III

Now the country went into hysteria over elections to the Provincial Councils which, in Grey's usual manner of put- page 178 ting the cart before the horse, were to precede the first Parliament. Peregrine approved. Parliamentary members, so scattered by the geographical imp who had constructed New Zealand of two large and one smallish island attended by a multitude of satellite minute islands, couldn't be expected to meet often, while Provincial Councils, operating at once and in their proper places, would lay necessary foundations, he declared, going at once to the laying of his own.

So New Zealand's six provinces set to work; making magnificent speeches, since the country really had more than its share of erudition, while ladies did what they could for their candidates at routs and card-drums; and at Caroline's weekly musicales Tiffany and Belinda had to play “The Battle of Prague” so often that in the end they nearly knew it. Bullockies named their great patient beasts after candidates, giving the unpopular one all the whip, and every gentleman's son, including young Lovels, returned from school with bloody noses.

Everything, shouted the Major, full of brandy and speeches, was going excellently. But he deflated suddenly when Nick Flower's name came into prominence as opponent to Peregrine in his ward, and Lovels went hurriedly to the examining of Flower's credentials, finding them as elusive as the man himself.

“The dog's never in Auckland anyway. Put him in the stocks when he comes,” cried the gentlemen, while the Chronicle sarcastically welcomed this “Flower of our aristocracy,” and recommended the public to pluck it ere it withered at the hustings.

Rumours began spreading, none knew how. Flower, said agitated gentlemen buttonholing everybody in the streets, owned half Auckland. He owned most of the shares in Graham's Bond, that bluff stone building on the water-front which impressed newcomers with such certainty of Auckland's stability. The fine block of stables page 179 building for the military at Epsom was financed by him. He held the I.O.U.'s of half the men in town….

Some truth in this last anyway. So when Flower, mysterious fly-by-night that he was, appeared in Auckland, walking about just like a man and not the engine of destruction every one now felt him to be, gentlemen made haste to invite him to the clubs and even to their houses. Get the fellow drunk and talking, they said, and the prison authorities will soon relieve us of his presence. Only a life of unmitigated evil, they were sure, could make a man look so big and prosperous in the New Zealand of their day.

Not much trouble for Nick Flower to see through the gentlemen. Nor through Darien; handling her subjects royally at a carpet-dance, wearing a cheap muslin (nine-pence the yard, said his trader's instinct) with diamond ear-rings and lockets, wearing the rich impudence of her auburn curls tied up with a blue ribbon, and yet contriving to look more like a queen than a courtesan.

“So now you are grown up,” he said, making his clumsy bow. “I suppose I must call you Miss Vibart now.”

“So now you are invited to gentlemen's houses,” said Darien over her fan.

“Still the same Darien?” He laughed. “No, I shan't call you Miss Vibart.”

“Not worth while. I'm marrying Lord Calthorpe next week,” said Darien, watching him cautiously. If he were really as rich as people said….

“Yes. I heard that you too were a climber. It's hard work. If you had a heart I might be sorry for you.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“No woman knows how to do that. Who will buy your wedding-slippers? Will you give him a kiss for them?”

“Kisses don't mean much,” said Darien, reflecting. “I've had so many … and they mostly taste of brandy.”

He sat down beside her, leaning close. “Mine don't,” he said.

page 180

Darien felt excited. A kiss from this man would be experiencing. But unluckily her wedding was too near for that now. She said, curious:

“Why do gentlemen invite you to their houses? Is it because you've made so much money with your smuggling?'

He leaned back, crossing his legs as no gentleman would do in a lady's presence.

“Your tongue will get you into trouble some day, young lady.”

“It does … and gets me out again. I think I'll denounce you to the Governor as a smuggler.” (Unless you buy me off, she thought, feeling eager.)

“I should advise you not,” he said, amused. “Grey must have heard so much already that he is not likely to welcome further conversation on the subject without proof.”

“You're the proof.”

“Oh, my dear girl! Where's your logic? But you always did jump at conclusions … as you have jumped at little Calthorpe. Though I dare swear he won't be the conclusion of your career.”

