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A Maori Maid

Chapter XX

page 155

Chapter XX.

Archie did not see Ngaia on the following day as he had made up his mind to do. He broke his arm instead. He was reaching for something whilst standing on the top of several bales of wool. A slip and a fall and the mischief was done.

"I'm going down to Napier in the buggy to-day and you had better come with me," said John. "Your arm wants properly setting, and a week or two's spell won't hurt you."

So Archie went to Napier, and although he eventually met Ngaia it was not for weeks.

He almost missed ever seeing her, except as a married woman.

The after-moments of the girl's meeting with John had been very bitter. Hoping against hope she thought that perhaps Jake would have consented to her travelling as Mr. Anderson proposed. His refusal was a terrible disappointment. She almost marvelled at the resolution that had enabled her to resist her friend's final appeal. Had John come after her she would inevitably have yielded. But he did not. Jake, instead, met her by the yards. He came over to her as she turned down a by-path towards the gate through the home paddocks on her way to the hut.

He noticed her tears.

"Ye're crying, are ye? What for? Is it so d—d 'ard to 'ave to live with yer people? Eh? Now then, none of yer snivelling and blubbering afore me. Stop page 156it I say. Keep it for the boss, if 'e ever takes the trouble to see ye agin. Come over 'ere to the shed and take 'ome the billy. And mind," he added as they walked across, "if any of the chaps speaks to ye 'ave a nice word for 'im. I'm going to tell 'em they can come down to the cottage. I've got plans for ye like a good father, only it ain't fooling about in furren parts a-making ye discontented with yer 'ome. I'm a-going to find ye a 'usband and marry ye. It's the proper thing for a young woman; and if it ain't one of these station chaps, it's a-going to be a Maori. I'm a-going to tell 'em, any one on 'em can 'ave ye for the asking."

"If you dare!" she answered passionately, stopping and facing him. "But you would; I know you would. You've no respect even for your own daughter, no thought, no—Ugh! Take your own billy home. I've obeyed you enough to-day; too much, I think, too much," she added bitterly; and turning away she ran through the gate and left him.

"Ngaia," he called, "Ngaia."

"By 'eavens," he muttered to himself, as she walked away unheedingly, "I'll make you smart for this. Ye're showing temper, are ye, and getting obstinate? There's a bit of the fine lady in ye still. If ye don't take Jim I'll make ye take one of these coves, by 'eavens I will. Curse ye for a brat of the old man's. I 'ate ye 'cause ye're like 'im. I sees it though the others don't. I 'ate ye and I'll spoil ye."

"Ullo," said a voice as Ngaia entered the hut. "I've been waiting for ye this 'arf 'our. 'Ow are ye? Nicely, I 'ope."

It was Jim, the coach-driver's son. It was not the first time Ngaia had met him. He had ridden over once before and spent the day at the hut. She had rather enjoyed his visit at first, until towards its close he had annoyed her by his familiarities and attempts page 157to make love to her. She had snubbed him severely, without his in the least degree feeling it, until, finally, she had left the room and refused to return. She had not even seen him get into his new driving coat with the big buttons.

That he was serious in his attentions had never occurred to Ngaia. The idea that he was making love to her with a view to asking her to marry him had never entered her mind, either at the time or since. She simply looked upon it as impudence and boorishness. After all a lady may be a lady though she does not look one—contrary to the converse.

She was not too pleased to meet him again—and alone.

"Good-day," she said quietly, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Without taking off her hat she seated herself on the old candle-box near the fireplace.

"Where is Waina, or Airini?" she asked.

"Out diggin'. I told 'em I didn't mind waitin' until you came."

Ngaia made no reply. She did not exactly dislike the young fellow. In her eyes he was scarcely worth it He was merely a common, vulgar stable-boy, who had commenced his acquaintance with her by calling her "Miss," and had continued doing so until Jake had stopped him.

