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Chapter XVII
The Valley of Gold

He came down the hillside, through the glory of gold, in the path of the sun, to join us. I knew that he was David Mackay, but I could only smile at him when he bent over me. I saw him lift Nan, and then I knew no more till some one forced something hot between my lips.

"Drink this, lassie," urged David. "It will do you good."

It was good. That soup was the best thing I ever tasted; it seemed to reach even my toes, which were numb with the cold. But before I had time to appreciate it properly I fell into tangled dreams. Once more I wandered with Nan on the lonely mountain-side, and the mist and the silence wrapped us round. I wakened, crying aloud for help, and some one bathed my forehead with cooling water, and a voice said:

"Quiet, lassie, quiet! You're safe now."

There was soothing in the sound, and I drifted into sleep again, and dreamed no more dreams. When I opened my eyes the sun was high in the heavens. Beside me, on a sweet-smelling bed of page 203dried mountain grasses, Nan slept quietly, her head pillowed on one hand. Through the opening of the shelter in which we were lying I could catch a glimpse of waving trees and green grass, star-spangled with little blue flowers. Near by a stream sang a cheerful song, and the air was full of the twittering and chatter of hundreds of birds. I slipped out of bed and ran to the door. Then I paused.

Have you ever seen a picture of St Francis preaching to the birds? Uncle Stephen has a copy in an old, old book, and when I saw David Mackay that morning it seemed to me that the Saint had returned to earth, and was holding another service for the little winged things. His feathery congregation was everywhere. Robins and tuis, snow-birds and bell-birds, little fantails and inquisitive wekas twittered around him. They perched on his hands, his shoulders, and in his hair; they looked down at him from the branches of the tree under which he was sitting; and they welcomed the service with anthems of praise. I crept up quietly; I did not want to disturb the pretty scene. One bright-eyed robin hopped over to me, and regarded me with his head on one side; a pair of tiny snow-birds came nearer; and I nearly screamed with delight when a fantail fluttered on to my outstretched hand.

"They have never learned to fear," David said.

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"They regard men as friends—not as enemies. And how are you this morning, lassie?"

"Quite well, thank you' I answered. "Really all right again. Oh! look at that darling."

The birds were flying all about me now, as fearless as they were with David. The mist had disappeared, and all around, shining in the sunlight, lay the valley. In the background I could catch a glimpse of white peaks, but the valley lay toward the sun, and the air was soft and warm. A little stream sparkled over a stony bed, with a pleasant, rippling sound; great trees were scattered, with park-like effect over the hillside, and in their shade the grass was green and bright with the blueness of the little shining flower. The birds sang everywhere, the sun shone, the little stream flowed pleasantly through a green land— but the rocks? The rocks were not of gold.

The old prospector smiled a little sadly when I spoke of it.

"There is gold here," he said. "I have found traces of it, but I have never discovered it in paying quantities. Some day men will find it, and then they will tear up my trees, and bring their machinery and blast the hills and soil the stream, and the birds will flee for fear of them."

"Oh, I hope they won't. I hope they never find it," I cried, touching a black-frocked tui gently.

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"And how did you find your way into my valley, and why did you come?" he asked, looking at me, and fondling Tiny Pat, who grovelled at his feet in slavish devotion. "I was cooking my tea when I heard a dog bark, and when I went down the hillside I found two little half-dead visitors lying at my door, and a faithful little beast sitting up and barking for help"

"That's a habit of Tiny Pat's. He saved Nan once before at the haunted house,' I said, and then I told him why we had come, and how we had brought Tiny Pat with us, and how we meant to leave him behind as a legacy. I told him, too, of our terrible journey, of the days and nights in the mist, and of the hunger which had assailed us.

"We thought we should never reach the valley," I said, "and then, all at once, I saw it shining all gold in the sunset, and I knew we had come to it at last."

The old man looked grave.

"Your people will be frantic with anxiety," he said. "But I daren't move the little lassie yet. She was nearly gone when I arrived. And I don't like to leave you two alone—it's two days' journey to Jordan, at the best. We'll just have to bide to-day, and set off to-morrow early. Do you think you can manage it, lassie?"

"Of course I can," I answered, but I was glad page 206we were to have a rest. My legs felt a bit wobbly still.

In spite of everything—the terrors we had passed through, and the thought of what the uncles would be suffering—that day was one of the happiest I have ever spent. The peace of God seemed to lie over that valley. We picnicked on the grass beneath a leafy tree, by the side of the happy little stream, and the birds came too, and twittered and fluttered, and flew off with the crumbs we scattered for them. We plucked a bunch of the blue flowers, and Nan made a crown and placed it on my hair, and out of the trees came a little, soft, brown-eyed thing, which sniffed at it wonderingly. Even the deer knew no fear in that valley.

At night we sat outside in the still, soft evening air, watching the sun sink till it touched the rocks with the gold which, as David said, was better than any that men sought. And David smoked, and talked to us, and somehow it seemed as if the very wonder and beauty and peace of the mountains had slipped into our souls. The shelter was only a rough one, and when we crept into bed we could look right out and see the stars shining in a deep, dark sky, and catch a glimpse of David where he lay, rolled up in a blanket before the glowing embers of the camp-fire.

