs, so good at running, where are they? Are you called Kai-tangata, you? E, ha! You flew before my The ancient Maori was not a cannibal from choice. He merely ate his enemy for mere, did you? And your arms let fall your weapon. And your legs, your fleet legs, they were food for my warriors! E. ha! And your thighs, your sweet thighs, lie entombed in my belly!utu. as the last evidence of his hatred and contempt. But he found baked human flesh savoury, and esteemed the thigh as the most delicate part. The thigh was therefore always reserved as a tid bit for the foremost chiefs. Women were not allowed to eat human flesh except in rare instances.kai tangata, you! A tino tangata, you! A toa tangata, you! E, ha! E, ha! E, ha!’ And thrusting out a prodigiously long tongue, the amiable Te Whatu, flourishing his club, went through a series of the most extraordinary and frightful grimaces.
Fortunately for Monsieur's comfort, the foregoing horrible jibes were uttered in choice Maori, which the chief's rapid articulation rendered quite unintelligible to pakeha ears. Te Whatu's fury now seemed exhausted, and quietly relapsing into his ordinary manner, he gravely said:
‘It is a very good head. What will you give for it?’
For a moment the ready-witted Frenchman was taken aback. The
rangatira was asking what he was prepared to pay for the object of his desires. Now it so happened that his largesses on his arrival had left him nothing save the gift with which he had designed to propitiate the lovely ‘Laughing Leaf,’ and this was—could the reader guess it? nothing less than his own shaving glass! His experience had convinced him that youth and beauty usually loved nothing so much as its own sweet reflection; therefore, he felt assured that no present could be more suitable or acceptable to Rau-kata-mea than a looking glass! But, as many of these commodities would probably find their way into the whares in the way of barter, he decided to present the reigning beauty with an unique specimen, and no doubt the dusky maiden would have received it with pleasure, for it was just such a dainty toy as a French beau with a full purse might be expected to indulge in. D'Estrelles did not half like misappropriating it to the purchase of the mummified head up yonder, but he was in a dilemma, for not to offer a price after begging leave to purchase was to belittle himself terribly in native eyes. So, with a grudge and a sigh, he proffered the plaything. It was accepted with avidity, and not withstanding Te Whatu Moana's exaggerated estimate of his old enemy's caput, Monsieur D'Estrelles carried it off in triumph to his whare on Wai-iti.
While Monsieur d'Estrelles was thus entertamed at Motu Arohia, the Captain and party were not having a very high time of it at the settlement of Takori Hiko-o-te-rangi. This kainga was situated, as has been said, at a bend some distance up a small stream whose waters found an outlet in the bay. The village was prettily located, nestling amid forest foliage, which here richly clothed spur and gorge, and contrary to the others the Frenchmen had seen unfortified. Contiguous to it. however, near the apex of a conical hill rising barely out of the heavy forest growth around, was a large and well fortified pah, in which signs of active life could be discerned between the triple palisading. The huts near the stream were not very numerous, nor so lavishly decorated, as those in the other kaingas visited, and from various signs it was concluded that this was the fair-weather residence of a portion of the hapu, which, in the stronghold of the hill, had a safe haven of refuge in case of hostile invasion.
This supposition was confirmed by Naku-roa, whose canoe had accompanied the boats up stream. The young chief, like many another Maori blade, was enamoured of Takori's lovely daughter. But the affection of her father had so far combined with the pride of her people to retain the young girl in single blessedness, although of marriageable age, for she was not only the belle of her hapu, but beauty queen of the country side, and as such not to be lightly disposed of, especially as, being nobly born, and the child of a redoubtable warrior, she could choose her own time without any fear of being shelved at last. But the weightiest reason of all was perhaps the fact that in her infancy the beautiful Rau-kata-mea had been betrothed to a rangatira of the highest rank dwelling further inland, who, besides being as ugly as sin, was many years older than her own father. That he had not pressed his claim might have been due to the fact that he had already somewhere about a dozen wives, the older ones withered as witches, and may be he felt some dread of the caterwauling likely to ensue upon his bringing home a round-limbed maid of such seductive charms. Anyway, he had been patient, and as Takori knew his pet would hang herself rather than resign her lovely form to the embraces of her wizened fiance, mana (power, influence), he had not pressed on the match, though secretly desiring it.
Of course she had many adorers, but with her people it was usual for the first tokens of preference to emanate from the softer sex, and as though agreeable with all, she gave encouragement to none, not one of her admirers—who, of course, knew of her betrothal—dared venture upon more than general attentions. Naku-roa had once or twice fancied that she returned his ardent gaze with more of warmth than she bestowed on others, but until she should press his hand Ropa, a squeezing of the hand by the young wahine, gave her lover license to pop the question.tangi: the two oldest wives hung themselves, the others cut their bodies into mince-meat, and Rau-kata-mea shed tears, but they were tears of joy at her own deliverance. She had ever since been somewhat coy, but it was early days yet, and Naku-roa bade himself hope.
The crowding masses watching curiously the white strangers landing proved the hapu numerous, the physique of the tangatas showed it powerful; for, as in all primitive races, the true wealth of the ancient Maori consisted of trained muscle, their real power hinged on the personal strength and prowess of their fighting men. The mana of Takori was great, not only because he was a great rangatira and personally full of electric energy, but because he could at any moment bring into action a numerous band of trained and well nigh invincible warriors. It will be remembered that he had been one of the chiefs to board the captain's vessel on their arrival in the bay, and since then the strangers had heard him spoken of with so much of respect that they were prepared to examine more attentively his personal peculiarities, and, by the variety and number of their gifts, to engage his goodwill.
Their approach was signalized by the usual ‘Haere mai,’ echoed by hundreds of voices, waving of mats, and eager cries of women and children. As they drew near the assembly house, about which a large crowd had collected, the dusky magnate was distinguished squatting in a clear central space on a large mat. He seemed somewhat glum of demeanour, was enveloped in the ample folds of a dogskin wrapper formed of alternate stripes of black and white, and received his visitors without altering his position, and without evincing any very extravagant pleasure at the meeting.
Takori was a very different-looking man from the chiefs whose
moko that very little else was visible. A shark's tooth hung from his right ear, and close to the lobe of the left two snowy balls of birds down. His nose, less finely cut than those of Te Whatu and his compeers, was broad and aggressive-looking; his mouth, thick-lipped and large; his eyes, glooming in deep sockets, fierce in the extreme. Altogether he was a perfect type of the genus savage, and but little imagination was needed to picture him bounding at the battle cry, revelling in blood, and dealing out death. But just now he seemed less ferocious than gloomy; his hands were weaponless and hidden in the folds of his mat, which he gathered about him as if cold or miserable. He spoke gruffly, and tried to keep up an impassivity of countenance. But his red eyes betrayed internal disturbance, and every now and again, spite of his strong will, his rigid features contracted.
Food had been got ready for the strangers The ancient Maori was nothing if not hospitable. Even his enemy, if hungry was fed; if athirst, given drink, the giver always reserving the right to eat the other's dead body when in fair fight he should conquer him. Stomach cramps.topuni (dogskin) gathered tightly about him, he was observed to quiver from head to foot as the spasms seized him, although stoically suppressing all vocal evidence of pain.
Here was a go. The visitors wished themselves anywhere else, and no doubt their host wished them in the darkest chambers of The reign of darkness where spirits languish till their final extinction.Po.
‘But what was to be done?’ While they hesitated, an aged tohunga, white haired and wheezy, approached the chief, and stooping over him, put some questions, shortly answered. He then hobbled away, and a murmur'ran through the crowd as their eyes followed his steps to whare some distance away. After a time—a very long time it seemed to the helpless spectators—the old fellow—a potent sorcerer, by the way—
pakehas? Hu! Hu! The pakehas? Well, they must be conducted to where the food lies cooling, and then the ceremonies can go on.’
And so it was. With a detachment of grave, silent rangatiras to bear them company, the strangers were expected to surfeit themselves with the delicacies provided by their now afficted host. They made but a show of eating, but the circumstances required them to take a long time over it, and when they had done Takori had vanished, and neither tohunga nor satellites were to be seen.
They found upon enquiry that the former had been conveyed to his own whare, four personal slaves taking his mat by the corners. The ceremonies had ended and all were now awaiting the upshot. ‘He was very sick. Tu-tangata-kino was pinching him sorely, but—he might recover.’ All was gloom and anxious foreboding. Around his whare were gathered relations and friends, conspicuous among them his beautiful daughter, weeping silently, and near her a wrinkled crone, her mother, clasping her knees and rocking herself to and fro.
Naku-roa sidled off and planted himself near the former, but she vouchsafed him never a glance. The Europeans, upset by this contretemps Hitch.
‘I wonder,’ whispered Arnaud to his neighbour, ‘if that old demon priest is in the hut. If I thought Takori was alone I'd soon cure his colic. I have a specific more efficacious than a shipload of prayer,’
‘Suppose we take a stroll past the whare and look in?’
‘Come then.’
The tohunga was there, sitting on his hams, and Takori, doubled up, was groaning audibly.
‘Ciel!’ exclaimed Arnaud. ‘I have a mind to brave the priest's wrath.’ And after a few moments' irresolution, during which their feelings were harrowed by the distressful moans of the sick man, he put his half-formed resolve into practice, first, however, stepping to where Naku-roa squatted observing the
Good heavens!
But Takori's ear had caught some of the young chief's words, and, lifting up a haggard face, he interposed. The priest fell back muttering incantations, and Naku-roa, keeping at a respectful distance, explained that his pakeha friend—a great medicine man with his own people—would, if permitted, administer a remedy which would relieve the pain immediately. Naku-roa's little fiction—scarcely to be called such, for from his new friend's varied skill and singular gifts he imagined him to be, like the tohungas of his own people, a combination of sorcerer, priest, and doctor, and Arnaud was at no pains to dispossess him of the notion. This little fiction seemed to the old chief to be borne out by the valet's singular appearance. Standing in Naku-roa's rear, his slim supple figure bent forward to see into the hut through the low entrance, his three-cornered hat just exposing enough of his silver peruke to contrast with his swarthy skin, his eyes hidden behind huge green goggles, he looked so different from the ordinary pakeha that a savage might well have supposed him in some way distinct from his fellows.
Takori-himself a The ancient Maori had a heaven, situated like that of Christendom somewhere in ‘upper’ regions, to which only the superlatively good were admitted.tohunga-trusted in his country's gods, and likewise, feared to offend them, but he was well nigh in extremis. The distemper had developed into cholera, but he believed himself bewitched. That morning he had seen a lizard—a green lizard—and though he made haste to get out of its way, the thought of it pursued him. An enemy had sent it across his path, and now that same enemy had moved Tu-tangata-kino to distress him. Sure as his father was in heavenutu from Te Kaki of Waikawau for cooking his wife's cousin's half-brother. He owed a drubbing to Puku-nui of Mata-kana for a raid upon some fishing preserves during the tribe's last call at his part of the coast, and another to Pai-kea of Waiheke for speaking slightingly of his father's bones. From these people he must have blood. And, besides, he had many minor matters to settle which could not be attended to while his inside was being devoured by the green lizard. Perchance the pakeha was a sorcerer more potent than Ihu-puku (knob on the nose), able though he was. He looked at Arnaud fiercely with wild red eyes, then, ‘Ho mai,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Come here.
A faint light dawned and died on the valet's strange face, as quietly and gravely taking from his pocket a morocco case, he selected one of several small phials, and, entering the whare, stooped over the uplifted face of the sufferer, carefully avoiding contact. Holding the phial
Kapai te tohunga pakeha!’
Thank you pakeha preist.
His complete recovery was now only a question of time. He was exhausted, of course, but free from pain soon began to recuperate, and Arnaud—whose opportune service had secured him a fast friend—remained in attendance until by repeated doses he had set him on his feet again.
The subsequent stay of the pakehas was brief, although long enough to include a visit to the hill fortification which they found to be almost impregnable, and capable of accommodating many hundreds. The outer palisading was of thick posts nearly ten feet high; the two inner, of stout poles more than twice that height firmly lashed together. A ditch intervened between each palisading, and in each there was but one small hole of entrance. At the corners were quadrangles, from which to sling hot stones or hurl projectiles at possible besiegers. The whares, thickly set, were as substantially built as the materials allowed, and everywhere signs of native opulence abounded. The base of the offside of the hill was densely wooded, as were all the ranges in the neighbourhood, some of the timber attaining colossal dimensions. Straight massive trunks rising eighty and ninety feet ere forking into branches, supplied the Frenchmen with something to wonder at.
One thing, however, they did not see, though ever, with quick ob servant eyes, seeking its gleam, and that was the yellow gold, which in so many hearts had been the secret motif of their courageous enterprise. They had not expected a coinage among barbarians, but they had hoped to see in personal or house adornment some sign of the precious metal. Its utter absence proclaimed, either that it was unknown to the natives, or else that, unacquainted with its appearance, they regarded it as worthless—an alternative the Frenchmen could not suppose possible among human beings, whatever their colour.
‘Mon Dieu! What's in the wind now?’
The exclamation proceeded from Captain du Fresne, as, about a week subsequent to the incidents detailed above, his boat neared the landing at Wai-iti. On the beach immediately before him was gathered half the population squatting in clusters, lying down, playing with their dogs, or otherwise diverting themselves, while they watched the chief actors in what, at first sight, appeared to Du Fresne a diabolical piece of work. On the shelving part of the beach, above high-water mark, stood a scaffolding, recently erected, beneath which was smouldering a fire of logs—logs saturated with damp to judge by the dense volumes of smoke rolling upwards. The scaffolding was about ten feet high, and from the cross beam depended, head downwards, a human figure fastened by the heels!
Monsieur du Fresne stared, rubbed his eyes, and stared again. Yes, there was no doubt of it. He could not see much of the figure for the thick smoke, but assuredly those were human feet, and there was no mistaking the outline of the calves, bulging out just before the knees were lost in the smoke cloud.
‘Give way, boys,’ he cried, and in a jiffey he was ashore and striding excitedly to the scene of operations. To his surprise he recognised among the spectators the recruiting sailors and sundry others nonchalantly smoking, or chatting with the native girls, apparently acting strictly on the non-intervention principle.
‘What's the meaning of this, Jean?’ he demanded of his little interpreter. ‘Find out quick, garcon!’
Boy.
A smile broke over petit Jean's face as he received the Maori explanation, garnished with abundant pantomime.
‘They are busy, those people there, trying to restore a drowned man, he said with a gay Gallic laugh.’
‘To restore a drowned man! They're not such idiots surely, Jean.’
‘Well, a half-drowned one then, mon capitaine.’
‘Design they to roast, or smoke him back to life, then?’
‘The latter, I believe, Monsieur.’
‘But this is nonsense, Jean.’ said the captain, looking severe. ‘Explain the matter seriously.’
‘Well, Monsieur, some of our people had given the miserable there just a little too much cognac—he, silly fellow, likes cognac—and when he tired of rolling about the beach he rolled into the water, and before he could be fished out was pretty well dead. They are doing their best to revive him. They say the smoke'll do it if anything can.’
‘Mon Dien! Holds the world such fools? Why, the smoke will choke him.’
‘So one would suppose, captain; but they say if he has any life in him it will induce respiration, or at least bronchial irritation. At the first sign of life they'll cut him down, blow up the fire, lay him close to it, and pour hot water down his throat.’
‘Mon Dien! The treatment seems heroic. Well. I only hope they'll be able to detect the first signs of life through that dense smoke. 'Tis more than I could promise. But now, Jean, you may amuse yourself for an hour, then join me at the encampment. Au revoir. I shall leave these clever people to their patient. It strikes me if they leave him much longer be'll be too effectually cured to show even the minutest signs of life either before or after they cut him down.’ And revived by his little joke, the captain strolled away humming a gay melody.
* * * * * * * *
‘Well, mon ami, and how does this bright day find you? But, upon my honour, D'Estrelles, I can't congratulate you on looking any better for the change ashore.’
D'Estrelles was lounging on the turf near his own particular whare moodily rolling some tobacco leaf. His brow, already dark enough, lowered.
‘You, at any rate, seem blithe enough, captain.’
‘Yes, I am very well, thank God.’
‘Oh, thank God by all means. You might ask Him for once to extend His favour to me, Du Fresne, just by way of obligation to yourself, of course, for your Deity, if He be anything, is much like these Maories here, too fond of utu to show me any goodwill for my own sake.’
The captain frowned.
‘Excuse me, D'Estrelles, I never jest on such subjects. But what say you to a stroll? I have just been witness to one peculiar native custom. We may come upon others,’ and he related with gusto an account of what he had just seen, ending by saying that he meant to forbid any more cognac being given to the savages.
D'Estrelles smiled grimly.
‘All the same, my friend, if cognac can purchase a desired favour. I fear it will still find its way to Maori throats. And, by the way, come into my whare and have a nip before we set out. for pardieu! if it were not for cognac the lives of some of us would not be worth much.’
‘Are you sure, D'Estrelles, you do not take more than is good for you? I own I sometimes think you drink too deeply.’
‘I drink deeply? Nay, then, I think myself very moderate. But entre nous, Du Fresne, if a man can't sleep he must drink. I swear my brain would burst sometimes did I not soothe it with brandy.’
(Strictly) between us.
‘Mon Dieu! The matter is serious enough, D'Estrelles, but you intensify the evil, believe me, by your excessive use of such a strong stimulant. There now, you are taking it neat, a thing I never could.’
‘Bah! Your flavoured eau sucree is but a drink for children. As for me. I like something more than a flavour. But what think you of my death's head?’ for the captain's eyes were riveted upon the cured head from Motu Arohia which D'Estrelles had affixed to the central post of his
Sugary water.
‘Faugh! I wonder not at sleep deserting you with such horrid objects about you. One would think it quite enough to have that fellow Arnaud in your whare without this additional horror.’
‘But, my friend, the head is not a visible object when my lamp is out, and Arnaud does not share my whare. And, pardieu! 'tis when I'm alone, and not when he is here, that I am most distracted.’
‘Arnaud does not pass the night here, then?’
‘Pardieu! no, mon ami. Wai-iti furnishes more agreeable company than my valet, much as I appreciate that clever rascal.’
‘Clever rascal you may well call him, for that he is a rascal I am convinced, and of his cleverness there is no doubt. See how quickly he has picked up this infernal lingo, which, for my life, I can not master. “Oui, oui,” I reply, but hang me if I understand half the brown-skins say. And how the fellow has ingratiated himself with them. I believe there is some affinity between him and them. His skin is much the same colour, and 'pon my soul he could pass for one in a crowd. The more I look at the fellow, the more I see of his supple figure and designing face, the more I mistrust him. He never sets eyes on me, thank goodness, else I should do what you once threatened—take measures for self-defence. And. parblea! I think it time you did so, mon ami. I do not advocate extreme measures, you know, but if I were you I'd put the rascal on another island, and then see if I could sleep at night.’
‘Pardieu! Du Fresne. You have taken a most unaccountable prejudice against poor Arnaud. He has nothing to do with my sleeplessness, I am convinced. It is in the dead of night, when all around are buried in slumber, that the trouble begins—whispering voices, cries of agony, moans of the dying, groans of the damned, mocking of Jezebels, laughter of fiends—such a devils' concert as never was heard out of Gehenna.’