"I didn't come over to see them, ye know," he continued. "It was you. You gave me a reg'lar tyin' up the last time as I was 'ere. There ain't no need to keep it goin'."

"I am sure I have no wish to quarrel with you, if you behave yourself. You rather forgot yourself the last time you were here."

"'Cause of what I said?"

"It's scarcely necessary to refer to it. Don't let it happen again, at least if you want to keep friends with page 158me. I'm sorry none of the others are here. They could talk to you so much better than I can. I have a bad headache."

"No they couldn't. They ain't nothink to me. I tell ye I didn't come to see them. There's something I wants to say to you."

"How is Napier?" asked Ngaia, really having paid no attention to what he was saying.

"Napier! Oh, it's all right. The road's pretty dusty. It'll be bad this winter, I reckon, unless they do something to it. Over by the 'Autapu cuttin' it's 'orrid."

There was silence for a few seconds. Ngaia was wondering how on earth she was to talk to, or get rid of her visitor.

"Were you at the races?" she asked.

"Rather; you bet! I won a goodish bit too. But it ain't about races and sichlike that I've come to see ye. It's to tell ye something."

"Indeed! To tell me something? Is—is it a message; or—or a letter, perhaps, from the school?"

"What school? Oh, I know; in Napier, eh? I 'eard you'd done some schooling there. No, it ain't nothing like that. It's about me myself."

"About you!"

"Yas. Ye see I ain't got much chance of seeing ye often 'cause I lives away down in the town. I'm doing well, what with breaking in 'orses and driving the bus. I takes the cab sometimes, and now and agin I does the coach. When father knocks under, me and my brother we'll come into the business; so ye see I'm right."

"Yes; but I don't quite understand."

"Wal, it's facts what I'm telling ye."

"Yes, yes, but why should you tell me? Although, of course, I'm glad you're doing well."

"I ain't much of an 'and at putting things nice, but can't ye see what I want? Ye might 'elp me a bit."

page 159

"I'm very sorry to be so stupid, but I really don't see how all this interests me."

"But it matters a lot to ye, 'cause—'cause I—I want ye to come and 'ave a share in it."

"Me!"

"It's 'cause I want ye to marry me. I'll make ye a good 'usband. S'elp me I will, and ye'd never be without a 'ome. I likes ye real well. I'm clean gone on ye, and I ain't a bad sort. We'd get on fust rate, and—"

Ngaia was angry, unreasonably angry she realised afterwards; and rising to her feet she interrupted Jim's outflow of mild eloquence.

"What do you mean by talking to me like that? It's worse, much worse, than the other evening, and I told you never to speak like that again. I had no idea what you really meant then. I see now. Don't you ever come to this house, or dare to speak to me again. You seem to forget—" And then she suddenly stopped, as it flashed across her that Jim had forgotten nothing; that it was she, she herself, who was forgetting. In everything save only her actual position she was a lady, and by nothing save her actual position could Jim judge. At best she was to him but his equal; probably only his inferior.

Jim had risen to his feet, angered by the scorn of her reply. He turned fiercely upon her.

"What 'ave I forgot? What 'ave I forgot? Ain't I good enough for ye? Ye looks a fine lady, but ye ain't one, and I looks what I am. I owns 'orses and cabs and busses, and I drives; and I talks about it. It ain't every gal what's 'ad the chance to be Missus Shorland. There's more'n one as 'ud jump at it; and it ain't for you to turn up yer nose at me. I'd give ye a better 'ome than the one ye've got now any'ow."

Ngaia made no reply for a moment The man's page 160words had sufficient real truth to wound. She walked across to him.

"I'm very sorry for what I said. No, no, that doesn't make it any more possible for me to do what you ask. I can't say yes. I can't marry you, Jim, but it's not because I think I'm too good for you. I'm not a bit. You're higher in the world than I am, much higher; and I was wrong, very wrong; and I'm sorry. You must just forget me. It won't be hard; you have scarcely seen me, and I'll always think how you meant to be very kind to me. Good-bye, Jim. Please go now," she said, holding out her hand.

