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Chapter XXVII.

Archie was round to time. He was in the best of spirits and his mood was infectious. In the recklessness of her slumbering sorrow she caught the spirit of his exuberance.

"Come on, Mr. Deverell; never mind the gate, let's take the fence. I'll show you the way." She did. The mare skimmed the rails with the art of a well-schooled jumper and the girl sat her to perfection. They raced the great paddock, flying the ditch as in a steeplechase, and Ngaia won.

"I beat you, I beat you," she panted.

"You did; by Jove! you did. Mignon's a real clinker, and I don't mind telling you you ride her devilish well—you're a credit to your teacher."

"Thank you," answered the girl, bending an acknowledgment.

He took off his hat and they both laughed at their sudden whim of formality.

They walked steadily for a couple of miles. Beyond the hundred acre flat they broke into an easy canter, and thus they journeyed until they reached the clump of bush over beyond the Maungaiti.

The wild gallop at the start seemed to have cast some check upon their chatter and they rode in comparative silence. In places they noted to each other things that were of their business, things that brought her almost to his level of importance and to. a forgetfulness of her weakness and her gnawing grief.

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"See," she pointed, "the wire's broken over yonder."

"Where?"

"Over by the cabbage-tree."

"By Jove! yes. What eyes you've got!"

They turned off and he dismounted by the broken wire.

"There's a straining post over there. What a bit of luck! You wait here. I'll go and see if I can ease it," said Ngaia, and she rode along by the fence to the post near the gate. She dismounted, and, adjusting the lever, lifted the ratchet and eased off the slack wire. It took all her strength to bend it out, but she succeeded. Archie made the join, and riding over to the gate tightened up the wire.

"I believe dogs have been about here, Mr. Deverell," she remarked later in the day as they crossed the flat by the Maungaiti where the bush stretches along towards the southern boundary.

"Exactly what I was thinking," said Archie, watching the restless, uneasy movements of the sheep.

"They've been worried, I'm sure," said the girl. "Look, what's that?"

"I see. It's a dead sheep."

It was, and the gaping wounds about the ears and throat testified to the manner of its death.

"The moon's up, Mr. Deverell; the men ought to be out here to-night. It's a sheep dog, I believe," she added as they passed another carcass. "Look at the legs."

They were torn and bitten.

By the edge of the bush they came upon a few stragglers.

"I expect they've got through that gap we mended," said Archie. "G'way forrard, Ross," he called to the dog, and with Ngaia working over from the right they collected twenty or thirty sheep and drove them into the paddock through the gate by the ford.

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They crossed the Maungaiti and side by side walked their horses.

"Penny, Ngaia," said Archie suddenly.

The girl looked up. She had been quite unconscious of the fact that he had been regarding her with almost ceaseless earnestness even from the outset of the ride.

She shook her head.

"Too precious?" he asked lightly.

Precious! Not for the whole world would she have whispered the thought that had been in her mind at the moment he spoke.

"Much," she said with a laugh.

"You're a perfect trump, Ngaia, for the way you've been looking after the Quarters."

"It's not much to do."

"I don't know. It's never been done before."

"There was no one to do it."

"There was if any one had made it her business— Sam's wife, for instance. It's just the doing of things that anybody can do and doesn't which is the best good nature. I call it selfishness or anyway sheer vanity to be good-natured when everybody has to thank you profusely."

"I suppose it is."

"Do you know, it's not one woman in a thousand who realises her value," said Archie after a few minutes' silence.

"Women are generally said to be vain, aren't they?"

"Of what they had no hand in doing for themselves, their beauty. I always think a good woman is like a gleam of light through a huge darkness. The man who follows her can't go wrong."

"Only one man can."

"Not in my creed of women. A woman needn't be a man's wife to influence him for good. She may be another man's wife; but she's a woman first and a wife afterwards—if she's a good woman. There's no page 232limit to the influence for good she may have on the men about her. That's why women are what they are. If a man never did anything but what he could tell a good woman what sort of man do you think he would be? A 'white' man. It's not a religion of worship; but it's nature's religion; it's the creed of impossible virtue, and yet—the ideal is a good woman; and there are heaps."

"Are there? You seem to think women are all good by nature."

"So they are. Of course there are any number of exceptions, but—— Take yourself——"

"Oh no, no, Mr. Deverell. Don't take me. I happen to be very ignorant of the world and—and I've never met wicked people, but—but I'm not strong or able to lead men as the women you mean."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Indeed yes. I—I know myself."

Archie laughed.

