IV

Since Mr Swainson, the Attorney-General, had decided that “spirits poor enough to need screening by secret ballot” were not fit to share in government, the voting for the Provincial Councils was to follow the good old lines, with everyone free to break everyone's head and be ridden about in barrows and jump on hats, while brawny labourers looked to the handles of their spades and shovels and got some useful practice on the waterfront when the names of their candidates came up.

Nick Flower, who had done his work already down his underground ways, did not appear again until the day of the voting. But Peregrine was everywhere; dragging Sally out to Howick, Onehunga, and other settlements, where she kissed the babies and talked to the women, dragging her to all his speeches in schools and halls and page 186 church-porches. Never (felt Sally, climbing wearily into bed) had Mr Lovel wanted her so much or seemed to like her so little when he had her. Yet she did her best, even under those cold glittering eyes that so frightened her.

Jermyn says he'll be normal again when this is over, she thought, lifting on her elbow to see him sleeping with the nightcap tassel on his brow like a decoration. Major Henry always said Mr Lovel was headed for drums and decorations…. Distressfully Sally thought how almost all she knew of Mr Lovel's feelings came from others. Never had he told his feelings to her….

Peregrine twitched in his sleep. His dreams rode him like witches; ancient superstitions which no man can escape moved in his sleeping blood with ghostly reasonings. Reasons why he had always so loathed Nick Flower. Reasons why he had never really loved a woman. Reasons why his boys were so infinitely dear…. “Cushion it. Cushion it,” he muttered, dreaming of his boys, of the proud Lovel name.

The Maoris (to whom dignity usually means more than life) were puzzled anew at their white rulers when they saw them at the hustings on that evening of noise and red flaring torches and the weak yellow light of oil-lamps in the booths. Battle they understood, and laughter; but not the two so shamelessly combined, defiling both. There was more than surprise in watching would-be orators hauled off a platform by their kicking legs and then drinking with their assailants out of the same bottle; more than disapproval when a hearty dingdong with spades and shovels ended in everyone binding up the bloody heads. Sticks, rotten eggs and cabbages flew; curses, laughter and hurrahs rocked the murky air.

Major Henry, making a last speech that no one could hear, was offered bottles from all directions and drank from all. Sir Winston, bellowing a last burst of quotations above the roar, declared that the seals of office already glittered in Peregrine's eyes. There were cheers for page 187 Colonel Wynyard, Auckland's first Superintendent, howls for Cordery, rotten eggs for old Barnes….

Nick Flower, thrusting his great height everywhere, was received with loyal shouts. He was smiling, knowing how well Swainson's decision had served him. So many men in his hands, so many might be that there was little likelihood of danger in an open vote. Peregrine (who knew that he would have been better at home but couldn't bring himself to it) stood immobile in the flickering lights with Jermyn beside him. Jermyn was almost sorry for Peregrine who seemed on the verge of collapse. Yet why make such ado? He could quite easily engineer a by-election and get in on that.

“The counting must be almost finished now,” said Peregrine with dry lips.

Then the roars went up, the huzzahs and howls as a clerk read out the list of names. Halfway down it Flower, leaning with hands in pockets against a platform, heard his own. He had beaten Mr Peregrine Lovel by forty votes.

He dodged round the platform to escape; but he was hoisted up, made to speak, made to submit to being carried round on heaving shoulders, to the accompaniment of accordions, whistles, songs. As he came down he saw Peregrine Lovel's dark lean face on a level with his own. There was moisture on the high forehead and round the mouth, and Flower tasted fully the triumph he had set out to gain. The seat on the Council meant nothing to him. Probably he would never use it. But this meant very much.

“Congratulations, Mr Flower,” said Peregrine, courteously. He held out his hand, drew Flower closer to mutter at his ear: “I shall expect you at nine o'clock to-morrow evening in my Shortland Street office. I do not expect you to fail me.”