I did not fall asleep at once, but lay with page 207wide-open eyes, thinking of the adventures of the past few days. Beside me Nan, wakeful too, was sitting up, gazing into the darkness.

"Ngaire," she said, suddenly, "I've been thinking. When we get back I'm going to school. I'll hate it, I know, but all the same I'm going. And—I've been thinking of Pat too. He didn't understand about Tiny Pat. He's been so kind since we've been up at Jordan, and I'm going to start again when we get back. He's—he's all I've got."

"I'm never going to get into a scrape again," I answered, and I felt so good that I wonder my wings did not tickle Nan. She did not speak again, and after a while she lay down and I knew by her breathing that she had fallen asleep. Then I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again it was day.

Soon after breakfast we left the valley. The birds were singing, and the sun was shining when we turned our backs on it, and followed the little stream till it broadened out, flowing between high rocky walls. It was up this same stream that Nan and I had wandered in the mist, not knowing that all the time our steps were leading us to the haven we had set out to find.

I looked at the water and shuddered. The rocks hid the sun, and the creek looked sullen and dangerous. There was only a narrow stretch page 208of shingle between the water and the rocky walls.

"I wonder we didn't fall in. I wonder how we got through," I said.

It was a desolate spot, and we were glad when we left it behind and came out on to the wide river-bed, where the creek joined the main stream.

That night we camped on the river-bed. We had not made very rapid progress, since David would not let Nan walk far. She was still weak, and her face looked very small beneath her crown of hair. I was quite strong again, and carried some of our provisions in a swag on my back. I felt quite like one of the swaggers who occasionally visited Kamahi.

The second day we made better progress, and when we set off the next morning we knew that nightfall would see us safely at the homestead. We rose with the sun, and walked steadily all day, and when the hills were rough, or hard to climb, David would hold out a hand, and his smile had somehow a strength in it, which helped us on our way.

"W-who's that?" I said to Nan, because I had to say something or cry out loud. I felt I would choke. "They don't see us," I added.

But they did—oh, yes, they did. Suddenly there was a cry, and a girl, with flying hair, darted out from behind the trees, and came running over the green, her hands outstretched. Then I saw that it was Denise—Denise walking like any one of us, Denise quite well again. Do you know what I did? I threw myself on top of her, and sobbed ever so stupidly:

"They've waked up. They've waked up. I knew they would," just like Pipi, and without any grammar at all.

Then a long, lanky boy and a half-caste flung themselves upon me, and I disappeared in the embraces of Jan and Rob. Nan had fallen straight into her brother's arms, and he was holding her just like an ordinary everyday father or brother or uncle—not like a famous naturalist at all. Uncle John was blowing his nose, and saying "Bless me!" and "Bless my soul!" at intervals; Uncle Stephen was looking after every one and everything in his quiet way; and Bridget was sobbing in a corner, her apron over her eyes.

"The kettle's on the boil," she said.

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And Denise? Denise was still standing, gazing with shining eyes at us all, and Mr McLennan had his hand over his eyes. I think he was thanking God.

That night was such a confusion of relief and happiness that I do not remember anything very clearly. Every one was so glad to get us safely back that they could not make enough fuss of us, but we were so tired that we were ready to slip into bed. We had been travelling for three days.

It was not until next morning that I heard the history of the time since we had left the homestead on our search for the wonderful valley. They had not missed us at first, Jan said. They thought we had gone off on some expedition of our own, but when it grew late and we did not return Mr Somerset become anxious, and sent some of the men out to look for us. Of course they did not find us, and then the mist came down. The first day passed, then the second, and the men began to speak in low voices and to avoid Mr Somerset.

And Pipi told Patrick Wayne what she thought of him.

Really and truly she did. It was at the close of the second day, when the mist was lying, like a great grey blanket, over the hill, shutting out bush and gully and boulder-strewn mountain-side. Pipi was sitting curled up in the dining-room, page 211thinking of the time she had eaten my share of the sponge-cake Kathie had burned so badly that it would not pass the uncles' test. She felt she had been greedy, and wished she hadn't, and then Mr Somerset came into the room. Pipi told Jan that directly she looked at him she felt all boiling inside; he seemed so cool and self-possessed and unconcerned, and he was the cause of all the trouble. He looked at her, too, through his pince-nez, which always annoyed her. She felt that if she didn't say something she would boil over. So she said it.

"You don't care—oh, you don't care. Nan's lost, and Ngaire's lost, but you don't mind. You never did mind. You'd like Nan if she was a creepy-crawly, and you could stick her on to a pin, and see her squirm. That's all you care— you beast!"

That is how she began—just began, mind you. There was more to come.

Patrick looked at her with a surprised expression, just as if she were some extraordinarily interesting little insect. He sat down on the sofa beside her.

"Your family appears to possess an unusual aptitude for reading my character, and have none too high an opinion of me," he remarked.