‘Mon Dieu. D'Estrelles, what you say more than ever convinces me that you drink too much cognac. Those are the true symptoms of that
delirium tremens. Let me beg of you my dear friend, to abstain for a time before it is too late.’
A violent delirium with tremors induced by chronic alcoholism.
D'Estrelles laughed, with some annoyance in his tones, however.
‘Bah! Du Fresne. you must think me a child of a fool, surely. I tell you it is nothing of the kind. Whatever is the cause of my insomnia, neither cognac nor Arnaud is responsible for it, and I can't do without either, for the one soothes my brain, and the other attends to my comfort as no one else could. But, au nom de diable, what have we here?’
In the devil’s name.
They had sauntered, after finishing their cognac, towards the back of Tauanui's kainga, behind which a wooded platean gave some excellent cover. Owing to this advantage, rearward fortifications had been dispensed with, and as they turned the angle of the lofty staging erected at the extremity of the lengthened flank, all the back part of the settlement lay disclosed to view. The kainga covered a considerale area, the hindmost huts being more scattered than those in front, and about them some enclosed patches under cultivation. A great deal of the undergrowth and most of the lesser timber had been cleared from the central part of the bush immediately behind the kainga, from which a number of foot-tracks led into the shady recesses of the forest. Within the space occupied by the whares, the usual scenes were in progress, but D'Estrelles' exclamation was occasioned by an occurrence nearer hand, and which they stood on their steps to observe. Not a stone's throw from them as they were about to emerge from the tangled underwood, stood a figure, grotesque in its deformity. It was that of a woman, an old woman, a very hag—a woman of the lower caste, with body bowed by hard field labour, and a face from which all comeliness had long since departed. She had once been tall, but work and rheumatism had nearly doubled her form, and her uncouth face, surmounted by a shock of rusty black hair, was little more than three feet from the ground. She was in the act of driving a stake into the ground with the aid of a large stone. This done to her satisfaction, she took from a kit of scraps beside her a lump of very fishy-looking meat and with some strips of green flax bound it firmly to the middle of the stake, her shrivelled brown claws making the unwholesome-looking mass still more repulsive. This done, she threw the remaining fragments in a heap on the ground beside it, and then erecting herself so far as she could, cried out in a harsh, rasping voice:
‘Wawau! (stupid). Kai! Kai! Haere mai!’ and without pausing for reply, turned, and hobbled away towards a cluster of rude huts as fast as her tottering legs admitted, the two spectators curiously watching her progress, wondering the while if she had ever been young and winsome. She had scarcely got back to her quarters when a wheezing sound proceeding from the direction of the clearing attracted their attention, and turning their heads they saw crawling out from some lair in the
‘Tena korua,’
The salutation, uttered by Naku-roa, startled them considerably, but making haste to return it, they eagerly enquired of him, through Arnaud, who was his companion, the meaning of the sickening spectacle. And then they learned that this was but an instance—common to every kainga—of the most dreaded and dreadful form of the tapu; its unclean form. This famished, friendless, semi-idiotic creature was a tender of corpses, and as such debarred from all human associations, shunned as a leper, regarded as an outcast, precluded from ever again taking a place among his kind, forbidden even the consolation of a dog; for his touch was pollution, nay more, it was death, and life was too short for the ceremonies necessary to his purification. His very food he must gnaw like a brute, lest his unclean hands should sign his own death warrant. Death, one might suppose, would have been a longed-for climax to such a catalogue of woes, but such a death the Maori was from infancy taught to tremble at as the most terrible of all. Hands corpse-polluted would bewitch whatever they touched. Food so contaminated would, if eaten, evolve a progeny of imps in the stomach of the eater, and to be gnawed to death by devils was a possibility the bravest and most miserable alike shuddered at.
The captain was unutterably shocked, and with many a ‘Man Dieu!’
Perhaps it was fortunate that the impulsive commandant could not express himself in Maori, since Naku-roa, to whom his voluble French was gibberish, looked both puzzled and offended at his emphatic gestures of dissent and disapproval, while Arnaud, with unruffled aspect, retailed in smooth accents the information supplied by the young chief, who evinced a lofty wonder that a creature so vile should awaken any interest in rangatira pakehas.
But Monsieur d'Estrelles was even more moved than the captain.
‘Pardieu!’ he cried, ‘what a horrible fate. To think that any human being should descend to such a pitch of degradation! And what a life! Why, the very thought of it gives me the vapours. To think that even a savage should be so saturated with d——d superstition as to live it, or hesitate to cut it short with his own hands. Why, I'd hang, drown, burn myself alive sooner than endure from day to day such misery. Pardieu! I should. To think that any fool should be so afraid to die! Why, if I believed in hell—which the devil himself shall never make me—I'd choose it in preference. Pardieu! ‘I should,’ and the gay epicure shivered with real horror at the very thought of such unmitigated woe. Then, seeing Du Fresne somewhat impressed by his unusual excitement, for ordinarily he affected a supercilious indifference of demeanour, he rallied himself, and recovering with a forced laugh, said:
‘Let us get out of this, Du Fresne. The gloom and horror of this accursed place is enough to give one the blue devils.’
He did not know that, furtively, as a cat watches her prey, his valet was observing him, nor hear the silently-uttered phrase. ‘C'est bien, Monsieur,’ or he might have carried away additional food for uncomfortable reflection.
Types of corset used to shape the body to fit the ideal silhouette of the era.It might have been some ten days after the incidents related above that a youthful wahine stood by the sliding door of a whare of the better sort in the kainga of Takori, Hiko-o-te-rangi, and, through a narrow chink, watched the arrival of several pakeha visitors, whose appearance was, as usual, the signal for an uproarious hubbub of welcome. The girl, who was in the first blush of womanhood, evidently found the heat of the shut-up and fire-heated whare oppressive, for her upper garment had been cast aside, and save for the clinging folds of a soft mat wound about her middle, she was unclothed. Tall, strong, and finely developed, her limbs were firm and round, her skin like velvet, and her figure that of a youthful Hebe. Waist in the modern sense she had none, for her vital organs had never been ‘cabined, cribbed, confined,’ by a straight jacket. As Nature's God had designed her, so she had grown, without the aid of ‘spoon bill busk,’ or ‘patent corset
She was earnestly peering out through the chink she had made by drawing back the shutter a little, her soft lustrous eyes following the movements of the strangers, while her parted lips and the rosy glow of her russet cheek betrayed an interest of more than ordinary kind. The visitors were Messrs Du Fresne and D'Estrelles, Lieutenant Crozet, and the ship's surgeon, with the usual following, and as the girl eagerly watched their progress, she now and again drew back from her post of observation, and in soft accents, varying with every shade of feeling, expressed her thoughts in Maori, which would translate something like this:
‘Ah! He has come! He has come! And how handsome he is, the noble white stranger! How proudly he carries himself, like a chief of our people. His hair too, and eyes, are dusky as night. His skin even is unlike that of the others. Sun and wind would soon tan it brown as that of Naku-roa. Naku-roa? Hu! He is a rangatira, but to my eyes a tutua beside
A person of low birth.
* * * * * * * * *
‘What has the old Cholera Morbus (the sailors had irreverently bestowed this nickname upon the chief Takori after their first inopportune visit) done with his charming daughter, I wonder?’ said the captain aside to D'Estrelles when their visit had about half ended without the damsel appearing
‘Just what I was wondering myself,’ replied the other. ‘Could I see anything resembling convent walls. I should imagine the old devil had shut her up pending our departure.’
‘Oh, as to that, convent walls are not indispensable. She may be peeping at us from some shut-up whare at this moment for that matter. But why should the old savage object to our looking at the girl? She's not the only pretty one in the kainga, purblen!’
‘True, But she's his only one, and I am told he wants to keep her unattached, very likely with a view to bartering her to some ancient mogul of his own people.’
‘Oh, if he thinks of barter, he could do better with ours, for the maid is certainly handsome.’
A flush overspread D'Estrelles dark face. ‘She is more than handsome,’ he said; ‘she is magnificent. A perfect Cleopatra, pa dieu! But as to barter, Du Fresne, if you happen to know any of our people holding such hopes in regard to her, tell them they'd better give a wide berth to Conrad D'Estrelles.’
‘Phew! Sets the mind so strongly, mon ami. I thought you a little touched, but parbleu! This looks like business.’
‘It means business to this extent, that the girl shall be mine, or no one's.’
‘You do not surely think of taking her back with you?’
‘That is just what I do think of, my friend.’
‘You are not infatuated enough to contemplate marriage. I suppose, D'Estrelles?’
‘Oh, as to that, we shall see. I might do worse, pardieu! She is a splendid creature, and young enough to civilize, but, for all she looks so melting, as coy and reserved as a cold-blooded English woman. I believe she is frightened. The old villain, her father, only half likes us, and has perhaps forbidden any flirting. Whatever be the reason, she keeps the curb on though one can she is naturally as impulsive as the rest of them.’
‘She has the rangatira blood in her veins you know, and their self restraint is, I consider astonishing.’
‘There may be something in that, but not all. Some deeper reason underlies her reserve: for that it requires an effort to keep it up is easily seen. But where can she be today? She has not been at Motu Arohia for days, and would hardly go today of her own accord.’
‘No: but if it be as you think, the old fellow may have packed her off willy nilly. But, by the way, what makes you suppose he dislikes us?’
‘It is self-evident in his manner, as you might see for yourself were you less confiding, Du Fresne. He is an out-and-out savage, looks on us as interlopers, and would pick a quarrel with us in a minute had we not already secured the good graces of the others. As it is he is harmless, but he owes us a grudge all the same.’
‘I think you misjudge him, D'Estrelles, although his looks are against him, I admit. But whether he likes the rest of us or not, there can be no doubt about his penchant for your inimitable valet.’
‘Aha! No; the rogue has “set eyes” on him to good purpose. I wish he would bewitch the daughter on my behalf.’
‘Take my advice and don't suggest it, mon ami, or he may do so on his own. But what shall you do if she says you nay?’
‘Wait till we're on the eye of sailing, and then carry her off by main force, for I swear to you. Du Fresne, though I've had many an affaire d'amour in my time. I never wanted any woman as want this dusky beauty. Whether it be her soft eyes or seductive form. I'm d——d if I know, but I'm set on her, and her self-restraint fairly maddens me. By hook or by crook, by fair means or foul, she shall be mine if I die for it. And that I swear by all that's holy!’ he added through his set teeth, his black eyes glinting fiercely, while Du Fresne looked at him in disapproving surprise.
Love affair.
* * * * * * * * *
‘Yes,’ he repeated that same midnight as he restlessly paced the beach at Wai-iti, ‘she shall be mine, I swear again. I've never failed yet with one of her sex, and I'm not going to be foiled now by an untaught savage, Old slang referring to a deck of playing cards. It was common in the early part of the nineteenth century for men and woman not of Māori descent to settle among Māori tribes. These people became known as Pakeha Māori. The strangers were usually seamen and convicts from New South Wales and Norfolk Island. They filled all manner of roles within the tribe and were treated by Māori as Māori. Some were slaves, some were used as go-betweens for trading purposes and some were tolerated as mere curiosities. A few became chiefs and priests (Bentley 9).pardien! But, 'pon my soul. there's not much of the savage
pardieu! as unyielding as flint. Yet I can see she would relent if she dared. She trembles sometimes, and flushes, too, when I talk to her; but repulses me all the same. D——n her! She's harder to woo than any civilized belle. How can I get round her? I must be growing imbecile or I'd soon find a way. I've cracked harder nuts, pardieu! But these broken mights are playing the deuce with me; and perhaps, as Du Fresne says, I drink too much cognac. Certainly I take more than I used, pardieu! yes, double. But what's a man to do if he can't sleep? And why the deuce can't I? I've always, till now, slept sound enough, even after—but stow that. And I've had the devil's own luck, too, lately with the pasteboardpardieu! no, and he'll never find the gold we came for if I don't prick him up. I'd have applied the goad before had I not been so piqued by this girl. But pardieu! if the luck does not change soon we must seek the yellow, and find it too, or I need not go back to civilization. Beggary in Europe wouldn't suit me at all, and my luck seems to have changed. Bah! Luck, what's luck? Luck comes to the man who has pluck. I'll drink more cognac, double my stakes, and play again. Damn luck! I must win if I play long enough. But this infernal sleeplessness! What the devil can it mean? And her voice, too, always in my ear. If I believed in spirits I'd think she was revisiting the earth, and had made a mistake in the latitude. But there are no such things as spirits. How often must I repeat to myself that truism? Bah! my brain is softening surely. If there were—pardieu! I wish there were, for then there might be a devil, and he would surely aid his own. I'd make a compact with the old boy—sell him my soul—ha! ha!—for this Maori Hebe, this untaught maid, who yet knows how to foil my every attempt. Pardieu! She drives me mad. I can think of naught else. Come devil—if there be a devil—give me thine aid, and I promise to serve thee as thou wilt. Bah! I might as well be in hell at once as here suffering the pangs of unsatisfied desire. God! how I want that Maori girl! Bah! I'm a fool! a double distilled fool! I'd sell myself to the devil, serve the Almighty, become a Maori evenPardieu! ‘Tis infatuation. 'Tis worse. 'Tis crass idiocy. 'Tis stark, staring madness! Conrad D'Estrelles, thou'rt mad! Get thee to thy whare, man, and drink cognac to calm thy brain.’
‘Patience, Pierre,’
‘Patience be d——d! Have I not had patience? But 'tis ever so—Always you preach patience, Arnaud. But I want revenge! Revenge! I tell you.’
‘You shall have revenge, Pierre. But are you the only one then? I have promised you yours, but I also. I must have mine—and I am enjoying it. You long to deal your enemy a death blow. I prefer to make his life a hell, and watch him writhe under it. Yet yoy too shall be satisfied, and ere long.’
The red-haired giant, Pierre, a sulky-looking Hercules, muttered an oath.
‘So you have said a dozen times, mon garçon, but it seems no nearer and I tell you I'm getting sick of waiting. When you persuaded me to come out on this voyage of fools, you promised me quick revenge, and gold to boot. As for gold, to all appearance there's none here and vengeance seems no nearer. It strikes me, Arnaud, you're playing double, but if so, have a care, for, par le diable! I'd as soon throttle you as him any day if I found it so.’
By the devil!
While he was speaking the valet quietly removed his eye-shades, and without a trace of emotion in his thin brown face was looking at him fixedly. Pierre felt the gaze, although his eyes being east, as usual, earthwards, he had not met it.
‘Pierre!’
Involuntarily the ferret eyes were uplifted, and then Arnaud had him at his mercy.
‘Pierre, I threw in your way the chance of coming with us, for I knew he had been false to you, and that you hungered for vengeance, but when you say I persuaded you to undertake this voyage, you lie, as you know. Nay, sheathe your knife’—for at the obnoxious word the red giant's hand had closed upon his weapon, ‘I fear you not. There are those who would avenge my death with bloodier utu than ever you have thought to wreak upon D'Estrelles, and to me death would be no punishment, man. I have dared it in a hundred forms. Life offers me naught but vengeance, and I have seen my enemy tear his hair
‘He would not esteem it a boon, however,’ muttered Pierre, morosely.
‘He loves life and pleasure too well.’
‘Life and pleasure? Have your eyes, then, become dim since you left la patrie? Have you not seen him grow thinner day by day. nor marked his glooming eye, his slower step, and sateless thirst for cognac? Are these the signs of life's enjoyment?’
The homeland
‘Bah! He has been losing lately at play, that's all.’
‘Think you so?’ Then, after a pause, ‘Pierre, have you ever lain awake at night haunted by the memory of your crimes?’
‘Pardieu, no! I'm not such a fool. Perdition! Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.’
Damnation.
‘But suppose the dogs should awake and bark till they roused you. Suppose they howled at you in the night watches, until you thought each one a fiend sent to torment you before the time. Suppose the voices of those you have betrayed—and perhaps murdered—shrink not, Pierre, you are not the only Cain who walks the earth—suppose these voices mocked your midnight misery, calling upon you ever to meet them at heaven's tribunal, until, spite of your boasted Atheism, you found yourself trembling in abject fear of an Almighty Judge—would you be very happy, Pierre?’
‘Pardieu, no,’ muttered the giant in his throat. ‘But who says Conrad d'Estrelles suffers this?’
‘I do,’ replied the other gravely.
‘And it is your work?’
‘Partly it is mine.’
‘And who has helped you?’
‘Le diable.’
The devil.
‘I believe you, Arnaud. He looks out of your eyes this minute.’
‘C'est bien, mon ami, Pierre!’
‘Well.’
‘There will be a gathering to-night up there at the kainga, a native concert and dance, which will likely see the moon to bed. The captain and others will be there. Can you manage to come with them, think you?’
‘Likely enough, but I want no infernal native music. I had enough of it the day we arrived to last me a lifetime.’
‘Oh, as to that, we are not bound to attend, though you might perchance like their dancing better. But I think I can promise to show you something that will please you better still.’
* * * * * * * * *
As the daylight faded away that evening the youthful inhabitants of Taranui's Assembly room where the native youth met to sing, dance, and otherwise while away their winter evenings. Probably derived from the French affirmative.kainga might have been seen trooping from all directions to the whare matoro.WeeweesWeewees down there at the encampment—most of them tutuas, but the rangatiras, all of them, very many. In honour of the occasion gala garments had been donned, handsomely fringed, brightly bordered; faces had been painted, and heads, ears, and necks of both sexes lavishly bedecked with feathers and flowers, bone and greenstone ornaments. Their treasure boxes must have been ransacked, but among all their gauds never a glitter of gold appeared, nor indeed a trace of any other metal, as the Frenchmen noted, some with sang froid, others with internal disgust.
A lengthened programme had been prepared for the delectation of the strangers, but—as the newspapers say when the reporter has not been round—we have not space for a detailed description, nor indeed would it be discreet, in view of the refined sensibilities of the present day, to describe too minutely the items of an entertainment which consisted but of varieties of the voluptuous Haka in all its primitive indelicacy. In some cases youths and maidens danced together, in others the sexes danced separately. Singing of love songs accompanied the dance, the best voices taking the verses, while all joined in the chorus, ‘which consisted of a peculiar noise caused by repeated expirations and inspirations, slapping one hand on the breast, raising the other aloft and making it vibrate with great rapidity, and moving the body in indelicate attitudes.’ Some of the words were of sensual character, others irreproachable, as in this song:
Vigorous dances with actions and rhythmically shouted words.
The native music was very simple, and to unaccustomed ears rather monotonous, but many of the singers had sweet voices, and all correct ears for time and tune, and their one instrument, the flute, the best only capable of producing five simple notes, was managed by the players with no little skill.