“I don't mind your being a smuggler so much,” said Darien angrily, “but I do mind your not knowing how to talk to a lady.”

“I don't see how you know whether I can or not.”

Darien jumped up, her hands tingling to box his ears.

“You are an odious insulting wretch, Nick Flower. I shan't invite you to my wedding.”

“Then I needn't send you a wedding-present?”

That stopped her, by Jove. Always a greedy little pirate, Darien. A greedy courageous little pirate, sailing the world with every man's skull and cross-bones. He felt her looking him over and was ridiculously pleased that the tailor had done so well with his evening clothes although very complaining over his width of shoulder.

page 181

“I want no presents from you, sir,” said Darien, hanging on to her pride with a struggle.

“No? I'll wager that's the first time you've said that to anybody. Well, I'll tell Lord Calthorpe not to invite me. We are old friends.”

Calthorpe redeemed some of his I.O.U.'s every time his remittances came in. In future it was not likely to be every time, for though the diamonds were palpably heirlooms Darien would be dressing up to them before long.

“Oh, do you know him? Don't send him the wedding-present, then. You knew me first … didn't you?”

“Yes,” said Flower with sudden gravity. “I knew you first.” Better than anyone else will ever know you, he thought. God, where couldn't he get to with this vital unscrupulous spirit to help him? With Peregrine Lovel's signet-ring on my finger I'd only have to hold it up, he thought, saying:

“You are the greatest opportunist I know … except myself. I'm glad it's not you I'm meeting at the hustings. I wish you happy,” he said, leaving her to Major Henry with a bow.

Darien was still savouring the salt of him on her tongue. Suddenly she was sick of compliments, of Jermyn being so haggard and honourable. She wanted to take a broom and sweep Jermyn out of her mind … but after all these years she'd feel so unfurnished without him, and he had given her a really beautiful candelabra all the way from Sydney, so the poor fellow must be dying of love. Nick Flower would never die of love.

Next day Nick Flower sent her twenty golden Spanish guineas in a little box. Now I can get those extra things I need so badly, thought Darien, hastily stuffing the box into the frilled pocket of her apron. If Peregrine saw he'd make her send them back with appropriate comments on the fellow's insolence.

A chill winter sun peered through the loopholes at St Paul's to see Darien walking up the aisle on Sir John's page 182 arm to be married to Lord Calthorpe, who was a small red splotch beside a larger one in the chancel. The air was full of the fresh cold scent of chrysanthemums and the heavy odour of flax-leaves waving in bunches at the end of every pew. The barrel-organ grinding out “Oh, God our help in ages past” was doing it for Darien. Sally, in a pale blue bonnet in the front pew, was crying for Darien. Everywhere ladies were crying and gentlemen murmuring admiration like a river … all for Darien. She tried to see Jermyn and Nick Flower, but these silly billows of white illusion got so in the way, and what should she do if she wanted to blow her nose?

Now Bishop Selwyn, looking like a great bank of clouds in his lawn sleeves, was booming away, and Calthorpe trying to put the ring on the wrong finger, and somebody (could it be herself?) making Darien's responses quite calmly, and Sarah Wells, who was chief bridesmaid, sobbing so loudly that she nearly drowned the barrel-organ as they all went into the vestry.

Lonely creatures, women. So seldom may they get drunk and ease their stuffed bosoms, thought Jermyn, watching Sally's piteous little face. Sally had been so occupied with Darien of late. And then there would be the elections. And then she will need me, thought Jermyn, his heart pounding.

“Oh, please God, don't let her ever find out she's made a mistake,” whispered Sally, hoping against hope. Jermyn could have had this, thought Darien, as Calthorpe put back her veil in the vestry and claimed his first marital kiss. Poor Jermyn! who must be feeling fit to kill himself.

Yet one couldn't bother long about Jermyn with the barrel-organ going bravely through its four tunes, and six little nieces, frilled out like pink peonies, to throw posies, and red ranks of soldiers making a dazzling arch of swords to pass under, and four splendid Clydesdales garlanded with the bridegroom's regimental colours to page 183 draw the nuptial bullock-cart to Lovel Hall, where the peacocks awaited them with spread tails.