Pipi glared at him.

"S'pose you think you're funny, but you're not," she said.

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He smiled at her.

"No, I don't, Pipi," he said. "I really want your opinion—what you think should be done about it—when we get Nan home," he added hurriedly, and I think for the moment the thought that Nan might never return entered his mind. "We shall find them very soon," he added.

"Of course," But Pipi's eyes were wide and frightened. "Of course. People always do get found when they're lost on the mountains. What would be the use of gettin' lost if you didn't get found?" added Pipi wisely.

"And Nan knows them so well. She has lived there all her life," Pat said. "Nothing can have happened to them."

"'Course not."

He seemed to need Pipi's reassurance, somehow.

For a while he sat silently gazing into space, his head resting on his hands, in Nan's own way. At last he spoke.

"Did she ever speak of me, Pipi?" he asked, suddenly—so suddenly that Pipi jumped.

"'Course she did," she answered, promptly. "She told us of all the beautiful toys you sent her—the doll what talked, and the books, an' the tea-set, an' heaps of other things. Of course," said Pipi, with perfect frankness," we knew you didn't send them really. You aren't that sort."

He looked at her dumbly.

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"But Nan pretended you did, an' we didn't let on we knew,"

After this there was silence for a time; then Mr Somerset arose. A search-party: was returning up the hill, and he went outside to meet them. A few minutes later he returned, and Pipi said she couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He looked so tired and hopeless and sad.

"Thank you, Pipi," he said." You've helped me a lot. I've been a blind idiot. But when Nan comes home——" He paused, then went on again. "We'll soon bring them back, Pipi—Nan and little Ngaire. Don't lose faith. We need every ounce of courage and faith we possess."

He stopped, and to Pipi's astonishment kissed her abruptly, just as Rob might have done. She said she didn't think he was a kissing sort. But she was so miserable that nothing, not even Patrick Wayne, could astonish her very much. Next day Uncle John sent her back to Kamahi, and Jan and Rob came up.

"It was when we thought there was no hope," Jan said, with a complimentary choke. "It was terrible—the long, long days, and the mist on the hills never lifting, and people coming in from all over the countryside. Denise made Mr McLennan bring her up two days ago."

"Mother and Dad will get the news that you are safe almost as soon as they get Uncle John's page 214other telegram. He didn't tell them at first, because we thought we'd find you at once, and then when he did they were out of town. Rob rode back last night, and rang up from "The Point.' I'm glad Mother won't be worried long," finished Jan, happily.

"And Denise! I think it is most wonderful of all about Denise," I said.

"I'm glad about everything. I never knew how much I liked you, old girl." Jan choked again, tried to smile, and rubbed away a stray tear.

It was wonderful for Denise. Her legs had come out of their dream when she saw us coming up the hillside, and they never went to sleep again. Every day she walked a little way, and still a little farther, gaining strength with the exercise. Bridget declared it was a miracle; the doctor declared Denise had made a splendid recovery, and took the credit to himself. Uncle Stephen, however, when I asked him what he thought of it, smiled.

" 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy,' Ngaire," he said quizzically. "But Denise is well. That is the great thing, isn't it? We must just leave it to God, and be grateful."

Tiny Pat? I was forgetting Tiny Pat—poor faithful-hearted, ugly Tiny Pat. He went over the hillside, back to the valley with David Mackay page 215the morning following our arrival at Jordan. The old man would stay only one night. He said he could never settle long in one place.

"I've been wandering on the mountains ever since I was a lad, over fifty years ago," he told us, "and I still dream of the great gold reef which is hidden away somewhere. Some day," he added quietly, "I shall not come back, and there will be one more story of the old prospector who perished in the search for gold. But I shall sleep quietly," he said.

We watched him as he went down the hill, a strange old figure, carrying the swag which held his small store of provisions, and the well-worn Bible and Homer. Behind him trotted Tiny Pat, with never a backward glance for Nan.

"Still, he's safe now, and there won't be any sheep on the mountains to kill; and I don't think he'd do it, anyway, with Mr Mackay," Nan said, thoughtfully.

At the turning of the river the old man paused, his eyes on the homestead. Then the curve of the hill hid him from our sight, and he went out alone into the silence of the mountain ways.

Next day Jan, Uncle Stephen and I left Jordan, our faces turned Kamahiward again. Uncle John and Rob had returned the night before. Mr Somerset and Nan rode with us as far as the first river.

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"We'll be at Kamahi before the holidays are over. They end with the tattooing, don't they?" he said, with a smile for Jan.

They stood on the bank and watched us cross. Patrick tied his handkerchief to a stick, and Nan waved it in farewell to us. I saw Uncle Stephen smile, as if well pleased. Nan and her brother were finding each other, and out of the fear and the trouble of the past week had sprung the love which would mean so much to them both. It would never again be necessary for Uncle John, Jan, or Pipi to tell Patrick Wayne, with painful frankness, what they thought of him.

Then, leaving the river behind, we drove swiftly down the road back to Kamahi.