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Promenade

VI

VI

Westland, beyond the Southern Alps, was too drunken with gold to trouble about parliaments. Like a woman's bright scarf it lay between rough seas and bush-hills, with the Alps peering down on considerably more life than they had seen since the northern chiefs came down several hundred years ago to kill all the gentle Maoris living there because they would not tell where the sacred store of greenstone was hid. Perhaps they didn't know. Perhaps the mountains didn't. It was so long ago that one forgot.

The chiefs had gone back empty-handed, and the quick bush had covered the dead bones; so that the mountains nodded their white heads together, saying: We have refused man; he knows our power now. Yet later had come this rabble with white faces, tearing the fern-clothed hill-flanks to ribbons, grubbing deep holes in search of the greenstone … which was yellow when they got it but they didn't know the difference. A displeasing rabble, scaring all the sweet shy birds with their scarlet camp- page 386 fires, their great blotches of pale tents, their lanterns, stuck on poles, their endless noise.

We'll see what we can do this time, said the mountains, pouring down avalanches, snow, floods, anything they could think of on these intruders. But the intruders throve on that food, coming endlessly over the glaciers, the swollen rivers, the desolate shingle valleys, the granite heights; round the coast in little pitching steamers; down the long deep bush ways from Collingwood.

Then Cobb's coach came galloping in over the new road through Arthur's Pass, bringing gold commissioners, bank managers, and other important gentlemen from Christchurch, seventy miles off across the Plains. The coach, with its high red wheels spinning, its six snorting horses handled by Ned Devine, that famous whip of all time, floored the mountains. I suppose that's what they call civilization down there, said the mountains, veiling their tall heads in clouds and declining to look at it.

Roddy Lovel, the Graham boys (big bearded men now) from Kororareka, half the youth of New Zealand looked at it with gusto; looked with superiority on these thousands of aliens bringing their strange tongues with them, their strange new methods of despatch.

Although not making a fortune Roddy had more than a little in the bank. So on the whole he was very content with the world, lounging in the crowd one evening to see Cobb's coach come roaring in through a misty rain, its gay red wheels and body spattered with mud. Ned Devine had a new gold commissioner aboard to-night, so the boy blew the horn lustily and the horses shook the foam from shining bits as Ned swung them gloriously up to the Empire, where all the quality lodged. The great man descended heavily in his caped coat, the peak of his cloth cap over his eyes; and between the flaring lanterns the landlord hurried out, very obsequious, since gold commissioners make a deal of trouble if they don't like you.

page 387

Roddy, intent on making trouble and being disliked, followed Mr Nick Flower in over the red carpet, stood before him.

“May I have a word with you presently, Mr Flower? My name is Lovel.”

Nick Flower looked with his half-shut blue eyes in a stare. He never forgot faces, and Roddy had the native grace of the aristocratic Lovels … of whom himself was not one. Despite his working-clothes this fellow apparently remembered that he was Sir Peregrine's heir, with a clean neckerchief tied in a fancy knot, clean hands preparing for the heirloom ring. Finely built, too. Probably as strong as Flower. Flower said suavely:

“Glad to meet you again, Rod. Have a drink?”

“Thanks,” said Roddy, flushing and thinking of his dear Tiffy, so betrayed by this man among the old traditions. “I will wait until you are at liberty. I don't drink with my enemies, Mr Flower.”