The whole exhibition was sufficiently novel and exciting to keep up the interest of the bulk of the visitors until the close of the evening, spite of the inconvenience caused to European nostrils by the want of
pakehas, but as it had been thought necessary to air the room by an enormous fire just previous to the concert, the temperature, now that it was crowded with human beings, the bulk of them perspiring brownskins, was somewhat high to say the least of it. As the evening wore on, the more sensitive of the visitors contrived from time to time adroitly to exchange their places for others nearer the openings, all of them envious of Monsieur D'Estrelles, who had at first secured a position just inside the doorway, where he was lucky enough to share a soft mat occupied by two dusky belles, sufficiently attractive in themselves without the aid of the paint and charcoal with which they had streaked their faces. They were very enticing, brimming over with simple fun, and very appreciative of the bonbons with which D'Estrelles liberally supplied them probably out of gratitude for his share of their mat.
By and bye, as the odours within became more oppressive, and the cool moonlit atmosphere without more attractive by contrast, he prevailed upon them to forego the remaining items in favour of a stroll upon the beach, where the gentle lapping of the waves made a music infinitely soothing. As they strolled along in the waning moonlight the merry chatter and frequent laughter of the maidens echoing through the quiet air, two figures pacing to and fro in the shadow of the village palisading watched their motions with something more than casual interest.
‘That gay gallant there seems not to suffer very greatly, mon bon garçon. growled the sailor, Pierre, to his neighbour, the soft-stepping valet.
See note page 83.
‘No, Pierre. He is not without spirit, and makes a brave fight, but a mouse might as well think to escape the claws of its captor, or a snared bird the fowler's net, as he to elude his fate now.’
There was a concentrated hate, a deliberate purpose, in the soft tones of the valet which Pierre had not marked before.
‘What's your grudge against him, my boy?’ he enquired, his gruff tones showing quickened interest. ‘Did he rob you of your sweetheart that you hate him so?’
A quick gasp proved that the query had struck home, but the valet's change of expression passed unnoticed in the gathering gloom, and after a pause he replied coldly:
‘Enough, Pierre, that we both seek vengeance. You have your reasons and I have mine, and both shall be satisfied.’
‘You are as close as an oyster, Arnaud,’ said the other, glumpily. ‘But damn me if I care. He robbed me, anyway, perdition seize him and of something better than a wench. They are easily come by. But goll is not so plentiful—after all my scheming, too, and trouble, coaching
pardieu! But he forgot how hate sharpens the eyesight.’
‘As you forget sometimes, Pierre, that but for me you would still have been seeking him.’
‘I don't forget, Arnaud, pardieu! But tell me how came you to know anything of my affairs?’
‘Another time, Pierre. See, those promenaders there are nearly out of sight. Let us be going.’
Monsieur D'Estrelles and his two companions had sauntered chattering along the beach until within sight of the French encampment, and then the girls readily accepted his invitation to go up to his whare for more bonbons. At the door the three lingered awhile watching the young moon drop down behind the horizon, and when its last glimmer died he invited them inside, proceeding himself to light a small lamp upon a stand improvised by the deft-fingered Arnaud, to whose natty care the whare did credit. Soft mats everywhere concealed the earthen floor, while absorbing possible damps, but the furniture was of the simplest. Upon a bunk at the far end a downy bed was heaped with thick rugs, for Monsieur loved to lie soft and warm; but a small table, camp-stool, his travelling case, and the lamp stand were the only other articles, if sundry liqueur bottles and glasses piled on a tray and the tatooed head bracketed to the centre post be excepted. The voluble interest aroused in the lively damsels by old Kaitangata's poll afforded ample subject for jest and laughter, and much grimacing, while from his case Monsieur produced more bonbons. The whare was cool and sweet, but D'Estrelles, who always felt stifled within narrow walls, went to the window and drew back the slide, thus admitting a current of air, whereat the girls exclaimed, for to the Maori fresh air at night was a thing intolerable. He warmed them, however, with a mouthful of diluted cognac after satisfying his own more ardent thirst, and again they fell to discussing the defunct chief's head.
‘Kaitangata's a queer name,’ said the host in very poor Maori. ‘It means manfood, does it not?’
‘Kahore’ (no), quoth the girls, laughing immoderately, and D'Estrelles, out of civility, laughed with them, and then they all stopped suddenly, and stared first at the head and then at each other, for each one could have sworn that the dead head was laughing too—not a laugh full of mirth and melody like their own, but a wheezy, whistling, racked kind of laugh, such as the old sinner's rough throat might have
‘What, then, does it mean?’
‘It means man-eater,’ they replied, almost in a whisper, glancing timidly at the skull, as if half-afraid that it had not yet wholly lost its former predilections.
‘Man-eater!’ echoed D'Estrelles. ‘Do your people then really eat human beings?’
With another glance at the head: ‘ Man's flesh is very good.Kapai te tangata kai,’
To their unutterable horror their speech was echoed from the tight-drawn lips of the dried face looking down on them. In harsh guttural tones the words came back. ‘Kapai te tangata kai! Kapai! Ha-ha-ha!’ And as the crackling laughter smote on the air, the terrified damsels turned and fled, screaming as if the devil was at their heels.
Monsieur d'Estrelles became pale as death, and trembled visibly, but he stood his ground, with eyes fixed upon the skull, and the yells of the flying girls ringing in his ears.
A few unpleasant seconds passed thus, then gulping down a copious draught of brandy, he stepped up to the centre post, and shaking his fist at old Kaitangata,
‘Devil!’ he cried, ‘I defy thee!’
‘Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!’ Again that dreadful laugh echoed through the all but empty whare.
‘Damnation!’ yelled D'Estrelles, as, mad with rage, and bold with brandy, he seized the head and shook it savagely. The thing laughed in his hands, muttering maliciously, ‘Katahi te tangata porangi (what a fool you are)!’
In a paroxysm of fear and fury, and with a string of maledictions, Monsieur flung it violently from him to the farthest end of the whare, and as it fell with a sounding crack, it groaned horribly, muttering, ‘Ka kino ia koe (you are a bad one).’
Monsieur d'Estrelles waited for no more, but rushing from the place, sought in the cool night air some relief to his throbbing brain. As he darted out of the doorway, two figures glided swiftly behind a contiguous hut and silently disappeared into the darkness.
‘Un Sou for your thoughts, D'Estrelles,’ cried Captain du Freshe gaily some days later, slapping that personage lightly on the back, as, with arms crossed on the taffrail, he appeared lost in contemplation of the briny fluid beneath. An oath, but half suppressed, betrayed how the sudden salutation had startled its recipient, and the good-humoured Captain quickly apologised, mingling gall with his honey, however, by adding:
A penny.
‘I really forgot for a moment, mon ami, how nervous you have grown.’
D'Estrelles angrily repudiated the imputation, declaring his nervous system perfect.
‘Yet you start, like a woman, at shadows.’
An ugly response followed, and then Monsieur d'Estrelles, who seemed in a thoroughly bad humour, divulged in no very studied language the chief subject of his recent musings.
‘This new el Dorado has not yet produced any gold,’ he said, morosely, ‘and I was just thinking, mon ami, that it was about time some serious attempt was made to discover whether we have not been decoyed out to these cannibal islands on a fool's quest.’
An angry flush rose to Du Fresne's brow, but controlling himself, on observing the haggard looks and bloodshot eyes of his passenger:
‘Monsieur forgets,’ he said mildly, ‘that several prospecting parties have already made careful explorations without success.’
‘Already!’ retorted the other, grimly. ‘Why, we've been lying here nearly a month, sufficiently long, one would think, to have explored the whole island. But, as I have already said more than once, prospecting parties in which the natives themselves predominate are a farce. It is to their interest to mislead us, and their espionage prevents all freedom of action.’
‘But you forget, mon ami, that in a country so new we must, for our safety, have guides, and further, we would without them always be in danger of in some way violating this incomprehensible law of tapu which seems so all-prevailing.’
‘D——n the The Maori warriors sometimes wore over their chests defensive armour of dressed flax thickly woven. Spanish conquerors of Mexico and Peru respectively. They are known for their brutal treatment of the natives in order to gain control of these countries.tapu! The gold, if they know of it, is most likely tapu, but that would not hinder me from filling my pockets with it if I had the
tapu and those who would enforce it. We have ships and stores, men and guns. A handful of men with muskets could easily put to flight a host of these savage. whose flaxen armour
‘God forbid.’ cried the humane commandant, ‘that I should seek to emulate Cortes and Pizarro, at whose inhumanity Europe even yet shudders.’
‘Pardieu.’ exclaimed D'Estrelles, with a sneer. ‘I understood you were ambitious. Monsieur, and desired to distinguish yourself by adding to French possessions.’
‘You are right, Monsieur. That I regard as a laudable object, and it is my purpose ere we depart to annex these islands in the name of His Majesty. But I desire to do so without strife and bloodshed, and even should we at the outset fail to find a golden treasure, they are a sufficiently fair possession in themselves to add prestige to the French name, and to gratify our Royal master.’
‘Pardieu.’ returned the other, angrily. ‘I am as reads as yourself to cry vive le roi, yet, nevertheless before His Majesty's gratification I place my own, and nothing short of gold will satisfy me, Du Fresne. 'Twas for that I came out to this land of savages and,
Long live the king.
It is needless to detail the whole conversation. Suffice it that the Captain, whose temper was under excellent control, and who wished—while respecting the rights and institutions of the native—to mollify one who had a large stake in the venture, gradually talked his passenger into a better humour, and it was finally arranged that a picked party should set out before dawn the following morning for the head of the stream, upon which was situated the kainga of Takori. Native espionage would thus be avoided, and a long day's undisturbed fossicking in the gorges of the locality ensured, while the early habits of the natives would, it was reckoned, enable them to return past Takori's kainga unobserved, spite of the moonlight.
One stipulation the Captain made, and that was that Arnaud should be left behind.
‘If we are unaccompanied by natives,’ he said. ‘we shall not require an interpreter, and I mistrust the sleek rascal, whose extraordinary influence over some of these people I neither understand nor approve.’
* * * * * * * * * *
While this conversation was proceeding on the poop, another of very different character was going on in the forecastle, where several seamen were engaged in various duties. Somewhat apart from the others sat the sailor Pierre, his shock of red hair tumbling about and partly hiding his scowling visage. He was mending a sail, and. apparently uninterested in the noisy chat and frequent laughter of his comrades, worked away in sullen silence as if his sole object in life was to finish his task. He raised his head, however, as a shadow fell upon his work, and saw standing at his side the valet Arnaud, whose soft footsteps had, as usual, failed to announce his approach.
The giant returned his salutation roughly, and barely accorded him permission to take a seat by his side. But Arnaud's equanimity was in no way ruffled by his reception, and making himself quite at home, he, in a few well-chosen words, called the huge sailor's attention to the beauty of the lovely landscape around him. A deeper scowl and a muttered oath evinced Pierre's appreciation of the beauties of nature.
‘I know a sight that would please me better,’ he grunted.
‘I am coming to it, Pierre,’ answered the other in low, quiet tones; ‘and I wish to say to you, mon ami, that what you would do must be done quickly now, for we shall not be much longer here.’
‘Who says so?’ demanded Pierre, in surprise. ‘I have heard nothing of the kind.’
‘Probably not. But between ourselves, Pierre, there are indications that the natives are wearying of the excesses of our people, and of their reckless disregard of native customs and prejudices. We have some friends in and about the bay, but those a little further off regard us and our doings suspiciously, and lately some of our people have seemed bent on changing covert dislike into open animosity. Te Whatu Moana is our only real friend here.’
‘Te Whatu?’ interrupted the other. ‘I thought it was Naku-roa you were so fond of.’
‘Naku-roa is my personal friend, but I was speaking of our people. Te Whatu likes us genuinely, likes the pakeha for himself. Taranui likes us for our cognac. Others tolerate us for our presents, for we have not been niggardly. But there are some who watch our doings with hostile eyes, and any day our stay here may unpleasantly terminate. Therefore, I say if you would effect your purpose here you have no time to lose.’
‘Le aiable! Have I not been waiting for a sign from you?’ retorted Pierre, angrily.
‘Softly, Pierre. 'Tis indiscreet to attract attention. But, apropos of our subject, thirst you still for blood?’
The question was put too low to reach other ears than those of Pierre, and he answered in his throat:
‘I have sworn to have his life.’
‘C'est, bieu. See you von wooded cliffs away there frowning down upon the sea?’
‘Well?’
‘None of our people, save myself, have ever wandered so far from the attractions of the kaingas. It is a lonely spot. The only sound one hears is the wash of the tide and the rustling of the forest leaves. How, think you. Monsieur d'Estrelles would feel if, chained on the brink of the precipice, his hungry eyes should see frigates unfurling?’
‘Par de diable! I should not envy him. But, my good Arnaud, how shall we get him there?’
‘He sleeps at Motu Arohia to-night. At midnight the devil drives him out to promenade. You, watching your opportunity, must seize, gag, and bind him. I shall be in waiting with a canoe, and ere the moon begins to wane we shall have him at the foot o the cliff.’
‘But how is he to be got to its top?’
‘Thou hast little ingenuity. Pierre. From a tree on the brink hangs a rope which passes through a pulley fixed in its strongest to fork.’
‘Thou art a clever rogue, Arnaud.’
‘C'est bien, Pierre.’
As Monsieur d'Estrelles' valet had foretold, when the kainga lay wrapped in slumber that personage came out from his whare, and, seeking the beach, wandered to and fro, like one possessed. The night was beautifully clear and light, but silence brooded over the scene, the moon cast eerie shadows. But Monsieur d'Estrelles, though somewhat unhinged by lack of sleep and excess of brandy, was of a practical type, and no fear of moon-made phantoms mingled with ins disagreeable thoughts. Backwards and forwards before the kainga he passed for some time; then, extending his walk, he strode on and on, as if purposed to circumambulate the island. He had made about half the distance, when suddenly his ears caught the sound of a stealthy step behind him. Turning hastily, he was in the very act tripped up and thrown violently to the ground, where he lay on his back partially stunned. He came to in a few moments, only to find himself blind-folded, gagged, and bound hand and foot. Swiftly the red giant bore him to the canoe, and silently, save for the sound, of
By the time they reached their destination the moon was near its zenith, and its mellow light revealed every detail of the solitary scene. From a storm-twisted pohutukawa Known as the New Zealand Christmas tree due to the time of year that it flowers. Its flowers are distinctive spiky red balls (Crowe 15).
Arnaud soon made himself scarce, leaving to Pierre the congenial task of completing the nefarious business. Slipping the noose over his victim's head, he unbound his feet and removed the gag from his lacerated mouth. Blind-folded still, and manacled, Monsieur made desperate efforts for freedom; but his efforts were futile, and served only to excite the brutal mirth of his merciless foe, who, pulling the bandages from his eyes, laughed in his face with bitter malignancy.
All was now ready. Manacled still, and held by the tight-drawn noose, his toes just touching the sand, Monsieur was at the mercy of his enemy, whose reasons for bringing him here he was at a loss to divine. In the first moments of his capture he had imagined his assailant to be a native, and took it for granted that he was backed up by a following; but, lying in the bottom of the canoe, he remembered the Maori dread of the night, and now that his eyes were unbound he saw that his captor was one of the crew. But having come but little in contact with any of the seamen, no motive for the treatment he was undergoing suggested itself, though intense animosity and malignant purpose on the giant's part were very clear. His cogitations were, however, soon cut short by a very unpleasant sensation of swift upward movement, and a few seconds later his feet rested on the brittle edge of the beetling bluff, and glancing downwards, he could see his adversary fasten the free end of the lifting cable around a jutting rock, and essay the critical task of clambering up the face of the precipice. Avoiding overhaste, Pierre accomplished this in safety, and then, deliberately taking his stand a few feet from his prisoner, he pushed back his fiery locks and glared at him savagely.
‘So, Conrad d'Estrelles,’ he said harshly, after some minutes survey, ‘you do not know me, it seems.’ Then, with a sneer, ‘When you discarded your old name and obligations, you doubtless threw off old memories with them—a very convenient mode of getting through the
alias Louis St. Maur, alias Jacques le Blanc, the wolf has come up with you. Pierre le Loup has run you to earth. Ha! You thought you had finally eluded me, did you? You dreamed that at the Antipodes you would be safe. But you reckoned without book, my fine gentleman, and even here the law of Utu prevails. A very good law it is too.’ He laughed grimly. ‘And now Jacques le Blanc, since you have spent my money, you shall pay me with your life, and then we shall he quits. It was not enough,’ he resumed with increased bitterness—‘it was not enough to steal mon amante, but you must also rob me of the reward of my patient plotting, the labour of years. I forgave you the first—though I sent
My lover.
Hell.
To hear the confession of.
He bent forward, and by a dexterous and unexpected movement encircled with a leathern strap his prisoner's throat, but jerking violently backwards the latter wrenched himself free, at the same instant flinging his manacled arms over the giant's head, and drawing him closer in a vice-like clasp. His own fate he felt was sealed, but at least he might make his enemy share it, and to that end he applied himself with the energy of despair.
Pierre was fairly trapped. Struggle as he would, he could not disengage himself from the savage grip of the arms he had himself bound together, and the malignant laughter of his so lately helpless captive drove him frantic. A frightful struggle ensued, a struggle to be decided, as it seemed, by main strength, for neither could freely use his arms those of Monsieur pressing Pierre's at the elbows. Wildly they glared into each other's bursting eyes, each hugging the other like a veritable bruin, fiercely they swayed to and fro, using their nether limbs to aid the upper. No strength was wasted in speech. In hate too intense for words each sought to press the life out of the other's body. Forgetful of all the world beside, they struggled and strove, every faculty being absorbed in the deadly duel. Minute succeeded minute quarter followed quarter, and still breast to breast they wrestled on the verge of the precipice, held from destruction only by the rope by which Monsieur had been elevated, and upon the lower end of which the long-continued friction was beginning to tell, though in their fury neither thought of such a possibility.
At length their struggles sensibly relaxed. D'Estrelles was growing faint. Pierre, with every muscle set for a supreme effort, was on the point of victory, when the last strand of the fretted rope gave way, and in a twinkling both combatants were precipitated upon the rocks below, a short, sharp cry awakening the startled echoes as they fell.
In the early grey of the following morning the Captain s boat, with the exploring party, came softly alongside the landing place at Motu Arohia, where it had been arranged that Monsieur d'Estrelles should meet them. The moon had but just disappeared, and in less than half an hour day would break. Meanwhile, the light shed by the quiet stars was of the faintest. D'Estrelles had promised to be in waiting, but he was not there, and though all peered their hardest into the dusk around, not a sign of his approach could be detected. They waited awhile, not venturing to speak: they whistled softly, daring the risk; they grumbled audibly, growing impatient; but still he came not. At last the Captain, in subdued tones, full of vexation, gave the order to start.
‘If we wait any longer,’ he said, we may abandon the journey, and
The boat sped away from the island, the regular dip of the oars the only audible sound until they were about half-way up the stream which formed the highway to Takori's kainga, when a gentle sough rustling through the foliage on either hand spoke of the dawn, and a second or two later shrill cries of ‘Kaka! Kaka!’ rang through the forest, momentarily startling the whole party.
‘Give way, boys.’ again urged the commandant. ‘There strike the native clock. The cry of the kaka was with the ancient Maori the signal to rise.hapu about us directly.’