He took it, and would have held it, but she drew it away.

"Don't think any more of me, I'm not worth it; I'm only a half-caste girl, only a Maori girl, and I wouldn't make you anything like as happy as one of your Napier girls would."

"But I won't stop thinking of ye," Jim blurted out; "I Jcouldn't if I wanted, and there's not one on 'em I cares for a bit like I do for you. I ain't a-going to give ye up. I'll go now cause ye tell me, but I'll come back as sure as my name's Jim Shorland."

"No, no; never again; not to talk as you have to-day. Never again."

"Ye'll see," said Jim, and he picked up his cap and walked towards the door. Suddenly he turned back. "There ain't no other bloke?"

"You mean— Oh no, no; but it makes no difference, it—"

"Don't it!"

He was gone.

Ngaia sank down by the hearth, her hands in her lap, her face white and drawn.

"Oh, how awful it is; how awful it all is! Is this what I have to come to? A stableman's wife! Ugh!" she cried with a shudder.

page 161

Ten minutes later when Ka came into the hut she found Ngaia stretched on the floor senseless.

She had fainted. The misery of the day had overwrought her, and, rising from the ground weary, faint and hungry, a darkness came upon her, and she swooned.

Jake's sympathy for her, when he learnt what had happened, was meagre. When, however, he drew from her that she had actually refused Jim's offer, he gave free vent to his ungovernable temper. He almost struck her. She fully expected that he would; but he was content to rail at her, and, in his own hideously choice language, he drove and thrust into her the unpalatable truths that Jim had blurted out. And he found and added more, and worse.

Life went sadly and badly with her after this.

Overworked and ill-treated, the brave spirit of the young girl very nearly broke down. Had Mr. Anderson come up to the station she might have set aside her resolve and appealed to him; but he was absent. She learnt afterwards that he was ill, and for a while in his bed in Wellington; and she had to fight and struggle and be strong as best she might. She nearly succumbed. The stableman kept his word, and came again to the hut. He met a refusal; but, had he been more able to discern, he would have realised that Ngaia's second answer was not the firm, irrevocable one of before. He was far nearer winning his prize than he thought.

Ngaia had indeed said no, and very nearly meant yes; but a little skill on her wooer's part and she might have yielded. She had thought and thought it all out, over and over again, and more strongly than ever did marriage, even though with a stableman, seem preferable to her miserable home life. It would completely sever all hold of her father over her; therein was, at least, a possibility of happiness.

page 162

But Jim was dense, and took her second answer as final. He returned to Napier, and said he had decided that he would not after all marry the half-caste girl.

"She's not what she was, you know," he reported to his father; "she'll grow fat and frowsy, and waddle. She was desperately anxious for me, you bet; so was the old woman; but I'm off it."

"And you're a fool. She's got looks; and as for getting fat and frowsy, why, dang me, I don't believe it. It's that gal of Maloney's what's knocked ye; and she's laughing at ye. Poor little 'arf-caste gal," he continued; "so she's got a bit sweet on ye, eh, my boy? I thought mysel' as 'ow ye'd jump at 'er when ye saw 'er, blowed if. I didn't. And now ye've been and spoilt 'er sleep for weeks to come with ye goings on, a-turning of 'er 'ead. D— it, Jimmy, ye're a terror among the women, and I can't blame ye! Many a hanxious 'our I've given yer mother, poor thing, though it's not me as ought to say it. There, there! Poor little gal. She's too good for them parts. I knows 'ow it'll be, I knows; but she won't get fat, Jim; no, nor frowsy neither," and the old man shook his head and walked off to the public-house at the corner, and had sundry glasses of beer.

"And she played the pianer!" he murmured. "It'd been 'eavenly with 'er pianerin' and Jim fiddlin'."