The Tragedy of “Manawapou”

There is no part of New Zealand that has more charm than the coast of Hawke's Bay. The swell of the mighty Pacific rolls in eternally with incessant majesty, bringing with it a breath of tropical isles beyond the waves.

As Dick Marsden rode along the cliffs which bordered his station, he could almost hear the oars of the Maori fleet which had sailed so bravely across the great seas to the land of the Long White Cloud. Our Dick was an imaginative soul—as most sheep farmers are. Their keen interest in the price of wool has not blinded their eyes to the sheer beauty of their land. They are large souled men in close communion with Nature.

That day Dick was acutely unhappy—his grey eyes were troubled as he glanced mechanically at the fences, noticing a weakness here and there. The young master of “Manawapou” was anxious. Things had not been right at the station for some time, and he felt it very keenly that summer evening as he rode towards the homestead—half hidden in a deep yalley among towering black pines and scrubby tufts of manuka. It seemed to him, as he gazed down from the crest of a hill that a shadow lay over the home of his fathers—gleaming whitely in the dusk. What was the awful doom swiftly approaching over the peaceful slopes? He could not account for his presentiment, but he almost feared to make that last joyous gallop towards the twinkling lights of the station. The night breeze seemed to whisper to him that tragedy lurked there behind the belt of pines. “Come on, Jock old boy, we're getting morbid,” said Dick to his horse. He leant low over the neck of the beast, and together they thundered over the soft turf—leaving behind them the sadly murmuring waves, and the melancholy cry of the sea birds.

The Marsden boys, Derek and Dick, had managed the great station of “Manawapou” since their father's death, two years before. There they had spent their childhood—they had ridden their ponies together over the great paddocks—they had helped with the “dipping,” and spent long hours watching the gangs of Maori shearers. From their father they had inherited an immense love for their land—the open air—the winds, and the vast moving flocks of sheep. Such things had become their life.

Then had come a change. Their father had died suddenly—Derek had gone Home to England, and left Dick in charge. Sometimes he had been lonely during that year—missed the evening talks with his father by the great log fire, and the rides with his brother along the beach. But as a rule he was happy, a rather reticent and shy young giant—fond of books and solitude. Derek used to say that “dear old Dick was as reliable as the rising and ebbing of the tides.” And he was.

One day, towards the end of summer, a day of blazing sunshine and vivid colour, Derek page 52 page 53 returned suddenly, bringing with him a wife. Dick had been reading by the fire, when he heard the sound of a car along the rough road. Springing up, he had rushed to the door, to see Derek, grinning like a schoolboy, and by his side a tall fair girl—exquisite from her golden head to the tips of her high-heeled shoes. The very walls had seemed to blush for their shabbiness, and as for Dick—who had hardly ever met a woman—he could only gaze rather foolishly. She had swept into the great hall—and from that moment the house had been hers, and all creatures in it—her slaves—from Derek's shy gigantic brother to the little Maori lad who chopped the wood. “Manawapou” had scarcely

A Well-Lighted Station Platform.
(Photo, W. W. Stewart.)
A view of Auckland Station by night.

ever heard the sound of a woman's voice, for its mistress had died soon after Dick's birth—and it had had that rather forlorn atmosphere, possessed by a house in which a feminine presence was unknown. A few weeks after Hilary Marsden's arrival the most unobserving eye would have noticed a change. The shepherds declared that the very poppies bloomed more brightly in the long grass, for her sake—and the day's work seemed lighter—for in the evenings they would hear a sweet husky voice singing in the shadows. She filled the grey walls with music, scattered flowers everywhere, chatted in the kitchen to the admiring Maori cook—even invaded the little bedrooms of the shepherds. Old Joss, returning late one evening, had staggered in amazement at the sight of bright new curtains at his window, and a gay quilt upon his bed. He had scratched his grey head and said: “My Heavens!“—which expressed the sentiments of the household very well.

For a year life had been full of happiness for Derek and Hilary—Dick had found a chum in his brother's English wife—who gave him books, chose his sox and ties with unerring taste, sang duets with him, and persuaded him to have a tennis court made for her.

Then Derek and his wife had begun to quarrel—not fiercely—but gradually, she cool and autocratic, he miserable and sullen. Months had passed until the strain had been almost unbearable. It seemed as if two exquisite instruments were crashing out ghastly discords—each breaking in the effort. A shadow had fallen—Hilary became very quite and cold, and Derek spent his days far away in the most remote corners of the station. All the sunshine had gone out of life for three human beings, while the same stars smiled down on the station, mocking the foolishness of mankind.

As Dick entered the great yard at the back of the house that night he was greeted by silence—utter and absolute. No sound of laughter in the kitchen—no lounging shepherds smoking in the doorway. Even his dogs seemed to have deserted him. Again an icy wave of page 54 page 55 fear passed through him, so that his bronzed forehead grew damp, and his hand shook. He sprang from the saddle, tried to whistle, failed miserably. Through the deserted kitchen he strode—not a soul to be seen. The fire glowed in the huge stove, and on the long table he noticed a litter of half-empty cups—as though everyone had suddenly left the table and rushed from the room. “Dear God!” cried Dick to himself. “What has happened?” “Derek!” “Hilary!” he shouted—and the empty hall echoed his despairing cry.

Out on the verandah he paused—sick with horror at the sight which met his straining eyes. He saw a silent group of people—shepherds, drovers, servants—bare-headed, in the moonlight. Pushing them aside, he came upon his brother, kneeling—and by his side a straight pale shape—inert, lying in that ghastly broken way which tells mutely of death. “Hilary!” he whispered, falling on his knees beside Derek, “Dearest Hilary!” He could say no more—the sight of her white face froze his mind into a black numbness. “She fell from her horse,” muttered Derek brokenly. “It is no use getting a doctor—too late!” The tears on his cheeks broke Dick's heart—he just knelt there, and watched the spark of life fading—unconscious of everything except that dear pale face framed in its golden hair. At the end she opened her eyes, bright and clear, and the ghost of her old gay smile hovered at her lips. “Dear old Derek,” she whispered, “don't be miserable—we didn't really hit it off very well did we? Not quite as we expected to.” She stroked her husband's big brown hand in silence, then turned to Dick—“Take care of him Dick, old boy, for my sake.” Then, just as the moon emerged in pale glory from a cloud, she died—lying there on the verandah, just as they had brought her in—and the two men knelt in silence at her side—alone with the strangeness of death. The stars smiled down, mockingly as ever—the little tragedies of men are nothing to them.

Derek and Dick Marsden are old men now—white-haired, erect, and grave. For her sake, and because of her memory they stayed at “Manawapou” and made it worthy of their fathers—and sometimes now, as they walk side by side along the beach, as they did when they were little jolly boys, they seem to hear her voice in the wind and her husky laugh in the waves of the Pacific which brought her to them. Men call them “unsociable old hermits”—but how can they know otherwise? Human hearts hold many secrets—and human lives many tragedies.