Swiftly the men plied their oars, and keeping as much as possible under cover of the abundant foliage which garnished the bank, the boat shot past the kainga, in which not a sign of life was visible to the keenly observant eyes bent upon it.
The possibility of being seen from the pa on the hill did not occur to any of the party, who all drew breath with infinite relief when they found themselves clear out of sight of the scattered whares, on the bank. But from that elevated spot at least one pair of eyes, keen, eager, malevolent, noted with suspicious wonder the stealthy approach and rapid disappearance of the pakeha boat, and Takori—for the eyes were those of the redoubtable chief himself—grasped his club and sprang to his feet as though he had caught the distrusted stranger in some misdeed which demanded utu.
These, however, kept on their way, their Sight hearts rebounding after the recent strain, and their merry voices waxing louder as they got further and further away from human habitations in blissful ignorance that a fleet canoe paddled by several dark silent figures followed in their wake, and that when they landed every step of their way was dogged by the tireless feet of native spies. Not venturing to light a fire, they breakfasted on cold meats with appetites sharpened by the morning breeze, and then began the business of the day, the prospecting, the industrious search for indications, however faint, of the existence of gold. But as the reader may not be endowed with the preternatural patience which carried the wondering spies through that long day, he shall be spared needless detail. Enough that the Frenchmen's labour was, like virtue, its own reward. As the afternoon waned, the more mercurial of the party, growing somewhat weary of their unproductive toil, took to botanizing by way of a change, and found their new occupation so engrossing that unawares they wandered gradually quite out of hearing of their companions. Struck, at length, by the utter
‘Is not that a palisading showing redly between the trunks of those trees there?’
A palisading in the deep recesses of the forest seemed an improbability, but all admitted that the object pointed out looked like nothing else. A few steps forward would solve the question and satisfy their curiosity, and these were soon taken, to the unutterable dismay of such of the spies as had tracked the wanderers. Their instructions were not to lose sight of the Red I was the sacred colour of the Maori.pakehas, but although they had followed like shadows, they had done so latterly with a shrinking dread which almost palsied them, for every step brought them nearer the sacred grove which formed their hapu's thrice tapued place of sepulture, a place no human consideration would have induced them voluntarily to enter. When, peering through the dense undergrowth, they saw the strangers walk boldly up to the dark red
Unconscious alike of their proximity and of the character of the enclosure, the vivacious Frenchmen scrambled over the fence, not without some difficulty, for it was of considerable height, and chattering volubly, lost no time in gratifying their curiosity, now thoroughly aroused. Once within the sacred precincts, a singular scene presented itself to their wondering view. The palisading surrounded a grove of karaka—the beautiful New Zealand laurel—whose sliming foliage in contrasted finely with the dark red colouring of a multitude of carved images, of the same grotesquely repulsive character as those about the kaingas. These were of many shapes and sizes, from the squat half-length to monstrous statues ranging up to forty feet. Their number was legion; every available space bristled with them. They were uniformly red, and all of surpassing ugliness, despite their fine and elaborate carving. Great eyes of pawa shell leered through the greenery; protruding tongues mocked in the open; from the ground frightful abortions grimaced; from aloft giant caricatures glared at the too curious strangers. Above, beneath, on every hand, the red monstrosities obtruded themselves, always with staring shell eyes and out-hanging tongues, until, what with the silence and gloom, the volatile strangers felt their inquisitive ardour something damped. Still, disinclined to go back to their comrades only half-informed upon the features of the singular place, they resolved on a closer inspection, and the distended orbs of the spies—now crouched tremblingly on all fours peering intently between the chinks of the palisading—beheld them scatter themselves with sacrilegious temerity about the sacred enclosure.
Abalone shellfish, known as paua.
Short club of a rare greenstone, highly prized.
‘For God's sake let us put the thing back and get out of this inferna place!’ cried one excitedly, and then, with nervous lingers they essayed the task of replacing the fastenings, for beyond a doubt that silent figure, still so lifelike, was dead. The odour rising to their shrinking nostrils was proof enough, and now, as they wound and. wound those. everlasting bands, it seemed as if the air had all at once become
They must go if they would not be lost in the dense bush, a climax to their day's adventures not unlikely as it was; they must go, and leave the thing where it stood, Stay. Happy thought! Turn it over on its side, so. Now it will be supposed to have fallen from the tree; been shaken out in a gale—what not? Vivat! And now over the palisading. Quick! and away to the rendezvous, but mind, not a word to the commandant. Haste! haste! But see, there is the moon uprising yonder. Hail, silver Queen! We shall not be lost after all, mes amis. Vivat!
* * * * * * * * * *
The spies, aghast with horror, aflame with wrath at the desecration of their holiest place, saw not the closing act. At the kaka's screech they had sped away, not daring to linger after sunset; and when, some hours later, the Captain's boat glided past the kainga, it lay sleeping in the moonlight silent as the sacred grove in the heart of the forest.
When Arnaud withdrew himself from the assistance of his huge confederate he did not proceed far. At the foot of the precipice, not a dozen yards away, was a sea-worn cavity of no great depth, and which appeared to lead nowhere. Inside this opening, which in reality was but the vestibule to a cave of far different dimensions, the valet glided, and in its deepest shadow awaited the completion of the dreadful deed which he had instigated. What his immediate intentions were, had things eventuated as arranged, matters little. Enough that the unforeseen catastrophe which culminated the vengeful proceedings frustrated them, and rendered necessary a totally different course of action. The fiendish laughter which broke from Jacques le Blanc as he entrapped his would-be destroyer reached his valet, where in brooding silence he
denouement. His existence had been totally forgotten by Pierre in the frantic excitement of the deadly duel, and both combatants were too high up to see him. And so with clenched teeth and knitted brows he had looked on until the final scene, which completely upset all his calculations and disarranged his carefully laid plans. His device to satisfy the big Pierre's impatient lust to destroy had been the result of much deliberation, but he had never intended it to be carried to completion, for he had no desire to see his employer die—that is, not yet—and for the furtherance of his own scheme of more refined vengeance he had meant to play the part of rescuer, when, Monsieur having suffered the bitterness of death, he should himself accidentally discover his woful plight. All this was now at an end, and his purpose rendered futile by what had just occurred, and as with rigid features and staring eyes, he gazed at the still quivering forms so horribly interlocked, he ground his teeth in impotent rage, his natural horror at the shocking event overcome by his bitter disappointment that the object of his own implacable hate had escaped the protracted tortures wherewith he had himself designed to render life accursed. His nature was essentially different from that of the red-haired giant, who had all his life settled his disputes by brute force. Slight of form, for a man, and thin to attenuation. Arnaud's purposes in life could never have been achieved by strength of muscle; therefore, being possessed of a wily nature and fertile brain, craft had stood him in its stead. Whatever the injury done him by the man he hated, its recollection never for a moment left him, and its complete and bitter revenge had become the sole though secret object of his existence. To blast the life of the man who had blasted his; to render day a weariness and night a horror; to shake his self-confidence, and break down his atheism, so that super natural terrors might take from him even the last refuge of the despairing, kindly death, this had been the valet's deliberate purpose, and having kept his secret well, he had so far succeeded. But now his enemy had escaped him, had gone into nothingness ere his punishment had well begun, and a bitter miserable feeling of failure and self-disgust took possession of the would-be avenger. No feeling of compunction stirred him, only poignant regret that his Utu had been so small. He might as well go hang himself at once, for his life's work was over, although life itself was scarce begun, for he was much younger than he-seemed. He had no motive now to live, no incentive to support life's burden. The thought of vengeance had been his food and drink, but now he had naught to sustain him; the pool was dry, and his burning thirst not half assuaged, and he panted, yes, absolutely panted, for one more opportunity to wring the soul of his enemy. Yet once this stony heart
The valet did not hasten to where the bodies lay, for no doubt of the instant death of both entered his mind. That either could possibly survive did not even suggest itself, and the question of their ultimate disposal was a trifle. But after awhile he stepped to the spot, and bending over them found that the uppermost still breathed faintly. It was that of his master, and a ray of hope shot through the mind of the factotum as he made the discovery. As for Pierre, crushed by the weight above him, and falling, as he did, with his back on the rocks beneath, he was stone dead, and as he convinced himself of the fact, Arnaud experienced a sense of relief. His feelings for the huge sailor were of a purely negative kind, but he was at best an ill-tempered brute, and now there could be no further trouble with him.
But the first thing to be done was to separate the living from the dead, and this Arnaud accomplished without much difficulty. The heart's pulsations were very faint, but still the wretched man lived, though both forearms were broken near the wrists, and his hands were terribly damaged. But his nether limbs seemed all right, though, possibly he had received some internal injury, for though the pain of his broken arms—which Arnaud proceeded to set and bandage as well as his skill and appliances would allow—must have been excruciating, he continued unconscious, and but for one or two faint moans might have been thought as devoid of life as the mangled corpse which had borne the brunt of the fall.
By degrees Arnaud dragged him inside the cavity so lately occupied by himself, and here began a more difficult task, for its floor, moderately level for a distance of about four feet, shelved gradually upwards from thence almost to the roof, which just there sloped downwards, so that looking up at the latter in a casual way roof and floor seemed to meet, and no ordinary observer would have suspected that this shelving basement receded on the far side until it reached a much lower level than at the opening, or that the narrow space, which looked from below at most but a rift in the rock, was the entrance to a spacious and lofty cavern with deep recesses and far-extending galleries. To get the unconscious and perhaps fatally injured sufferer up the rocky slope and through the narrow aperture above it was no easy matter, but the valet was gifted with exceptional perseverance, and at length it was accomplished.
The cavern was, of course, shrouded in darkness, but Arnaud, who seemed familiar with its interior, produced from a recess some pieces of kauri gum Māori burnt the old gum and used it for tattooing, and used the fresh gum for chewing. Kauri gum became an important export for New Zealand in the late nineteenth century; it was used for making varnish and for manufacturing paint and linoleum (Crowe 54). A building or chamber in which dead bodies or bones are deposited. It should perhaps be explained for the benefit of those unacquainted with Maori customs, that, after remaining in the place of first deposit until decomposition was complete, the dead were exhumed, and the bones scraped clean, painted red, and carefully wrapped up in mats, or placed in boxes, before being consigned lo their final resting place. In the case of illustrious chiefs this process was repeated several time, and then they were secretly placed in their ancestral sepulchres, usually lone caves or unfathomable pits, known only to the priesthood.
‘I can do nothing more at present, and the title is rising. He can't get out of this, and there's little fear of anyone finding him. Our people would never dream of a cache here, and the natives would a soon enter inferno.’ Then looking down on the insensible form with an expression of deathless hate and utter loathing, which strangely altered his visually expressionless face:
Hiding place.
‘Farewell for the present, See note page 61tison d'enfer
The tide was indeed rising fast, and the canoe drawn up in a tiny cove hard by, already afloat. Arnaud had thought of dragging out the body of Pierre to meet the incoming tide, but the rocks had become
whare, Well assured that there he might make up for his loss of rest without fear of interruption.
The edge of the sun's disc had scarcely appeared above the horizon on the morning after the sacrilege of the exploring party when an appalling sound smote on the still morning air, and echoing front each peak and crag roused every sleeper in the vicinity of the Bay of Islands. It was a most terrific trumpet blast, and was given out by a tetere, blown from the highest staging of Tinakori's fortified pa. tetere was a wooden trumpet some seven feet long, with one lugubrious note, aptly described as resembling ‘the voice of a dying wild bull.’ This doleful instrument was chiefly Used to alarm surrounding districts when hostile incursions were dreaded, or to notify the approach of an enemy. To native ears it spoke with no uncertain sound, and its dreadful moaning now acted as an instant eye-opener to the drowsiest lie-a-beds, while every warrior, as he noted its direction, grasped his weapons and breathlessly awaited developments. To the Frenchmen the sound conveyed nothing except an instant impulse to stop their ears, and as after half-a-dozen notes the dismal music ceased they troubled themselves very little about the matter, lightly ascribing the incident to the sudden freak of some crazy savage. Before, however, it had ceased to sound, a dozen dark-skinned couriers sped to the landing place, and selecting the lightest and swiftest canoes, shot down stream, and away to different points about the bay.
Mean while, in the pa itself all was commotion. Ovens were heated, food stores opened, small game killed; women busied themselves preparing eatables and plaiting food baskets; slaves: ran hither and thither bearing fuel and water, for visitors were expected. A korera (conference), of leading rangatiras from contiguous kaingas had been called in haste, and the company—in accordance with time-honoured custom—must be feasted on the best the pa afforded; so; as the ancient Maori abominated underdone meat, the working bees had to set to early. Overlooking all, from a lofty standpoint, determination in the lines of his lips, ferocity in his deepset eyes, stood the chief Takori, surrounded
* * * * * * * * * *
The sun has long passed the meridian. The rangatiras have arrived and been fed, and, assembled in the wharenoa, the aggrieved and in sulted chief has detailed to them his complaint, whereat every visage lengthened, and every brow grew black. In glowing terms he related how the holy place of his people had been desecrated, the tupapaku (dead body) of his uncle, the illustrious high priest and sorcerer Taku-tai-o-te-raki (sea coast of heaven)—deposited there only six weeks before—dislodged from its resting place, forcibly discovered, and rudely handled by the prying pakeha tau-reka-reka (white slaves), and how, worse than all, the mere pounamu, Tahito kuru (ancient blow), the ancestral weapon, transparent as the summer sea, and sanctified by the touch of his illustrious progenitors, had been by unholy hands abstracted, and was even now on board one of the pakeha ships there in the bay.
To detail each speech would be wearisome. Horror and loathing of the deed were the sentiments expressed, swift and bloody reprisals the utu proposed, until it came to the turn of Te Whatu Moana, and he, in genuine friendship for the pakeha with whom he had for weeks past been on terms of such intimacy, and whose civilization and its products he had from the first seemed instinctively to appreciate, suggested in the metaphor so dear to the old Maori orator that possibly the white strangers were less guilty than appeared. Doubtless in their own far-off land very different customs from those of the Maori prevailed, and may be they understood not the full significance of the tapu. Again, it was possible they were ignorant of the sacred character of the place they were violating until too late to repair damages. And then how many had been engaged in the sacrilegious deed? It was the Maori custom—among Maoris—to exact utu from many for the offence of the few, and from any part of the offender's tribe, but would it be just to act thus towards a people who knew so little of their usages? Would it not be wiser, especially as the pakehas were brave and strong, and possessed of infernal weapons for destroying life, even at a great distance, to find out the personally guilty rather than, as advocated by his friends, to kill indiscriminately all the pakehas they came across? He thought also it was a matter which should be left in Takori's own hands. He was the person aggrieved, and his mana was such that the pakeha must yield him satisfaction. Marion, the chief of the pakehas, was a reasonable man. Let them wait a few days while Takori demanded from him the lives of the actually guilty. If this reasonable satisfaction were refused, then let them meet again to reconsider the matter, Meanwhile, taihoa (wait).
The young chief Naku-roa followed briefly. ‘What my friend. Te Whatu Moana, has spoken is good,’ said he, ‘and what my other friends have said is good. My word is this: Let Takori do what seems best to himself, and whatever he does I stand beside him.’
As for the long lean chief of Wai-iti, he had from somewhere managed to obtain a bottle of cognac ere leaving home, and having been sucking at it every few minutes since, he was in a happy state of maudlin good humour, and, in that warm atmosphere, just beginning to feel a bit drowsy. He managed to get on his legs, though, when Naku-roa sat down, and propping his limp frame against the wall, delivered himself in a very oracular manner of the following sentences spoken in thick guttural tones:—
‘O, my friends. This is my word to you. My word is this, Ka pai te waipiro’ Here he look another swig. ‘Ka pai te waipiro. The pakeha makes the waipiro. Ka pai te pakeha ka-ka-ka pai-te pakeha.’ He got out the concluding syllables with difficulty, as he did so gradually settling down upon his hams, while he vainly essayed to get the bottle once more to his lips.
All the council having now expressed their views, Takori rose to reply, but before orating he took several turns up and down the assembly room, as though in movement to expend some of his pent-up feelings. At length he paused, and turned his fierce disdainful eyes upon the chief Taranui, who, still clasping the neck of the brandy bottle, was snoring apoplectically. Pointing to him, he spoke in low contemptuous tones, but evidently under great self-restraint:
‘O, my friends. “ka pai te waipiro.” Behold how it strengthens a man, how it nerves the arm of a warrior! Taranui is a hero in battle, a very devil lo fight. Like down before the fierce wind his enemies flee, and countless are the skulls his trusty mere has cloven. But see him now! How many could he cleave to-day with that bottle, if our foes stood at the gate? Very good is the strong water, and good also the men who make it. But, my friends, were we all like Taranui there, the pakehas might slay us like pigeons, and take our wives and daughter, for their own.’
A murmur of acquiescence ran through the assembly, and Takori continued, changing the subject.
‘Good have been the words of my friends here to-day; they have made my spirit light, and strengthened my heart in the path of honour. A true warrior knows the way he should go, but, like rain in the heat of summer, the approval of his friends refreshes his soul. Te Whatu also has spoken wisely. Verily. Takori can avenge himself, and exact utu for the injury done. But, perchance, as Te Whatu suggests, the pakehas are ignorant of Maori ways. Therefore it is better to wait. Yes, naught
Takori accompanied his departing visitors to the landing place, and when nearly all were embarked, drew his future son-in-law aside, and charged him with a message to be delivered that same afternoon to Captain du Fresne. It was an invitation to join a party of his people two days later at a bay noted for its excellent fishing. The message was simple, and imparted in grave and quiet tones, but as Naku-roa looked into the gloomy eyes of the old warrior he understood all its import, and without a word his own dark orbs expressed acquiescence, and conveyed a pledge of secrecy.
That same night in the whare puni (hot house), for the nights were getting chilly, a hundred chosen warriors gathered round Takori, as with bloodshot eyes and furious gestures he dilated upon the guilt of the strangers, and charging them with worse intentions artfully dwelt at the same time upon his hapu's prestige and valour, gratifying their pride, and firing their ambition, by calling upon them while taking bloody Utu for their own wrongs to strike the first blow in their country's deliverance from the pakeha invaders, who, if not promptly checked, would soon overrun the island. He finished his harangue by chanting an ancient incantation song, which had the effect of goading his hearers to fury. As it proceeded, eyes rolled, jaws dropped, and tongues protruded, while, with features working convulsively, they wildly flourished their various weapons. When the song ended, the infuriated warriors, looking more like demons than men, leaped to their feet, and Hinging off their garments, united madly in the frantic movements and horrific contortions of the war dance.
These are the words of the song:
White's translation.
As the last notes of the chant died away, and the maddened warriors, breathing slaughter, sprang to their feet with a bound which shook the earth, a female figure, which, with ear pressed close to the wall had crouched beside the whare puni during Takori's exhortation, and who knew too well the meaning of its ending, rose sofly, and drawing her wrapper over her head, stole noiselessly away. It was Rau-kata-mea, Takori's beautiful daughter.