“Oh, Sal-volatile, I hope all my weddings will be as fine as this,” cried Darien, still glowing with the toasts and compliments and wine, and kissing Sally out of her going-away green bonnet edged with swansdown. Swansdown on her green cloak too, and under her square white chin…. and what a tattle there'd be if folk knew that Nick Flower's gold paid for it, thought Darien, running down to scatter glances and last words among the brokenhearted young bucks crowding round; to hold up rosy pouting lips for Jermyn's kiss (she would have that anyway); to sail away with her little lord on the Ocean Queen to Sydney, where they would wait for the troopship to pick them up.

Calthorpe (somewhat unsteady in his hessians since the champagne had been so good and being married so doosed awkward) regarded her with an amorous if rather bleary eye.

“Thank the Lord that's over. Eh, my charmer?” he said.

“But everything's just beginning,” cried Darien radiantly. Adventures ahead now….

“'Pon my soul, Peregrine, you've done us uncommon well,” declared Major Henry, prowling round the remains of the wedding-breakfast, where great mounds of jellies, the pink enticement of hams, the flakiness of jam tarts in crystal bowls, and a hundred other delights still raised their heads among crisp slices of melon, cakes gay with icing, and the brown glow of sherry in cut-glass decanters. “Haven't had near enough. Too many toasts,” he announced, sitting down again while the children ranged here and there picking up delicacies like young pigeons. “Have a bite, my nut-brown maid,” invited the Major, offering half a mince-pie to Tiffany.

Peregrine, strolling with hands under his coat-tails, felt compensated. That abominable girl's wedding had cost page 184 him more than he could well afford; but he was done with her now, and it was a most effective riposte to any who might think that his I.O.U.'s were among Nick Flower's sheaves. He paused by Sally, who was gathering up the extra knives and trying to remember who had lent them, and spoke kindly, for she had been quite as retiring and efficient as a wife should be.

“A well-managed affair, my dear. I have just been speaking to the reporters. Will you be good enough to let them have the lists of gifts and guests presently? There are to be two columns in all the papers.”

“La, there you are, Peregrine,” cried Caroline. “There is something very unpleasant that I feel it only right to tell you … privately.”

Caroline was always feeling things like that. The Maori boatman drunk again, thought Peregrine, following her into the garden, where her red nose under a violet velvet bonnet was more than usually an assault to the senses.

“I've been holding it back,” gasped Caroline. “But a wedding … so sacred … so terrible for you … I feel it my duty … it's about Sally.”

Peregrine stopped dead, looking like a very high grey chimney wearing a buttonhole bouquet and an eyeglass.

“I do not discuss my wife with anyone, Lady Lovel.”

“La! Do you call it discussing to tell you she has a lover?”

“Have a care what you say, madam,” said Peregrine, feeling himself going white round the nostrils.

“Oh, I know what I'm saying….” Out it came in a torrent. Sally shamelessly going off with Mr Nick Flower in the middle of Auckland; admitting him to the house when she was alone; letting him stay for hours and hours…. In Caroline's mouth Sally became a convicted and habitual sinner, and indeed Caroline was quite persuaded of it by now … besides, don't even one straw show the way the wind blows? Peregrine was at first quite incapable of stopping her. He stared down at the white pinks, the page 185 blue forget-me-nots … there was a red-and-black ladybird crawling on a leaf…. Suddenly he put his hand up.

“Kindly leave me, Lady Lovel. And be thankful I do not put you in court for defamation of character … as I certainly shall do if this calumny goes further.”

“B-but …” Caroline burst into loud weeping. “I only wanted to help….”

“Get back to your house,” said Peregrine, chasing her like a stray dog, slamming the wicket-gate on her. Then he stood still on the path.

In the Lovel Hall parlour Leta Baizey and Sarah Wells were singing, “The Captain with his whiskers took a sly glance at me,” and young bucks who had had too much champagne were laughing and clapping. Peregrine walked off to his study and locked his door. As yet only two things were clear in his mind. He believed Caroline's story with its wealth of silly detail because she hadn't the wit to invent it. And next week he must meet Nick Flower at the hustings.