"Then you're a very profound philosopher, Ngaia. Why, as a matter of fact you're just an instance of what I've been saying. Don't you realise the influence you've got, the influence you've exercised since you've been here at Te Henga?"

"I!"

"Look at your own home and the way your father lives compared to the way he used to; look at our rooms the way they are kept; and Mr. Brown's and——"

"And his socks and stockings. Oh, Mr. Deverell, you're laughing at me."

"They're all facts that speak for themselves. There are heaps more. Why, neither Jack nor Arthur are a thousandth part as foul-mouthed as they were. It's you. They're simply following by your side, on your trail."

"That means——"

"That their creed is to do nothing you would instinc-page 233tively condemn as wrong or be shocked at. Oh, you're not a permanent goddess; they'll each substitute some other for you, but it'll be a goddess; for the only earthly god a man ever worships is himself and it's a blind religion."

"I never looked at life quite in that way," said Ngaia gently. "I never realised that what I said or did made much difference to any one else."

"You've brought intense pleasure to—to numbers of people."

"Men can do that."

Archie shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, don't question it. Think what you've done for me. You can't realise because—because you never can have known the misery I was in when you came to me. My life is changed now, quite changed."

"And happier?"

"And happier," she said softly.

"For always?" he asked earnestly; and he bent in his saddle and watched her.

It seemed to her as though it was a test of her strength. She drew herself up and looked at him with her soft deep brown eyes.

"For always," she said simply.

"Is it the enigma of a happiness in suffering that you preach?" he asked.

"I don't preach."

"That's meant for me and my homily on life and living," said Archie with a laugh.

She remained silent for a few paces.

"It wasn't," she said presently. "I'm glad you said what you did just now. I've learnt what men, what some men, look to in a woman. I—I never realised. It seemed to me before as if——"

"As if——?

"As if——?" he repeated.

"As if a woman was meant for some one man to— page 234to be led by him—not to lead Oh, you see I was wrong in every way— only it's too great a religion for me, I'm afraid."

"And you a goddess beyond most women already!"

She glanced at him with a frightened look on her face.

"Never fear but that you'll be worthy of your responsibility. But you haven't explained yet the enigma of—of your happiness, Ngaia—whether it's all happiness or—pain."

"It's my happiness," she said gently, not looking towards him.

"And your secret?"

"My secret if you put it so."

"It involves my warning, doesn't it?"

She saw then for the first time the trend of his remarks. She realised his delicacy in endeavouring to undo any harm he might have done, and she stepped forward as it were to meet him half way, to lessen or efface all regret on his part.

"As to your leaving Te Henga and going to your own run and—marrying?"

"Yes!"

"You warned me; and—oh, you cannot doubt but that I hope you'll be happy—very, very happy."

"And you?"

"I'll always be able to remember," she said, unconscious that her drawn, pale face betrayed all she thought herself so adroitly concealing. "Besides, I'll have Mignon, and—and you've taught me to be useful. Now I'm going to have a canter," she broke off, and before he could stop her she was several lengths ahead of him.

"Keep over to the left," he called to her, as he drew to her side. "We'll have some tea. I've a billy planted over here," he explained as they pulled up in the shadow of a small clump of bush.

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He unearthed the tin billy from under a log, and whilst he tethered the horses Ngaia collected some firewood and lit a fire. Presently the water was boiling. Archie had a pannikin, and in this they shared the milkless, sugarless tea habit had accustomed both to appreciate as the most refreshing of all stimulants.

He hardly spoke half a dozen words to her until the simple repast was finished. She was sitting on a log, playing with a long piece of flax, whilst he lay stretched on the ground at her feet smoking. His elbow was on a tuft of grass, his head resting on his hand. He was watching her intently, and she realised it, though unconscious of the worship of his gaze. His heart was beating, and every fibre of his body tingled with wild adoration for the girl.

Suddenly he sat up.

"Ngaia, what is it?"

She glanced quickly at him.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You're silent and serious."

"Am I? Perhaps it's the effect of—of your homily, as you called it," she answered with a smile.

"I warned you, Ngaia, and—it's happened," he said gently.

There was no mistaking the flush that spread over her face. There was a pitiless silence, and she felt her heart throbbing until it almost hurt her.

"I'm right, am I not? It means, after all, that your happiness of always was to be built on pain?"

"Is it fair?" she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because—oh, because it's my secret, the secret a girl wants to keep, and most of all from—from—— Because I know what is going to happen, Mr. Deverell; that you are going to leave, and have a run of your own, and—and marry. "I'm content, quite content. I'm—I'm pleased for you to be happy." She rose page 236from the log and moved away from him, and strove vainly to staunch the tears.