Shortly before noon on the subsequent day, the chief of Wai-iti, having slept off the effects of his over-indulgence, awakened very thirsty, and with a fixed impression that only homœopathy would relieve the burning in his gills. A burnt child may dread the fire, but the lean chief had less wit, and so far from dreading the firewater,Wai piro means literally ‘stinking water.’
At last, in his desperate craving, he resolved to go aboard the Captain's ship and bluff the authorities into supplying his wants. He did not go empty handed, however; on the contrary, he took along with him a slave-paddled canoe laden with good things. But the Captain, who happened to be aboard, seeing by the old man's haggard aspect and
Taranui doubtless meant to keep his promise when he gave it, for the Maori of the olden time generally respected his plighted word, but he reckoned without accurately gauging the effects of his drink. These, however, were almost immediately manifest. To save glassware, his quantum of liquor had been given him in a bottle, which he was not long in draining. But such a ‘wee drappie,’ whilst it quickened his-pulse, only increased his thirst, and protesting excitedly that it was not enough, he demanded more, more, More, accompanying his demands with mysterious and ugly threats. His ravings at first only induced laughter and good-humoured banter, but when, exasperated out of, bounds, he grasped the bottle by the neck, and like a demon on the rampage, began to ‘run a muck,’ the gaping bystanders gave way, and scudding in all directions, left him temporarily master of the deck, where a number of his own people and sundry others from various parts of the bay squatted in amused or stolid wonderment as to ultimate results.
Captain du Fresne, who had retired to his cabin, hearing of what was passing, soon reappeared upon the scene, and peremptorily ordered the chief and his people ashore. Re-animated by his presence, the seamen and others gathered round ready to enforce his commands, which none but a madman would have disputed, unless backed up more effectually than Taranui was like to be. But the old chief, naturally brave as a lion, was too excited to consider either the reasonableness of the order or his own means of resistance. He was, in fact, a temporary monomaniac, and shouting aloud for more waipiro, he struck out so wildly with his brandy bottle that the boldest drew back and began to look round for weapons of defence. In two minutes, despite the Captain's efforts to maintain order, a regular měěe was in progress, in which several broken heads attested the correctness of Takori's description of the brandy-loving Taranui as a ‘devil to fight,’ and as the other natives present felt in honour bound to back their own colour, there is no telling how the scrimmage would have ended had not petit Jean's ready wit brought matters to a somewhat hasty conclusion.
The little man, lithe as a cat and agile as a squirrel, was also possessed of some mother wit, and aware of the extreme danger to his pate of attacking the irate warrior in front, he managed in the confusion
Just at this moment a small light canoe, propelled by a single pair of arms, came alongside, and the paddler making it fast, got on board, and then, astonished at the unusual aspect of affairs, stood still and looked around askance. The fine proportions and queenly bearing of the newcomer proclaimed their owner, although the thick draperies enveloping her whole figure and drawn over her head scarce left uncovered more than the soft, expressive, and now enquiring eyes. It was Takori's favourite daughter, and Captain du Fresne, suddenly becoming aware other arrival, moved towards her in obedience to a gallant impulse.
Meanwhile, the departing natives had in brief but forcible language acquainted her with what had occurred, and her eyes as she received the Captain's greeting showed both dismay and disapproval. He attempted to explain matters, but shaking her head gravely, she merely replied in serious tones; ‘Ka kino’ it is bad), and then enquired for ‘Konrat.’ as the natives called Monsieur d'Estrelles. The Captain could give her no information, not having seen his passenger for a day or two, but supposed him to be at one or other of the kaingas, and with stately seriousness the girl took her leave, refusing all entreaties to prolong her stay.
Meantime, the fallen and manacled chief had recovered his sobriety. Nothing could have restored it so effectually as the treatment to which he had been subjected, and which was an offence to his dignity as a high rangatira quite beyond the power of the victors to gauge. All his bluster suddenly ceased, but a dull menacing fire burned in his eyes as he sullenly brooded over the unpardonable outrage. He, a priest, a divine one, a descendant of Tiki the God-begotten, seized by his sacred hair, laid on his back, bound in chains! It was monstrous, incredible, inexpiable! No Utu could wipe out such a deed. Its memory would impair his mana forever. Every tutua in would point the finger and say. ‘There walks Taranui, whose topknot the pakeha pulled, whose limbs they fettered. Where was his mana, hu! that they did it with impunity?’
The Captain went to him after a time, but, staring straight before
Some two or three hours later Lieutenant Crozet came on board looking seriously disturbed. The Captain had meant to devote the whole day to writing up his log, but he seemed doomed to interruption. A native version of the morning's, fracas had reached the lieutenant, and something he had heard led him to look upon the affair more gravely than did the captain. Not a native save the ironed chief remained on the Captain's ship, and his own, he said, was equally deserted—a fact he considered as significant as it was unusual. Moreover, that afternoon his vessel had been visited by the beautiful Rau-kata-mea, who was seeking D'Estrelles, and who herself seemed sadly distraught by some unspoken trouble. He had been unable to give her any information, and she had left the ship weeping silently. It was the first time he had seen a Maori cry naturally, and he thought it most ominous. The girl told him she could find D'Estrelles nowhere. Did Du Fresne know his whereabouts?
The Captain had to confess his ignorance, but as Monsieur had come and gone in very irregular fashion since their advent, he presumed he was in one or other of the kaingas, and as they were numerous, it would be quite easy for the girl to miss him. One of the sailors had seen the valet Arnaud the night before with Naku-roa, and very likely they were both in that chief's pa. However, as Crozet seemed so anxious, and as it was a little odd that Monsieur should absent himself from the ships entirely, the Captain promised to send a party to seek him if he did not turn up by the next evening, when they should have returned from their day's fishing in Manawaoroa Bay.
‘Parbleu! my dear Captain, you surely will not think of going to Manawaoroa Bay after what has occurred here to-day?’
‘Most certainly I shall go. Wherefore not, my friend?’
‘Forget you then, Captain, how vindictive these people are? Depend upon it they will be incensed when they hear how that chief there has been treated, and parbleu! you may be made to pay a heavy penalty.’
Captain du Fresne laughed gaily.
‘Mou Dieu, Crozet, but you are growing suspicious. In the first place we go to the bay early in the morning—Takori and his people are there to-day preparing for us, getting the ovens ready to cook the fish, propitiating their deities, and what not—so they will know nothing of this trifle. In the second place, is it likely that after a month's cordial intercourse, the natives would turn sulky or vindictive, merely because I have been obliged to check the ungovernable rage of one of their number? I believe, myself, they are more likely to applaud me, for there are some really sensible good fellows among these people, and
‘Not I. parbleu! I share not your liking for these people, and I must say plainly, my dear Captain, I think you trust them too far.’
But the Captain, confident in his own judgment, and buoyant with health and good-humour, laughed at his lieutenant's warnings, and after indulging in a little further badinage the subject was changed.
Before sunset the prisoner On one occasion when a group of Māoris visited Dufresne’s ship one of them attempted to steal a sabre. On the advice of Te Kuri Dufresne had the man arrested to scare him. When asked by his fellow tribesmen to release the prisoner Dufresne agreed (Duyker 146-7).
'Sulky brute! ‘A true savage!’ they commented as he disappeared, but he heard them not. Not to the kainga, but to a bare height on one side of it, he took his way with slow step and downcast eye, and, arrived upon its summit, sat him down upon a low stone, and drawing his mat over his head, spent a miserable half-hour. Then suddenly leaping to his feet, he glared with fiery eyes upon the two ships riding so calmly at anchor, and raising his right arm aloft, shook it threateningly, while lifting; his red eyes heavenwards he gasped:
Three days had elapsed since the fortuitous event which resulted in the lodgment of the man of many aliases within the cave by the seashore, and he had not yet recovered consciousness. Nightly had he been visited by his valet, who pillowed his head, covered his limbs with warm rugs, and devoted the long hours of darkness to watching by his side, and administering remedies designed to allay internal pain, and gradually overcome the shock his system must have sustained. Arnaud had made a thorough examination without finding any material fractures save those near the wrists, although both hands were terribly smashed
So far the wretched man had lain as his factotum placed him, an inert mass, too sunk in stupor to make the least movement of body or limbs; but on the third night a restlessness set in, an uneasy writhing of body, a quivering of the heavy limbs, as though he were awaking to pain. He muttered, too, from time to time inarticulately, and again fell into stupor. So on during the early hours of the night. Then he began to dream, horrid dreams to judge by his contortions and incoherent mutterings—not, strange to say, about the dreadful circumstances immediately preceding his present sorry plight, but of events farther gone. He seemed to be going over confusedly the last dreadful scenes of his life with Eleanor Radcliffe, and he who had never known the voice of conscience was evidently now in his helpless misery undergoing its torturing accusations. As the slow minutes passed vision chased vision through his awakening brain, and at last, with a cry of agony, as though Nemesis had laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder, he awoke, and sat bolt upright, staring about and trying with dazed eyes to peer through the sepulchral gloom, at the same time wondering vaguely how he came there. The air was chilly, and an unpleasant musty odour saluted his nostrils, but the darkness allowed him to distinguish nothing of his surroundings. The endeavour to recollect, to recall something which should explain to himself his position, fatigued him, and mechanically he raised his hand to press his aching brow, but the sudden uplifting of the injured limb sent a thrill of pain shooting through every nerve, just as a rush of recollection brought back the awful sensations which preceded his fall. And now cruel pains began to make themselves felt through his bruised and shaken body, while his fractured arms, and worse still, the stiff and untended hands caused him acutest agony. Where was he? And what ailed him? His physical anguish almost took away the power of thought, but still the questions obtruded themselves. He spoke, and his hollow tones were given back in startling echoes. He stretched out his arms but they came in contact with nothing. He tried to feel the material of the floor beneath him, but his swollen and lacerated fingers had lost all sense of touch. He essayed to rise, but the attempt to aid his enfeebled nether limbs with the superior caused him such horrible pain that he fainted away.
When he came to again, some time subsequently, his lodging was no longer absolutely dark. A pale flickering light threw into relief dark broken walls, and lost itself in inky shadows. Nowhere about him was any object clearly defined, and whether he was in a dungeon, cave, or ruined hall, he could not determine, although he applied to the question all the wit which awoke with him. A resinous suffocating odour
where was he. His brain reeled. The skeletons seemed coming toward him. Certainly they moved, or was it the play of the uncertain light, which wavered strangely? Where was he! Had he been thought dead and placed in a tomb? He had heard of Maori cave tombs, and, as in the midst of his agony past events, remote and near, trooped in mental review, he concluded himself incarcerated in one of these Golgothas. Had he previously taken more pains to be accurately informed, he would have known better, but his knowledge of Maori institutions was limited, and his mental condition hazy.
While he glared, with starting eyeballs and twitching muscles, at the fleshless forms paraded in front of him, the light became fainter, the heavy shadows grew blacker yet, and scarce by straining his eyes to the utmost could he perceive his skeleton companions. Terror thrilled him. The light was fading out. Great beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. It was bad enough to find the dead bearing him company, but to be alone with them in the dark—Horror! His nerves had been terribly shaken, and doubtless he missed his cognac, for his ordinary stoicism, his scoffing courage, had vanished completely. He had quite forgotten it, and beside himself with affright, he again attempted to rise. But at the moment his attention was caught by a faint distant gleam of bluish light, opposite to him, but at a considerable distance, in the heart of a desert of blackness. The light was curious, and it instantly riveted his gaze, so that he forgot his intention, his height bours, and indeed all save itself. It was not the small flame of lamp or candle, but a luminous cloud, as it were, in the midst of the thick darkness; and as he gazed, it slowly advanced towards him, not lighting up the darkness, but gleaming through it, plainly enough, but cold and pale. And now he could have sworn its form was changing. It seemed to lengthen and grow slighter, and still, with an almost imperceptible motion, it drew near, and ever nearer. Surely it was a female form, tall and ghostly, with trailing robes of woven light. What could it be? On, on it came, straight towards him, but lingeringly, as a summer cloud floats through the languid air of noon. All around was blackness. Even the grinning skulls and erected skeletons were invisible, but it seemed to grow whiter as it came, not with, the cheery light
the other world in which he had never believed, at which he had scoffed profanely. He had left her dead, he was sure of that, yet here she was confronting him, but like no creature of flesh and blood. Slenderer, more ethereal than Eleanor Radcliffe had ever been, she appeared preternaturally tall, and her translucent robes were gleaming with unearthly lustre. Here, too, in this abode of the dead, of all places! All this and more passed swiftly through his distempered brain, as his strained eyes answered her piercing gaze. His head was in a whirl, and his blood seemed to turn to lead, but his eyelids dared not fall. Not a sound, not the faintest rustle had so far broken the awful stillness. In silence befitting the tomb, like a dumbly accusing spirit she stood over him, pitiless and cold as one who dwelt among shadows.
But suddenly a sound fell on his ear, the sound of weird laughter. Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! The effect was appalling, for instantly from every recess and gallery came back the hollow echoes, until his reeling brain was convinced that his unwelcome presence had interrupted a ghostly carnival, for surely a legion of spirits would be needed to keep up that uncanny merriment, cruel, cold, mocking, unearthly. The sounds grew fainter presently, and even more ghostly, until at length they died whisperingly away in the gloomy distance. His blanched cheek had become ashen, his muscles twitched convulsively, but she, whose eyes had never wavered, still held his enchained. And now she spoke in sepulchral tones, attenuated (if the phrase may pass) as her spirituelle form.
‘So, Jacques le Blanc, we have met again.’
Like the touch of icy steel her tones chilled his blood and he shivered.
‘Thou tremblest, unworthy wretch!’ she went on, ‘but fear me not yet Thy race is not quite run. Thou shalt drain the cup of earthly anguish,
death to deliver thee, then, blood-stained soul shall thy punishment begin. In life thou hast called evil good and good evil, but after death will come retribution, and vainly then shalt thou plead for pity—thou who hast shown none—and in thy anguish call upon the rock to hide thee from infinite wrath, for thou art already condemned, and those who shall gather round thee in the spirit world whither thou hastest, will laugh at thy calamity, and mock at thy fears.’
She ceased, and once again, but louder, shriller, more fiendishly derisive, rang out that awful laughter. Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! and as peal after peal reverberated through the sombre galleries, the guilty sufferer sank back heavily in a deathlike swoon.
* * * * * * * * * *
Hours might have passed; it set-med to himself that ages had done so ere consciousness returned to the wretched man. Wearily, languidly, he awoke, remembering nothing at first, but presently recalling all the horrors of his recent experiences and present position. The cave was once more in total darkness, and its faint cold odours chilled and sickened him. One thought above the dreadful sensations evoked by memory possessed him. It was how to find a way out of the charnel house. To seek it might involve fresh perils, but remain stationary he could not. No possible horrors could exceed those he had passed through, and death, ay, hell itself was preferable to waiting quietly there for her re-appearance. Painfully he raised himself once again into a sitting posture. Blindness might have overtaken him for all he could see, and his arms were worse than useless; in their present disabled condition they were actual encumbrances. But after a bit he got n his knees, and in this way. with variations, shuffled some distance, but his progress was necessarily slow in the extreme, and he was tortured by the ever present fear that in the darkness he might be turning his back on the entrance, and thus literally leaving salvation behind him. The darkness continued, but alter some time he was conscious of a change in the atmosphere. It was colder, and certainly purer. Surely then he must be nearing the entrance. He trembled with hope and again shuffled on. Once or twice he managed to stand for a moment, but weakness soon brought Him to his knees again, and feverishly he strove to hasten on. At last he halted and tried to think calmly. The fresher air was undoubtedly coming from above, and yet he could detect no opening, not a chink through which it could come. Better perhaps to wait awhile. Possibly it was night in the outer world. If so light might reach him in time. If not, better here, though it was very cold, than breathing; the offensive air of his former resting place, where horrible skeletons grinned at him in the awful darkness.
But as be crouched, fearfully waiting for signs of the dawn, he thought he detected the sound of water—of water breaking against rocks, breaking gently, lap-lapping with a soft monotonous flow. He raised his bead, listening intently. Yes, there was no doubt of it. The sound was muffled, but it was unmistakeably the wash of the tide. He must still be by the sea shore then. But now a new dread assailed him. He had no idea either as to how he had been brought to the cave, nor what time had elapsed since his capture at Motu Arohia, and fancying that this might be the first tide since, he wondered nervously how high it would rise, and whether the cave were beyond inundation. Truly life did not offer him much just now, and yet he shrank appalled at the thought of dying. He waited, listening, with impatient eyes turned upwards towards the fresh incoming air. By and bye over his head a faint band of dull grey light appeared, and as he rose eagerly to his feet in his joy at the sight, a streak of golden sunshine shot athwart the rocky roof above him and vanished, its evanescent gleam making the darkness seem deeper than before. His dazzled eyes closed despairingly, and he sank down disheartened, but finding after a time that still a little dim light was struggling in, he plucked up heart, and essayed to clamber over the rough rock masses which interposed between it and him. Had it been sufficient to illumine his path, the bulk of his difficulties would have vanished, but the feeble ray was lost in the gloom overhead, and the task of dragging himself upwards over obstacles he, could but half see, and without the aid of his hands, was one of incredible difficulty. He had really reached the entrance to the cave, and when at length the difficulties of climbing the rocky slope were over, he found an aperture wide enough to give him egress. But the outer cave, the vestibule, as we have called it, was full of water. The tide, still rising, would in a few minutes be above the external opening, and then of course utter darkness would again set in for a spell. The swift passing gleam of sunshine was now explained. Phœbus had just risen immediately opposite, and a ray from his chariot wheels had darted through the low entrance and across the rocky roof, bearing hope to the hapless wight within. Every dancing wavelet reflected back the morning glory, and even within the outer cave the weary watcher, benumbed and miserable, could see it sparkling as he looked longingly down, But even as he looked the irrepressible waves rose higher and higher, they lost their glitter, grew sad and grey, the soft light faded, the waters outside lap-lapped against the stony wall above the entrance and within the place of the dead darkness which might be felt once more reigned supreme.
As indicated at the close of the last chapter, the sun rose gloriously on the morning of the eventful day appointed for the meeting at Manawaoroa. Bay of the fishing party invited by the chief Takori. The few filmy clouds which, glowing rosily, added grace to his advent, melted before his golden beams until not a solitary fleck remained upon the azure sky. The June air had a delightful crispness in it which brought a sparkle to the eye and a glow to the healthy cheek; otherwise the season might have been supposed summer, so warm the sunshine, so bright the foliage, so serene nature's every aspect.
The captain and party were in high spirits, as, about half an hour after sunrise, their boat glided past the Mascarin, and they merrily returned the grave salute of Lieutenant Crozet. He had taken care to be on deck in order once more to remonstrate against what he conceived to be misplaced confidence on the part of his superior officer. For himself, he had never been prepossessed with the natives, and viewed the free and easy intercourse between the races which had latterly prevailed with anything but approval, and, as prejudiced eyes can always detect the symptoms they seek, so recently the lientenant, although without actual grounds for his suspicions, had fancied he discerned signs of latent treachery in every move of his brown neighbours. As it turned out, for once his premonitions were justified and torribly, but he had cried ‘wolf’ so often, and with so little cause, that the sanguine commandant only laughed cheerily at his last warning.
‘Crozet becoming a veritable croaker. You must see to his liver, mon ami,’ he cried to the doctor, and all the party joined in the laugh as they sped lightly away to—their doom.
About the same time that the captain's boat left his ship's side, a light canoe containing three figures emerged from a distant inlet and shot forward as if to intercept it. The two paddlers, despite their lusty arms, were evidently females, but the third person, sitting motionless, completely enshrouded in flaxen wrappings, might have belonged to either sex for all that could be seen of face or form. Boat and canoe passed within a few feet of each other, exchanging salutations, the dark eyes of the shrouded figure swiftly scrutinising each occupant of the
As Captain du Fresne's boat entered Manawaoroa Bay Bay to the southeast of Motuarohia Island.pakeha party was a little flashed by the serious aspect of the warriors, but as the canaille were even more vociferous than usual, and seemed boiling over with glee, the absence of any welcome on the part of the masters was not supposed due to lack of hospitality. They were most likely, the captain suggested, still preoccupied by the religious exercises they had probably just gone through. He knew that fishing was in the eye of the Maori a sacred act, and as such preceded by religious observances, and he only regretted now that he had arrived on the scene too late to witness these.
Riff-raff.
Too polite to interrupt the proceedings, the Frenchmen stood at a short distance from their boat, waiting for their host's advance. Meanwhile the slaves, in exuberant spirits, chatting, laughing, grimacing, capered round them, jostling them rudely, remarking upon their individual peculiarities, handling their garments, and cracking enigmatical jokes evoking noisy mirth, until the captain, notwithstanding his good humour, had to rebuke their unwonted familiarity, remarking as he did so that the rascals must have been drinking. To escape their unpleasant proximity the visitors had gradually fallen back upon the sloping sward, and now stood at some distance from the waters' edge. The tide was about full, and their boat high and dry. Takori came to them at last followed by several rangutiras, and expressed his pleasure at seeing them. His people, he said, had all been busy making ready. The ovens were built, and soon the fishing would begin, after which would come feasting. They had been praying, he said, and consulting their oracles. The omens were favourable; God approved their actions. The baits would not fail; not a fish would escape. But he had promised his pakeha friends a war dance. Now was a very good time. The day was yet early. If the visitors approved the dance should precede the fishing. Of course the visitors ‘would be delighted,’ etc., etc., and at a given signal the body of warriors squatting on the ground sprang to their feet, tossed off their mats and fell into position, and, Takori leading, in a few minutes the whole dark company, lately so self-contained and serious, resembled fiends let loose from the nether pit more than human inhabitants of this beauteous earth. Their goggling eyes,
But the captain rallied his companions: ‘Keep your places, my friends,’ he said. ‘Recollect this is but play. Let not our dark friends think us faint-hearted.’
But even as he spoke the pakeha group was surrounded. Nearer pressed upon them those naked, wildly moving figures; nearer came those dreadful visages. The hot breath of a hundred savages blew like a sirocco in their white, scared faces, a hissing as of serpents sounded in their ears, rows of white teeth snapped together, fiery tongues shot out like darts, and finally with an awful whoop, whose blood-curdling echoes resounded through the bay, the furious savages launched themselves with club and spear upon their helpless unarmed visitors, and ere the last reverberation had died away the kind-hearted commandant and his gay companions were in another world.
Later in the day, the canoe which crossed the Captain's boat in the morning landed at Wai-iti, and the paddlers, leaving their mistress—for the wrapped-up passenger was the chief Takori's daughter—to rest on the beach, went their way to the French encampment for the purpose of making further enquiries for one in whom the damsel was interested. They returned in about an hour. ‘Konrat’ had not yet come back, but ‘Arno’ had been there the night before, and, very likely, was now up there at Konrat's whare, and the handmaids, who had heard uncanny stories about that small domicile, shrugged as they named it.
‘At Konrat's whare? Wait here then.’ said Rau-kata-mea. ‘I will go to him.’
A shuddering protest broke from both damsels. Surely she would not venture. Did she not know there was a taipo (devil) there? But their mistress put them aside. If the taipo left Arno unmolested she need not fear him.
A few minutes later the handsome young chieftainess stood beside the
whare, and drawing back the slide, peered in. Disturbed by the sound, the solitary occupant looked up, and as she softly whispered ‘Konrat!’ Arnaud's eyes met hers. He rose at once from the couch on which he had been lying fully dressed, and came to the window.
‘Where is Konrat?’ the girl queried, abruptly, ignoring his greeting.
‘Konrat is not here,’ he answered, begging the question.
‘Where is he, Arno?’ she reiterated, imperiously, yet with evident anxiety.
‘Konrat is away, paying a visit. I cannot tell you where.’
‘Is he with Naku-roa?’
‘No, he is not.’
‘Why are you not with him.’
‘Naku-roa bade me remain here to-day until he came.’
‘Naku-roa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Naku-roa tell you what was to happen to-day?’
‘To happen? Where?’
‘To Manawaoroa Bay.’
‘There is to be some fishing there.’
‘Yes. Man-fishing.’
‘What mean you, Rau-kata-mea?’
‘Will Konrat be at Manawaoroa Bay to-day?’
‘No.’ But at the word the valet's face turned a shade paler. The cache was within half a mile of the bay. What if some tohunga should discover its temporary occupant! The girl, watching him narrowly, noted his hesitation.
‘Arno,’ she said, desperately. ‘If Konrat goes to Manawaoroa Bay to-day he will he eaten.’
‘Eaten?’ exclaimed the horrified valet. ‘Mean you to say——’
‘The fish are already in the ovens.’ replied the girl enigmatically.
‘What have you done with Konrat?’ she added, wringing her hands.
Greatly perplexed Arnaud replied: ‘Konrat went not with the fishing party. But your words are dark, Rau-kata-mea. I understand them not.’
‘See!’ replied the maiden feverishly. ‘Some of your people have broken the tapu, and the guilty must perish. But Konrat—he is innocent —and—I would save him. If you know where he is, tell me, that I may warn him, for my father loves him not, and should he meet him in his wrath, will drink his blood.’ She shivered as she uttered the dreadful words, and some pearly drops fell from her eyes.
Arnaud looked grave, realizing instantly the whole situation. The tapu had been broken—well, it was only what he had been expecting—but whoever were the real culprits, the captain and party were to be the scapegoats. They would fall to a man. ‘The fish were already
him should he fail to appear ere they weighed anchor, which they would hasten to do, so soon as they had inflicted, chastisement upon the natives. Meanwhile there was D'Estrelles to think of. Should he be found in the cave, speedy death would end his miseries and baulk his tormentor. And anyhow the sooner he was removed to a safer lodging the better, for he might prove more troublesome as he recovered strength. In Rau-kata-mea's hands he would be as wax. Better engage the help of the girl to conceal him in a more suitable place until native wrath had subsided. She would be a valuable ally. He would trust her, and leave after events to shape themselves. These and similar thoughts passed through Arnaud's brain in much less time than it takes to write them. As he decided on his course of action he fixed his penetrating eyes upon the girls soft dark orbs.
‘You would save Konrat?’
‘Yes,’ she replied simply, her tears silently dropping. ‘Where is he.’
‘He met with an accident some days ago, half a mile this side of Manawaoroa Bay, and I have hidden him, for he was too much hurt to be removed. I of you can think of a safer hiding place you and I shall go_ and fetch him away.’ ‘Where have you hidden him?’ she inquired tremulously, but not daring to tell her the truth, he evaded the question by another:
‘Can von provide a safe retreat?’
‘I will save him at any cost.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘To-day I would save him. To-morrow those who hate him must settle with Takori's daughter.’
She was not very explicit, but Arnaud rightly gauged her feelings for his master, and felt he could trust her to effect his rescue, if that were still practicable.
In her impatient anxiety she allowed the valet to take the direction of affairs. Not desiring other help than her own he left her slave girls ashore, and paddled silently to a little inlet, where he requested her to wait while he went to fetch the captive, for he reckoned on finding the latter conscious and eager to escape from his prison, and he preferred the risk of having to drag him the whole distance, to letting the girl know where he had been concealed, as that would effectually debar her from aiding him.
With hasty steps he sought the cave, access to which was now perfectly easy, as it was about half-tide. He entered, and obtaining a light, proceeded cautiously to the spot where his patient had hitherto remained quiescent, but he was no longer there. His wraps were lying as he had cast them off in his terror on the preceding night, but nowhere was he himself to be seen. Arnaud had entered cautiously for two reasons, firstly, because, not yet wanting his employer to suspect his own part in recent events, he desired to appear on the scene as an accidental explorer, and, secondly, lest any stray priests should have found their way in and discovered the sacrilege. No other native dare cross the sacred threshold, but this was an actual danger. Hitherto his visits had been made in safety, because paid in the dead of night. But to enter such a sanctuary in daylight was to run a fearful risk, and now that the object of his search was missing, he realized this more acutely. He dared not call, nor indeed speak ever so softly, for should any of the priesthood be lurking in the cave's recesses, the echoes would at once proclaim the presence of a stranger. So he searched about silently, feeling all the while intensely that the light he carried might be revealing his identity to some tattooed tiger redy for the spring. His search was vain. The person he sought was not in the cave, and now two questions made the searcher's heart palpitate—the first. Where had he gone? and the second, Had he found the way, or been dragged out by infuriate tohungus? The first question, though it had an importance of its own, sank into insignificance beside the second, for if Monsieur had been discovered in his disabled state it would be patent that he had been assisted, and probably the cave had ever since been watched with a view to discover his assistant. In that case the present visit was probably already reported, and it was very likely a toss-up whether he—Arnaud—should be taken inside the sepulchre, or intercepted at the door. These thoughts hurried through his mind as he stumbled disappointedly back to the entrance, when his light failed, and, arrived there, he remained a few minutes irresolute. What if, in his hasty search, he had overlooked its object, perhaps still lying unconscious in some dark corner? He had half a mind to strike another light and renew the search. But was it expedient to spend more time just now, when be himself might be in such imminent peril. Would, it not be wiser to
luck changes.’
Keeping close under the cliff the valet glided rapidly back towards the inlet where he had left Rau-kata-mea, but just as he came in view of it he caught sight of two natives engaged in conversation with her. Their dress, appearance, and loud coarse voices proclaimed their order. They were slaves, probably bent on some errand to the harbour, these must be the individuals who had passed the cave causing him such needless alarm. He drew back and waited until they resumed their journey. Rau-kata-mea watching for his reappearance met him halfway, showing, however, no surprise at his coming alone. She looked at him with serious eyes; all the warm glow usually characterising her
‘Konrat is a prisoner,’ she articulated mechanically, ‘at Manawaoroa Bay.’
Aruaud started. ‘Ha! How know you, Rau-kata-mea?’
‘Two of my father's slaves have just passed by, and they said he was found wandering along the beach this morning.’
‘Perdition!’ He must have found the way out of his prison, and in his confusion of mind have turned in the wrong direction. Arnaud, gnawed his lip. Were his plans doomed to miscarriage? Who could have foreseen this? But now, what was to be done?
‘He is a prisoner, you say?’
‘Yes, It was not worth while clubbing him to-day. The ovens were closed. They will be open to-morrow.’
Arnaud shuddered. What a world of awful meaning lay in the girl's simple words.
‘What can we do, Rau-kata-mea?’
‘I am going to Manawaoroa bay,’ she replied calmly.
‘You think——’
‘He still lives. I will save him.’
‘But how?’
‘I am Takori's daughter,’ and the girl drew herself up proudly as one unaccustomed to questioning.
‘I will go with you.’
Already she had taken a forward step. ‘You had better remain here beside the canoe. For you there is danger.’
‘And for you?’
‘I am Takori's daughter.’ she replied again.
But Arnaud was resolved to accompany her, although perceiving fully the force of her words. Whatever might happen the prisoner she was bent on releasing, as a great chief's daughter she was personally safe, but if he were found aiding in such an attempt nothing could save him, in the present state of native feeling. Still, he would go. To remain quietly there, was, under the circumstances, impossible, and—the thought flashed suddenly—perhaps equally dangerous.
Without further speech Rau-kata-mea led the way, not round by the beach but through the dense underwood of the deep gorges running inland from where they stood, away up over the bluffs, down into sombre gullies, over bogs, through brambles, until at length, heated and panting, they stood together over the fateful shore upon which the fishing party had gathered. The sound of many voices mingling confusedly reached their ears, but as yet they saw nothing for the dense foliage. Silently, softly, they wriggled down through the tangled undergrowth to a better vantage ground, and as they went the light breeze bore to their nostrils
Presently they reached a rounded knoll, sparsely wooded, from whence they could plainly see the beach, and the whole body of natives. And what a sight met their revolted eyes! The wahines were of course aware of the war custom of their taugutas but women rarely assisted at the cannibal orgies with which hostilities always terminated. To the youthful daughter of Takori, therefore, the scene she now looked upon was as novel as revolting, while Arnaud's blood, self-engrossed though he was, ran cold in his veins.
Above high water mark lay the canoes and the captain's boat, and at some distance over a hundred naked warriors with attendant slaves were encamped. Their tattooed faces and bodies were smeared all over with red ochre and charcoal, giving them a grotesquely horrible appearance. Most of them at the moment of observation were squatted on the ground in irregular rings, and slaves were hurrying to and fro, bearing reeking baskets of white looking flesh, the odour from which tainted the air. At a short distance from these groups three large ovens all open, sent up savoury clouds of vapour, and the flesh, last as it could be extracted and divided, was carried off by the loud-voiced servile crew, who joked coarsely, and laughed loudly, as though excited by drink. They were drunk indeed, but not with wine. The sight of blood had inflamed them, and their masters, most of whom had resumed a proportion of their wonted gravity, would soon, as their horrid banquet proceeded, outrival in their wild excitement the most despised of the tau-reka-reka. Some of them, even now, were acting much like maniacs, and all in their bloodshot eyes and scowling mien presented a picture of savage ferocity compared with which the jungle tiger's smile was heavenly.
In full view of the whole camp a row of stout strong takes had been driven in the ground, and each of these was surmounted by a human head yet dripping gore, which, even at that distance, the two shrinking spectators saw were those of Europeans. Stalking up and down in front of these, shaking their clubs, shooting out their tongues, haranguing fiercely, even striking them at times, were half a dozen of Takori's principal rangatiras. The chief himself, silent and stern, sat on the ground, a basket of meat yet untasted before him. His brow was black as night, and he looked as if his lust for Utu were but half-sated. Suddenly he bounded to his feet, and darting up to the middle stake, as though seized with frenzy, brandished his club, and poured out a torrent of invective which left but a limited vocabulary to his followers. Indeed, these all fell back as though abashed by superior eloquence. He embellished his oration with the usual antics, rolling his eyes till only the white appeared, lolling his tongue, slapping his thighs, with the
A shuddering awe had fallen upon the unseen spectators, as, with abhorrent eyes, they took in all these dreadful details. Presently Rau-kata-mea lightly touched her neighbour's arm.
‘Ah!’ she said, in an agonised whisper. ‘There is Konrat.’
‘Where?’ queried Arnaud. ‘I see him not.’
‘Over there. See! Not near the warriors. Back among the trees, See! he is bound to one, and ah, how ill he looks, the poor Konrat!’
Arnaud's eyes followed her directions, and there, sure enough, some distance from the savage revellers, just at the edge of the bush, he espied the unhappy being, an object for commiseration to any heart not seared with a sense of its own wrongs. Hatless, hollow-eyed, grimy, wan, and dazed looking, sinking with weakness and pain, he was bent almost double, being upheld apparently only by the twisted flax ropes which bound him to the tree, and his deplorable aspect was enhanced by his muffled wrists, to bandage which, Arnaud had been obliged to cut away his coat sleeves. Whatever had been the motive for sparing him he seemed no longer an object of attention. The warriors were getting every moment more absorbed in their inhuman feast, and all the slaves were fully employed. Now was the time to rescue him. If he was to be saved not a moment must be lost.
‘Lend me your knife, Arnaud,’ said the girl, ‘I will set him free.’
‘Have you the courage?’ Arnaud inquired doubtingly.
Steadily meeting his eye: ‘Come,’ she said, deigning no further words.
‘C'est bien,’ muttered the valet, following her. He knew that if anyone could inspire the woe-begone creature with sufficient energy to seize the chance of escape it was she alone.
With much circumspection they threaded their way round the bay to where the prisoner was secured, for an unwary movement, a crackling of twigs, a shaking of the branches, a cough or a sneeze, might have betrayed them. At last they stood immediately behind him, and peering between the tree trunks they could see the actors in the late awful tragedy. Fortunately no one was very near at hand, and the rescuers were both in dark clothing, for Rau-kata-mea, with commendable forethought, had left her soft light wrappers in the canoe, and only wore a dark kilt, and a heavy soft fringe, which, fastened round the throat fell over back and bust, leaving the round arms free, and—though she was fairer than most of her country women—these had not the ivory gleam of European limbs.
The girl paused as she drew near her lover, and looked warily about, then seeing that they were unobserved, she stepped quickly behind the tree to which he was bound, and called softly:
‘Konrat.’
‘He started as if he had been struck, and again, with a premonitory Hist.’ she whispered:
‘Konrat.’
‘Who speaks?’ he queried, hoarsely, vainly trying, to see round the tree.
‘It is I, Rau-kata-mea. I am about to cut your bonds. Hasten after me as soon as you are free, but speak not.’
‘Alas!’ He replied, dejectedly, ‘my ankles are bound.’
This redoubled the risk he ran. She could stand behind the tree trunk and cut the rope which held him to it, but to sever his ankle bounds she must expose at least a portion of her finure, and should one pair of eyes detect the movement all was lost. But she did not flinch. Five seconds later his limbs were free, and then passing the knife through the green ropes:
‘Now,’ she said, ‘Follow fast, but silently.’ She led the way inland through the dense bush, and the others followed as she had directed in silence. Arnaud from time to time supporting his master when he appeared to be succumbing to exhaustion. As soon as their guide thought it safe to halt a moment, he produced a flask, which with a gasp of delight the wounded sufferer caught at, and carried to his lips. The effect was magical. For days he had not tasted food. His torpor and subsequent sufferings had left no room for appetite, even had sustenance been procurable, but his long fast necessarily weakened him, and he was altogether unnerved by want of his accustomed stimulant. Now, like new blood coursing through his veins, the strong spirit warmed and heartened him, and by its aid he was able with a more hopeful step to follow his courageous rescuer.
With very few pauses they pressed on their difficult way, their heroic guide panting with anxiety lest the fugitive should be missed and sought for ere beyond the reach of his enemies. Their progress was distressingly slow, for his injured hands and wrists made him as helpless as a baby, and spite of frequent recourse to the brandy flask he was just about as steady on his legs.
But at last they reached the ravine opening upon the spot where Rau-kata-mea had heard of his capture. And here she and he sat down for a few minutes to recruit, while Arnaud sought the mouth of the stream to reconnoitre. Once aboard the canoe they would be in comparative safety, but it was necessary to see if the little craft were still undisturbed, as also whether any natives were in sight. The girl's large eyes were full of sadness, and she trembled as her companion, taking her hand pressed it to his lips.