He had sprung to his feet, and strode over to her. She felt his hands laid lightly on her shoulders, and a sense of surprise possessed her that he should follow her.

"I'm leaving here! It's the first I've heard of it. Not that it's impossible; and if I do it will be to take up a place of my own and to marry. But you've not told me whom?"

She scarcely heard the last portion of his sentence. She certainly did not comprehend his meaning. It was enough for her that he was not leaving, that the inevitable was for a time postponed. Only she was conscious of a terrible fear lest she had betrayed herself. She buried her face in her hands. She felt his arm steal about her waist and a thrill of infinite delight possessed her. Her impulse was to free herself. For once it seemed to her he was forgetful of her trust in him, was taking an unfair advantage of her. It was all out of pity for her, she thought. He was trying to soothe her with caresses as though she were a mere child. He was casting aside his respect for her, the charm, the keynote of their companionship. And to add to her misery she realised her helplessness. Struggling to restrain her grief and to conceal the secret of her sorrow, eager only to hide her burning face and tear-dimmed eyes, she stood defenceless and was for the moment powerless to free herself from his grasp.

He bent over her. His breath fanned her cheeks. She heard him speak in a low, passionate whisper and his words framed themselves into a sentence, into a meaning.

Was she mad? Was it a dream? Were her senses playing some cruel game? Was the dread of the inevitable after all a false, empty one? Had the first wild wish for the unattainable become the reality of page 237a fact? Whatever it was, dream or madness or mere imagination, she could do no otherwise than listen, than yield and then—awake.

"Can't you guess, can't you guess who my wife will be? It's you, sweetheart," he said, and he turned her toward him. He drew her hands away. She lifted her eyes and in his, gazing into hers, she read plainly enough the certainty of that which she had once prayed for and despaired of.

Unresisting she suffered him to draw her closer. His lips met hers in a long, exquisite kiss of love the while he clasped her to him, as though she were something infinitely precious that he might lose.

She was but a girl. She was timid; she was overwhelmed with love for the man who had been so constant and so kind a Mend to her; she was frightened at the strange irresistible power that thrust all conventionality aside and left her at his mercy. She would have resisted even then, yet resistance was the last desire of her heart. She yielded, and he kissed her again and again—on her lips, on her eyes, on her cheeks, until swept by the new power she flung her arms about his neck and of her own love pressed her lips to his.

Then suddenly she seemed to regain command over herself and struggled to be free—and failed.

"Let me go, let me go," she whispered.

"Why?" he asked, still clasping her.

"Because it's impossible. It's what I've prayed for and yet it's a mistake. It's all wrong; indeed, indeed, Mr. Deverell, let me go."

"Well, I'm not going to. There, you've got to promise first. A great, big, solemn promise."

"No, no, no! Oh, do please let me go, Mr. Deverell. I'm to blame; I've forgotten."

"To blame! What for, sweetheart? And what have you forgotten? And why should you say no? page 238I want you for my wife, and I want a complete answer. You must give it to me."

"It's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because—"

"Well!"

"Because you're a gentleman, and I'm—I'm only the daughter of a common shepherd. You have a position in society, and—oh, it's impossible. Indeed it is; and—and you have no right to hold me. Please let me go."

He shook his head and looked into her eyes and kissed her. She murmured a remonstrance, and he laughed and kissed her again.

"You're a lady, and good and true. I want nothing more. You're the best and sweetest girl in all the world to me; I couldn't get more than that. Do you think I'm going to let you go under the circumstances? The plain English of it all is that you've got to promise —unless," he added, "you don't like me well enough," and, as he spoke, he, without letting her go, loosened his hold of her.

"Don't like you! I—I—" Then she paused, nor made any effort to go from him.

He bent his cheek to hers, and whispered.

"Tell me," he said, "tell me, sweetheart, do you care for me? Do you?"

He heard her sweet confession, and he lifted her face, and he read in her eyes the truth of her love.

He stooped and kissed her, and she him.

Then she made a stipulation, and insisted.

"Your father may not approve. He's—he's a baronet, and rich, and he may not like you to marry a—a shepherd's daughter."

"Not a bit. The governor won't interfere. The girl that's good enough for me is good enough for him, sweetheart"

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Ngaia shook her head.

"I' m going to be obstinate. I should never be happy if—I found that I had come between you and your father,—Archie."

"Well, we'll have a compromise. We'll be engaged to each other, but will keep it a dead secret until the governor's consent arrives."

And on that basis their troth was plighted.