‘Brave girl,’ he whispered. ‘How can I ever repay your devotion?’
‘Hush!’ she said, gently drawing her hand away. 'Soon you will be with your own people, and the poor wahine will be forgotten.’
‘Forgotten, Rau-kata-mea? Never! But you shall go with me, my own—my beautiful!’ he added, passionately.
‘With you? To the ships? To the land of the pakeha?’
‘Yes, little one. Why not?’
‘Ah!’ she answered, with a deep-drawn sign. ‘It can never be.’
‘But why not then, Rau-kata-mea? Is it that you love me not?’
‘I love you, Konrat; yes, I love you,’ and her tears fell fast. ‘But also I love my father, and his heart would break if he lost his child, his little “Laughing Leaf.”’
With difficulty he suppressed an oath as she named her father, but he curbed himself, fearing to turn her from him, for he wildly longed to prevail upon her to share his fortunes. Speaking low, he tried his hardest, painting in glowing colours the life she would lead in a civilized land. But in vain. She still wept, not with loud sobbing, but in quiet sorrow.
‘I love you, Konrat,’ she said again. ‘I would go with you over the wide sea, to the end of the world; but how can I turn my back upon my own people, and the father who fondled my childhood, and who never denied me aught till the coming of the pakeha made his heart sad?’
Arnaud returning reported the coast clear, and everything in readiness, and without further delay they hastened down to the beach. And here ensued a painful scene. Directing Arnaud to row his master to the captain's ship and place him safely aboard, Rau-kata-mea spoke a few broken words of farewell, and then, drawing her wrappings over head and shoulders, darted away, and before her late companions had recovered their astonishment, was halfway up the ravine.
An objurgation broke from her admirer, and he turned to follow, calling to her as he went in his bitter chagrin quite regardless of Arnaud's expostulations. She turned in alarm, and motioning silence, waved him off; but still he followed with stumbling steps frantically calling on her.
Arnaud, beside himself, cursed his own fate and his master's folly, and in sheer helplessness sat down to await the upshot.
The girl, alarmed at the turn of affairs, and dreading the consequences of her lover's desperate action, after a little hesitation resolved to return, and retracing her steps, implored him to hasten back to the canoe. Arrived at the beach, he this time insisted on her embarking first, and in her excessive anxiety for him she yielded and took her place. But just as he, with Arnaud's help, was stepping aboard after her, a wild whoop rent the air, and before they could draw breath, the canoe was surrounded by a score of natives, headed by Rau-kata-mea's betrothed, the young chief Naku-roa.
The non-appearance of the Captain's boat at the close of the day occasioned no misgiving on board the Marquis de Castries, it being supposed that the fascinations of a sport of which the commandant was known to be fond, had induced him to prolong his stay with the native. But Lieutenant Crozet, on hearing of it next morning, shook his head sagely, and only hoped that his superior would ‘never have occasion to rue his unguarded trust.’ The continued absence of Monsieur d'Estrelles also occasioned the lieutenant some uneasiness, although he had no great liking for that personage, and his discomfort was increased when somebody whispered that the sulky giant, Pierre rouge, was also missing. Great laxity of discipline existed, and everybody came and went pretty much at pleasure, living more in the kaingas than in ship board, therefore it did seem a little queer that no one had come across either of the persons named for several days, and the lieutenant in his distrust was quite ready to believe that they had been made away with by native hands.
‘I don't like it,’ he said, ‘the crew have far too much licence. Such excessive familiarity is sure to end in mischief, and, pardieu! it's my belief that mischief is already brewing. At any hour we may be ordered to weigh anchor, for if we come loggerheads with these brown devils the sooner we bout ship the better. I'll go ashore myself to day to secure some spars, for it strikes me we'd better make “hay while the sun shines.”’
An hour later a strong body of seamen with the lieutenant leading beached their boat on the mainland, and proceeding some distance into the bush, set to work to fell some slender pines.
While they worked with right good will, lightening their labour by lusty songs, a very different scene was being enacted at the small island of Wai-iti. It will be remembered that here—at the chief Taranui's invitation—the invalided had formed an encampment. All were now convalescent, but still most of them held to their quarters when not on duty, and then their comrades took their places. Hitherto the camp had been as lively as any kainga, for natives of both sexes made themselves very much at home, and kids, curs, and concomitants, swarmed in it. Rut since the fracas ending so unpleasantly for Taranui, not a
kainga, and endeavour to lure at least a few damsels to cheer their solitude. But they found the entrance securely barred against all intruders, and were fain to give up the siege of the gate. But a bright thought struck one of the party.
‘The old devil Taranui is sulking,’ said he, ‘because the captain refused him cognac. Let's take him a couple of bottles. We can make our way in at the back of the pa, and when he sees the cognac he'll be mollified.’
The idea was applauded, and acted upon instanter. Carrying ostentatiously the bottles of cognac and such other gifts as they judged would be acceptable to a sulky savage, these reckless spirits made their way to the rear of the fortress, and passed unhindered into its interior. But inside things wore a strangely altered aspect. A blight seemed to have fallen on the place. Scarcely any male, save the aged and decrepit, were visible, and the wahines, pursuing their domestic duties or squatting sullenly, were apparently stricken with dumbness. No ‘Haere mai’ greeted the ‘weewees.’ The old hags scowled, the younger women looked askance, but no one spoke. But undaunted by their cool reception, the Frenchmen continued to advance, saluting with all their national suavity the frowning fair, and enquiring cheerfully for Taranui.
‘Taranui is in there,’ cried a withered crone, pointing a skinny forefinger to the whare puni; and thanking her politely, they jauntily turned their feet in its direction, stopping, however, whenever they could get speech with the young wahines become all at once so strangely demure. One of their number, a handsome fellow named Henri, had been a prime favourite with the Maori damsels, and some of these, despite their coyness, not wholly proof against his bright eyes and gay audacity, were beguiled into an interchange of civilities. While, therefore, his comrades still bore onwards to the whare puni, Henri remained flirting with the dark-eyed charmers, oblivious, in his pleasure at overcoming their reserve, of the fact that he had been left behind.
The others, meanwhile, passed on chatting blithely, confident of conciliating Taranui, without whose favour they could not, of course, hope to reopen amicable relations with his people. The stillness of the pa, added to the forbidding looks of the women, disconcerted them somewhat, but they were resolved to brazen the thing out, never dreaming of serious hostility. As they neared the whare puni, an old man, approaching by a short cut, spoke some words through the door to those within—a self-appointed messenger no doubt, apprising the chief of their arrival. They nodded thanks as he passed them, to which he responded by shooting out his tongue. And now a hoarse murmur arose within
whare puni, suddenly burst open, revealed two or three score of naked savages, daubed with paint, and fully armed, as though equipped for battle.
The adventurous foreigners were not allowed much time for reflection. A second later an awful Nell arrested the light words on Henri's lips, and wheeling about he saw, to his unutterable dismay, a rain of clubs descending upon the devoted head of his lately so joyous companions. The girls caught their breath, and one, motioning him away, gasped. ‘Haere!’
He wavered for a moment, but his comrades were past help. He fancied himself of still unnoticed, and impelled by human nature's strongest instinct, he turned and fled, bounding like a hunted stag to the rear of the pa. A dozen projectiles whizz about his ears ere he has gone as many paces, but they miss their mark, and on like the wind he rushes. A dozen whooping warriors follow, children and curs howl in chorus, beldames yell, and damsels moan. Bedlam seems let loose. Darting like lightning he turns the rear staging, and down the hillside, followed by fleet-footed savages, he careers madly—living for dear life. Close behind him, panting with fury, grasping their clubs, press the pursuers, thirsting for his blood. He has a good start, but they are noted runners, and they press him hard. On, on, he dashes. His head is dizzy, his breath labours, the foremost savage, a muscular fiend—is gaining on him. Haste, Henri, haste! the beach is near, the dancing waves invite thee, thou art a strong swimmer. God help thee if thy pursuer gain on thee another foot! Fly, Henri, fly! The savage presses nearer. See! he raises his club to fell his printing victim—but, ere the blow descends his foot trips and he falls heavily. His fellows stop dead, aghast. Tis an omen of ill! Thank Heaven! Courage Henri, thou art saved.
The direful tale unfo'ded by Henri, when, pallid and panting, he lay on the deck of the Marquis de Castries scarce crediting his own salvation, filled—as may well be imagined—every soul on board with consternation and wild anxiety on account of their comrades who had gone ashore. Although for some days intercourse with the natives had almost ceased, still there were stragglers here and there, and several of the seamen were known to be at Motu Arohia. But the chief anxiety was, of course, on account of the commandant and the large party headed by Lieutenant Crozet, which had gone some distance inland. A hurried consultation was held, and it was decided to despatch two boats with armed parties, the one to Manawaoroa Bay, and the other to carry the disastrous tidings to the lieutenant. The former, on Hearing the bay, saw no Europeans, but beside the captain's boat stood a group of natives clad in European garments, conspicuous among them the chief Takori with Captain du Fresne's short cloak over his shoulder. Waiting for no further evidence, the search party went back on their course in order to assist the lieutenant on his return, if necessary. That officer received the terrible news with more composure than was expected, but the flash of his eye, and the tight compression of his lips, betokened to the messengers a deadly resolve.
‘Keep it quiet till we get back,’ he said, ‘we must not risk a panic amongst our people here.’ Then calling to his party to gather up their tools, he formed them in marching order, and in a few minutes they were on their way back to the strand, the men speculating silently, or in undertones, upon their officer's motive. Resolute and pale, he marched at their head, but, though convinced that something was seriously amiss, no man dared question him.
They had met no natives in the morning, but now, as they made their way to the boats, groups, momentarily increasing, dotted the shore talking fiercely, or eyeing them darkly. The lieutenant had taken the precaution to make his people carry arms, so, although the natives greatly outnumbered them, he felt confident of repulsing hostile attack. But their steady silent progress seemed to irritate the gathering commonality, and some of the boldest of the crowd jostled them roughly,
pakeha tau reka-reka! Marion is cooked. Takori has eaten him!’
A common impulse arrested the men's advancing steps, and they turned horrified eyes enquiringly upon their leader.
‘I fear it is too true, men. But come on. Before the day is much older the deed shall be avenged. Pass on before me.’
They obeyed, and their dauntless leader coolly marked with his; musket a long line in the sand. Then levelling the weapon, he cried to the crowding savages: ‘The first Maori who crosses this line I shall shoot dead!’
His action was better understood than his words, for musket practice had been indulged in on several occasions for the amusement of the natives, who were never weary of admiring weapons so novel and destructive. Among a people so warlike any display of real courage evoked admiration, and though the mustering natives were chiefly commoners they recognised the quality. Spite of their enmity, therefore, a few faint cheers went up at lieutenant Crozet's exhibition of firmness, and one and all fell back some paces.
The crew embarked, and calling at Motu Arohia picked up the stragglers.
‘I fear we may give up D'Estrelles and his eccentric valet.’ said the lieutenant, ‘and that fellow Pierre has probably shared their fate. And now to the ships. It was from this same island that our commandant came so gaily four days ago with his head bedecked a la Maori. I always thought that Te Whatu an infernal hypocrite. But pardiea! he shall pay dearly for his double dealing.’
Another attempt was made to find if anyone of the captain's party had escaped. Two boats, strongly manned, again visited Manawaoroa Bay, and afterwards the village of Takori. The natives still lingering at the former place, misliking probably the sight of the muskets and the determined aspect of their bearers, retreated into the bush, followed by a volley which sent several of them into eternity. But not a vestige of the missing men was seen, save the clothes on the natives' backs. Takori's village was found deserted, and immediately set fire to, the searchers being roused to frenzy by finding several baskets packed with gory heads they knew too well.
Their report decided the lieutenant. No time was lost in getting the ships into position. The decks were cleared, and all preparations swiftly completed. The boats, manned with armed crews, once more approached the shore, where gaping multitudes were congregated waiting for what might happen. Takori's bloody deed was known all over the bay, and the news from Wai-iti had spread like wildfire. The late pleasant intercourse was, all knew, ended for ever. But now what would the pakeha do?
Suddenly, simultaneously, the boom of cannon and the rattle of musketry broke with their terrific thunder the afternoon stillness; the former directed to the villages on Motu Arohia and Wai-iti, and the latter into the midst of the gazing throngs lining the beach. From a hundred throats went up a chorus of agony, but, stupefied by terror, the wretched natives made no attempt to escape, but stood in solid masses like sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Volley succeeded volley, and at every agonised shriek which rent the air the assailants laughed harshly.
‘Ha! Brown devils! 'Tis our turn now.’
The fortified villages on the islands were utterly effaced, fire completing the work of destruction. The innocent suffered with the guilty, and to the of friendly and reasonable Te Whatu Moana was dealt out the same punishment as to the guilty Taranui. Hundreds of victims lay prostrate, their life blood dyeing the sand and mingling in common streams, ere the thought of flight occurred to any. But at last, with a united impulse, all who yet retained the rise of their limbs turned their faces inland, and a wild stampede ensued, in which it was truly ‘each man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost,’ for in the helter skelter race the weakest went down under the trampling feet, and those in the rear were shot down like cattle, a bloody trail marking the course of the fugitives until they got beyond range. Not till the last flying figure had escaped or fallen did the boat's crew cease firing, and then they proceeded to the islands to complete the butchery and set fire to the villages.
Finally, having fearfully avenged the murder of their commandant and comrades, the Frenchmen applied themselves to preparations for departure. The lovely harbour in which they had whiled away so many pleasant hours, had all at once become hateful; the people they had esteemed so hospitable were now denounced as double-dyed traitors; and they longed to be gone from a spot ever in their memories to be associated with soul-harrowing recollections, and which they themselves had now rendered so replete with horrors. The smoke from ruined homes darkened the atmosphere, and the reek of fizzling bodies within and about them offended the nostrils. The strand where so oft the races had mingled in gay diversions was piled with dead and dying, and the air was dismal with the groans of the wounded, and wails of such as had stolen back to weep over them. Here a mother screamed in frantic grief over her warrior son, so noble in mien, so forward in fight; there a wife caressed tenderly the head of her dying lord, or gashed her breast in anguish that he was no more. Mothers and fathers, lovers and friends, wept for those they had lost, ‘and would not be comforted, because they were not.’ The westering sun, which yesterday had set in glory upon as fair a scene as ever mortal eyes had looked upon, to-day
All, all was changed, and when at the kaka's cry next morning the stricken survivors beheld the French ships, with sails unfurled, standing out to sea, they cursed in their own way the day which brought the foreigners amongst them.
But though sadder, they were wiser men. They had been taught the power of civilisation, and had learned that the spirit of revenge was by no means a monopoly of their own dark race; and when they sat themselves down calmly to compare the Utu of the white with the Utu of the copperskin, they sighed to possess weapons which gave their owners such indisputable advantages.
Five years have rolled away. Five years. How brief a spare in a life of joy, but to the miserable how interminably long. When hearts are revelling in happy love how swift the moments fly, but oh, how wearily they drag when man or woman stands bereft of all that once made life worth living!
Such, in few words, were the reflections; of one, who, five years subsequent to the deeds of blood narrated in the foregoing chapter tossed restlessly upon a bed of dried fern, within a Lake Rotoiti is in the Rotorua region.whare in a native pa situated on the borders of Roto-itiwhare was in semi-darkness, for although a full moon irradiated all out of doors, the narrow openings admitted but a niggard allowance of its silver light. However, there was ample for one whose cogitations were his sole occupation, and yet not enough to prevent a healthy person from sleeping. But as the term implies a sound mind in a sound body, the person under notice could scarce lay claim to it, albeit he had never been physically ill in his life, for he had so long pursued one train of thought, or rather had so long made all trains of thought subservient to one remorseless motive, that he had become almost a monomaniac, while the malignant intensity with which he had pursued one object had well-nigh exhausted his vital forces, and left him little better than a skeleton.
While with weary impatience he lifts himself fro in his lowly pallet to pace the narrow hounds of his whare, let us recall him to the reader's memory. His gliding movement, as, trailing a silken kaitaka, he passes up and down, is enough even in the twilight to reveal his identity, and the glitter of his eyes, as for the hundredth time he murmurs,
A highly prized cloak made of flax fibre with an ornamental boarder.
‘Arnaud, thou fool, is this life worth living longer?’ places the matter beyond a doubt.
‘Arnaud, then! How came he here,’—you ask—‘at the hot springs?’
Well, that is what we shall discuss, while he considers once again the momentous question which has recently engrossed more and more of his failing energies.
When, on that, dreadful day five years agone, the young warrior Naku-roa intercepted the trio just entering Rau-kata-mea's canoe, he took the wretched Le Blanc a prisoner in the name of Takori, regardless of the protests and even entreaties of the maiden. But moved either by her tears, or Arnaud's expostulations, or both, he consented at last to feign ignorance of the fugitive's whereabouts, and escorting him, attended by Arnaud, to his own pa, some little distance inland, there to keep him concealed until Takori's wrath had subsided. Vainly did, the girl—who intuitively realised the inevitable consequences of her father's act—plead that he might be placed on board one of the ships. She had not even a seconder, for this would have wholly subverted. Arnaud's schemes. He had never intended to put him aboard. With the paddles in his hands he could have guided the canoe at will. But fate had stood his friend. This was just what he had desired—that his master might be placed in safe keeping within Naku-roa's stockade.
But haste was expedient. The natives with Naku-roa were, of his own hupu, and therefore to be trusted to ‘keep dark’ at the direction of their chief. But other eyes might see and report the proceeding to old Takori who would naturally resent such a falling off in duty of his expectant son-in-law. Two poles were therefore quickly cut, and, with the leaves of the ever-useful flax, a litter was hastily improvised, and the prisoner placed upon it, there being fortunately among the party two natives insignificant enough to be made use of as bearers.
Subsequent events followed with such startling rapidity that Arnaud, listening to Naku-roa's description could scarce realise that all was over, and that he alone and his late master were the sole representatives in Maoriland of European civilization. But so it was, and though unavoidably shocked at the calamitous ending of European and native intercourse, he was not sorry to find himself released from the various shackles which had fettered him while the ships remained. It would have been more comfortable for everyone had the races parted friends, and yet that would have entailed considerably more trouble and scheming upon himself personally, and there would always have been the
Though horrified at the fate of his late associates, his grief was of short duration. While among, he had not been of them, had never had any feelings or thoughts in common. His presence was a certain extent accidental, and he had ever known himself what he had been treated as—an alien, by birth, character, and objects. That was all past now. His brown skin, odd ways, ready adaptability, and singular talents recommended him to the natives as one of kindred, or at least congenial race, and as they had never regarded him as a wee wee, so they never afterwards bore him any malice on account of the Utu which the foreigners hail exacted. As time wore on he rose rapidly in favour, his unusual accomplishments causing him to be regarded somewhat in the light of a sorcerer. His skill in medicaments was known, and his ventriloquial abilities the tuhungas—themselves adepts—soon discovered, and attributing his mesmeric power and the witchery of his eye to magic, their superstitious fears heightened the respect with which they treated him; and as he was careful ever to maintain an unaggressive dignity of deportment which fitted in with their own notions of a rangatira bearing, they readily accepted Naku-roa's assertion—which was indeed the truth—that he was by birth his employer's superior, and fell in with that guileless warrior's proposal that their positions should once again be reversed. When, therefore, the fugitive was again introduced to the light of day, he was somewhat unpleasantly surprised to find himself the bondsman of his late valet. He kicked hard at first, but only to his own detriment, for in all the land he had not a single friend, and the natives had somewhat forcible modes of expostulating with refractory fau-reka-reka One mode of ending his troubles was of course always open to him, but Arnaud had so effectually roused his previously dormant superstition that he simply dared not avail himself of it. Nothing enabled him to accommodate himself to his altered condition like his beloved cognac, which Arnaud, with refined cruelty, sometimes gave him freely, at others withdrawing the supply altogether. The valet, whose preparations had all been made deliberately, had contrived to secrete a considerable supply against need, and gradually, as under the weight of accumulated miseries, the enslaved wretch sank lower and lower in the scale of being, the hope of a glass became his strongest incentive to action, the deprivation of it his cruellest punishment. However, it was some time now since he had been able to console himself with cognac; the supply had long ago given out. But, Arnaud, who knew that the accomplishment of his purposes depended greatly upon intoxicants, prepared from the kava root an intoxicating beverage which did as a substitute.
To describe all the details of the miserable man's debasement would serve no purpose save the undesirable one of wearying the reader. Enough, that, condemned to the most servile labour by day, and haunted by torturing memories or superstitious terrors at night, goaded by physical tortures at one time, and steeped in drunken stupor at another, his downward progress was uninterrupted; and at the period under consideration he belonged to the most degraded section of a degraded class; had in fact become that most repulsive, yet pitiable of all human beings, a tender of Maori corpses. This was the result of no accident. Arnaud, on that day now so long past, when, back of the pa at Wai-iti, the gay Monsieur D'Estrelles had shuddered at the miserable wretch they saw there, had mentally devoted him to a similar fate, and in all his actions in relation to him since that end had been steadily kept in view. To reduce him to this, the lowest deep of human degradation—of Maori degradation even—and then, revealing his own identity, to leave him to wear out his hopeless days in agonising dread of the judgment to come, this had been the valet's deliberate purpose—a purpose unfalterringly pursued, and now not far off completion.
There had been moments during their sojourn at Naku-roa's pa when the doomed man was within an ace of being somewhat rudely released from his sufferings, for the young warrior never set eyes on him without being reminded of his lost bride, the courageous Rau-kata-mea, who, having returned to Motu Arohia on the day of the cannibal feast, shared the fate of her amiable sister and the majority of the inhabitants of that fair island. But recollecting that under Arnaud's control, prolonged life meant prolonged wretchedness to the object of his hate, Naku-roa staved his hand, and contented himself with revilings.
They had been at the hot lakes for several months, Arnaud, with a suitable escort, having travelled down, lured by native reports of the wonders of the district. His friends in the North had not very willingly parted with him, and only did so on his solemn undertaking to return within the year. But his strength had long been failing. Without developing any particular complaint he suffered much from general debility, and a lassitude which not even his hate could always dissipate. His Utu was on the eye of completion, but his victim's miseries no longer afforded him the lively satisfaction of yore. He had bequeathed his wretched slave to his new friends, meaning shortly to return north, but lately, in his physical weakness and consequent depression, a different course suggested itself. Why should he return? What should he do there? What had he now to live for? He had tasted all the joy he was likely to taste in this world, why not quit it? One scene with his victim had yet to be gone through, but that would be less a pleasure to himself than a last bitter drop in the cup of his enemy. Why not get it over and then have done with all things? These were some of the
To-night he vas more restless than usual, more weary of a life whose labours produced results so unsatisfying. The Utu. which he had promised himself should be ‘sweeter than honey and the honeycomb,’ tasted like apples of Sodom. The game seemed hardly worth the candle, and there were moments when he felt inclined to leave things as they stood. But he had so long taught himself to look forward to the climax, when, all disguises laid aside, he should reveal himself in his true character and shew the object of his hate to whom he owed his misfortunes, that he could not decidedly bring himself to forego it.
Another thing he was realizing to-night, and that was, that if the finale were not to be a fiasco he had no time to lose, for, as a fact, his victim was slipping through his fingers. Besotted and brutalized, not a vestige of past attractions was traceable in the appearance of the repulsive being who once posed as a man of fashion. Begrimed with dirt, suntanned and tattered, his unkempt hair hanging in elf locks about his stolid visage, he was a forbidding object. But to-day, as like a beast he fed on the refuse thrown him, his tormentor refreshing himself with a passing glance, noticed that his expression had altered somewhat. Brutal, sullen, maudlin, idiotic, he had been all by turns, but now a subtle change in his face suggested approaching insanity. In this way he would escape his pursuer effectually. If, therefore, the concluding scene were not to be abandoned no time must be lost. It would be a miserable thing, if, after waiting so long, the crowning act should be evaded thus, and all at once Arnaud became restlessly impatient to get it over. To-night, why not to-night? The moonlight, clear almost as the noon-tide, but pale and cold, would suit his purpose much better than the sunshine's glare. The dawn was not very far off, either, and it would be better to get the matter over ere the kaka, cried. Yes, he would go to him presently and recall the past, remind him of his crimes, and taunt him with his punishment. And reaching up to the thatch the soi disant valet took from thence a parcel, and opening it, removed some articles of clothing. He had, almost immediately upon his reception into Naku-roa's hapu, laid aside the garments of civilization, and donned those of his new friends, a little compliment they did not fail to appreciate. But those he now exposed to view they had never seen. They were relics of an earlier stage of his existence, and as he turned them over a rush of recollection caused his heart to flutter, his cheek to glow, and his eyes to burn with something of their old fire. They took him
young. They reminded him of all he had lost, of all he had suffered, and as he handled them the old hate revived, the old fierce passion for revenge, the burning desire to gloat over the misery of the man who had robbed him of love and youth and beauty. Yes, he would go to him now, while the cold moonlight lasted, would appear as in the days of old, and paralyze his guilty soul ere the ruddy sun should rise to hearten him. And as he so resolved, with feverish haste he robed his tall slight figure once again in the attire of other days, powdered his lace, and laid aside the snowy periwig, which spite of his change of garb he had hitherto retained. And as he made his hasty preparations ever and anon he muttered: ‘Haste, haste, get it over ere the kaka cries.’
While the mysterious being so long familiar to us as Arnaud completes his toilet, let us go before and ferret out the lair, where, like a beaten hound, the object of his hate—now only known as Toto (blood)—slinks away from the sight of men.
In the midst of the scrub growing thickly in the outskirts of the pa, a portion of an abandoned hut of the meaner sort uprears its dilapidated thatch; the walls have vanished, but the centre post still supports the fragment of the roof, which, however, would afford but sorry protection in case of rain. But the season is summer, and the region warm; the miserable inmate, therefore, who lies coiled up in a corner, sunk in uneasy slumber, suffers little by reason of the elements; but if the restless movements of his half-naked limbs, his ceaseless mutterings, and occasional outcries are any guide, he does not lie on a bed of roses.
The moon is nearing the horizon, and through the ragged thatch and between the sprays of the surrounding scrub its light streams in almost level rays, while every stem and twig sends forward black elongated shadows, which, in the utter stillness and lonesomeness of the place are weird enough, but they trouble not the solitary dreamer, who, despite his restless ravings, slumbers heavily. His attitude is one of much discomfort, for his hands, labour roughened and terribly deformed, are tied behind him, and from a flaxen waist-belt depends a rope by which he is fastened to a log of wood. He is a refractory slave, and his new
All at once a moonray, darting aslant, lights up his weather beaten face, and he stirs as though it hurt him. He has changed indeed; the knitted brows frown heavily, the unkempt locks give him a savage aspect, a thick untrimmed moustache falls over sullen lips, and his whole expression, even in sleep, is one of brutal ferocity.
Just as the vagrant moonbeam reaches his eyes, a whistling, whispering, unearthly voice, sounding somewhere in the clouds, penetrate through the deep silence.
‘Jacques le Blanc!’ it cries, and at the word the sleeper starts, and a shiver passes through him.
‘Jacques le Blanc!’ The voice sounds nearer, but its tone is unaltered. He is wide awake now, but strives to hide his face, and keep eyelids down.
‘Jacques le Blanc. Murderer rise, thy victim awaits thee.’ Vain are his attempts at resistance. Trembling from head to foot, he sits up mechanically, with wide open eyes directed straight before him.
But instead of the apparition he dreads, there in the little clearing before the whare stands Arnaud, his late valet, attired, as usual for years past, in a soft falling Maori mat. His snowy peruke glistens in the moonlight, but a spray of manuka shadows his face.
Perplexed at his appearance, the half-crazed Toto eyes him wonderingly, and as he does so there bursts on his ears the sound of laughter, the shrill malignant laughter which has so often chilled his blood.
‘H—ha! Ha—ha—ha!’ Then plainly from the lips of the valet.
‘Well, Jacques le Blanc. You did not expect in me it seems.’
Puzzled, irritated, and still trembling, the wretched creature, blurting out a string of curses, bids his tormentor begone to a warmer locality, But, laughing bitterly, the latter jeers at his futile rage, and taunts him with his impotent debasement.
‘Your words are fierce. Monsieur Toto. Ha, ha! Burst your bonds then, and lead the way. You ought to know it. Break the bars of your cage, this pretty cage which I have brought you to, and seek the internal fires already lit for you. Maybe there you will find untroubled sleep. Ha, ha!’ then with a variation of tone: ‘Times have changed, Monsieur, and we also. I am not what I was, and you? Is it possible that you, foul, filthy creature, are the same person who once flaunted the borrowed plumes of French nobility, and afterwards paraded your ill-gotten gains as Monsieur d'Estrelles? Is it possible that you, leprous wretch, whose touch, is pollution, are the elegant trifler who wooed with
sought to murder. Ay, start, defeated monster! You sought to murder her, but Eleanor Radcliffe is not dead. Ha, ha! Vain fool! The gipsy mother tricked you! Your subtle poison was a harmless drug, and Eleanor Radcliffe recovered—to haunt your after life—to compass your ruin, to bring you to what you are! Ha, Ha! Infatuated simpleton! secure in your self conceit, you little dreamed the valet Arnaud was the woman you had so foully wronged. Impostor! Thief! Murderer! Your victim stands before you,’ and casting off mat and wig, the pseudo valet stood revealed none other than the heiress of Radcliffe, arrayed in flowing robes of white, with jetty hair tumbling over her shoulders, as in the hour of her attempted destruction.
‘Say now, Jacques le Blanc.’—and she bent over him like an avenging fury—‘say now if Maurice O'Halleran be not avenged?’
It was indeed Eleanor Radcliffe, but how changed. The roundness had for ever left her limbs, her beauty was hopelessly marred, her voice had lost its sweetness, the once alluring sparkle of her eyes had become a snaky glitter, and naught but her luxuriant hair and supple movement remained to prove her right to the gown she wore, the broidered robe brought by Roger Radcliffe from India.
But the man who had wronged her had changed no less, and still another change was passing over him as the woman he had thought dead, the woman whose wraith had haunted him, as he supposed, revealed her identity. Some portion of the mental faculty he once possessed, a brief flash of his nearly obliterated reason returned, and withal a slyness born of his developing lunacy—for during the last few days he had been hovering on the verge. He had been tricked all through, then. This woman he had thought to destroy—how unutterably he hated her—this woman had played the impostor in her turn. She had brought him to this pass, and now stood before him exulting in her hellish work. He did not doubt a word she had uttered. How it had all come about he never considered, enough that he had been done, beaten in his own line. He asked no questions, but sat looking at her, with his back turned to the down-sinking moon, and his face in deep shadow. Perhaps, could she have seen its expression—strangely compounded—fierce intelligence mingled with fiendish cunning and malignant resolve, she might have hesitated ere goading him further. But she saw only a tethered, half crazy slave, crouching low, as though cowering under her accusing words, and only regretted that his stolidity deprived them of half their sting; she would fain have made every one a red hot skewer wherewith to pierce his perjured soul. Why had she delayed so long? He seemed scarcely to comprehend. One more attempt to probe his brutish immobility, and then away for the dawn, was at hand. She caught up a pole lying near, and touched him with it.
Do you hear me, devil! or are you become deaf and dumb as well as crippled? Ha, ha! Where are the shapely hands, Monsieur, of which you were so vain? Have you forgotten Pierre rouge and your swing together! ‘Twas, I, Jacques le Blanc, who planned it all. I. Eleanor Radcliffe, whose lover you slew. It was part of my Utu. Do you hear me, devil?’
Deceived by his silence and seeming stolidity she had gradually drawn nearer, and, as she uttered the last words, gave him a rather sharp prod in the ribs. But he had heard all her utterances, understood all they implied, and though he had kept quiet, fever burned in his blood, the fever of madness. He was nearly suffocating with the intensity of his pent-up passion; it shook him like a leaf, and grew with restraint. He felt within him the raging of a wild beast ready to devour. This woman who had haunted him like a curse—she had escaped him once—he would kill her now. Ay, kill, Kill, Kill, her! Some imp was screaming the words in his seething brain, but gnawing his nether lip, he held himself back till she approached and poked him in the ribs. Then with an instantaneous leap ere she could cast the pole from her, let alone turn and flee, he had sprung to his feet, and bursting his bonds as easily as did Samson the new ropes of the Philistines, launched himself upon her, and clasping his crooked fingers about her throat, held her at the point of strangulation, while hoarsely screaming ‘Utu! Utu!! Utu!!!’ he shook her with the savage joy of a sportive hyena. His attack was so sudden, so unexpected, that she had not a chance to escape, and as she caught the lurid lightning of his eye, and felt his rough knuckles pressing her slender throat, she knew herself lost. Yet in five short minutes the kaka cry would arouse the hapu. Even now the light was rosier, oh, that the sun would appear! She struggled wildly, for much as she courted death she had no wish to perish thus: but she struggled in vain. There was no escaping the clutch of the devil she had herself evoked. Her eyeballs were bursting, her little force exhausted; but all at once a thought flashed through the maniac's brain, and he laughed gleefully. Releasing her throat he caught the tresses of her hair as she sank to the earth, and twisting them into a coil set his foot upon it, while he freed himself from the log to which he was bound. Then with a succession of awful screeches he again seized her twisted locks, and with her limp form dragging at his in heels, sprang away through the manuka, just as the shrill notes of the kaka resounded from the neighbouring woods.
Drawn from their whares by the reverberating yells of the now furious maniac, the natives came trooping out to ascertain the cause, but their wondering eyes only saw, bounding through the scrub, a distant sun-bronzed figure with something white fluttering behind him, while on the soft morning breeze floated cries of utu! utu!! Utu!!! mingled with
hapu streamed in pursuit, but the flying figure had already secured a good distance, and spite of the weight he dragged behind him, bade fair to outstrip his pursuers.
Straight across country, on and on, towards the lakelet Roto Kawau A small lake approximately 3kms south of Lake Rotoiti.
‘Come on, brown devils, and see the show. A glorious spectacle, ha, ha, ha! A witch's dance, a witch's doom. Ha, ha, ha! Come on, come on’
Then once more seizing the unconscious form lying at his feet, he swung it over his shoulder with ease, for it was no great weight, and he was nerved with insane energy. Up and up, the wondering natives gaining on him now, for they had recognized him and were wildly curious to know what he was after. At the top of the ridge he again stood still, and laying his burden down waved his arms and screamed with maniacal delight at the awful desolation of the valley beneath him. Then, as if he had received a fresh impetus, with a shrill-resounding whoop he dashed down and away with eager haste to the bottom, once more leaving his followers far in the rear. As by common instinct, they too paused on the top of the ridge, watching with horrified eyes his impetuous descent.
It was now broad day, and though the sun was not high enough to pour his direct rays into the vale below them, there was ample light to reveal its unique horrors. The surrounding scenery was fair as wooded hills and ferny hollows, sapphire skies and varied greenery could make it; but the hollow they looked down upon in wide-mouthed, silence might have been the very gate of hell, so truly appalling was its aspect. Black as the fabled Styx, from countless pools of boiling mud and inky water rolled up sulphurous clouds, which brooded, like a suffocating pall, over the entire valley; from which arose frightful sounds, hissing, seething, spluttering, roaring, as though legions of devils were engaged in hellish conflict. In the larger caldrons the noise and fury were terrific, the eddying waters lashed into foam, boiling up in central cones which shot out furious jets to descend in black rain, while between the raging pools the thin mud crust trembled with the violence of the surging horrors it concealed.
At the base of the ridge the madman again set down his burden, and then it was apparent that the figure, whose identity had perplexed the awe-struck natives, was no longer inert. Sensibility was just returning, and with gasping sighs the self-constituted avenger of blood turned her bewildered eyes upon the wolf she had brought to bay. He laughed with immoderate glee at her revival, yelling: ‘Ha, ha, ha! lovely lady. You are just in time. This’—and, as fully aroused by his appalling tones she tottered to her feet, he indicated with a wave of his hand the black and blasted vale—‘This is the new Ranelagh, designed by my friend Lucifer in honour of our nuptials. Permit me, sweet bride, to lead you out. What?—art coy, fair Eleanor?’—for recoiling, she tried to repulse his encircling arm. ‘Nay, then’—and he seized her with no gentle clasp—-‘'tis ours to-day to lead the revel. Come, trip it, sweet. Can you resist such music? Ha, ha, ha! 'Tis the song of the damned, a symphony of lost souls. It stirs my blood, and fires my brain! Hark! How lively they are, those swarming devils, how they hiss and splutter, like cats on the warpath! Ha, ha, ha! Come, beauty's queen, we shall be late, we are losing the revelry. Come.’
Ranelagh Gardens was a popular pleasure garden just outside London in the eighteenth century.
Futile were her struggles, as with tightening clasp he drew her onward; vain her hoarse agonized appeals to the petrified crowd on the rise of the hill, none of whom dared venture upon the treacherous soil over which the shouting madman whirled her in widening circles, yelling, whooping, shrieking with, mad laughter, in full career for the most awful of the horrible pits yawning around them. Its surface was obscured by sulphurous vapour, which, now and again lifted or blown aside, revealed brief glimpses of a swirling, whirling, raging maelstrom, whose black gurgling waters, swelling and foaming and lashing their encircling walls, seemed bent on breaking bounds, and filled every ordinary beholder with silent awe at their appalling fury. Straight for Huritini One of the boiling hot pools of Rotorua. This pool is named for a Māori princess who threw herself in the pool after being mistreated by her husband. A thermal area near Rotorua, location of the Huritini hot pool.Utu, on to her doom he hurried her, and, arrived at the caldron's edge, with a demoniacal howl which drowned her agonized shriek, he plunged with her over the brink, while from the assembled hapu on the hill went up a united long-drawn sigh like the sough of the winter wind.