The new native-school teacher, who was “green”, “soft”, and poetical,
and had a literary ambition, called her “August”, and fondly hoped to
build a romance on her character. She was down in the school registers
as Sarah Moses, Maori, 16 years and three months. She looked twenty; but
this was nothing, insomuch as the mother of the youngest child in the
school--a dear little half-caste lady of two or three summers--had not
herself the vaguest idea of the child's age, nor anybody else's, nor
of ages in the abstract. The church register was lost some six years
before, when “Granny”, who was a hundred, if a day, was supposed to
be about twenty-five. The teacher had to guess the ages of all the new
pupils.
August was apparently the oldest in the school--a big, ungainly, awkward
girl, with a heavy negro type of Maori countenance, and about as much
animation, mentally or physically, as a cow. She was given to brooding;
in fact, she brooded all the time. She brooded all day over her school
work, but did it fairly well. How the previous teachers had taught her
all she knew was a mystery to the new one. There had been a tragedy in
August's family when she was a child, and the affair seemed to have cast
a gloom over the lives of the entire family, for the lowering brooding
cloud was on all their faces. August would take to the bush when things
went wrong at home, and climb a tree and brood till she was found and
coaxed home. Things, according to pa gossip, had gone wrong with her
from the date of the tragedy, when she, a bright little girl, was
taken--a homeless orphan--to live with a sister, and, afterwards, with
an aunt-by-marriage. They treated her, 'twas said, with a brutality
which must have been greatly exaggerated by pa-gossip, seeing
that unkindness of this description is, according to all the best
authorities, altogether foreign to Maori nature.
Pa-gossip--which is less reliable than the ordinary washerwoman kind,
because of a deeper and more vicious ignorance--had it that one time
when August was punished by a teacher (or beaten by her sister or
aunt-by-marriage) she “took to the bush” for three days, at the
expiration of which time she was found on the ground in an exhausted
condition. She was evidently a true Maori or savage, and this was one of
the reasons why the teacher with the literary ambition took an interest
in her. She had a print of a portrait of a man in soldier's uniform,
taken from a copy of the 'Illustrated London News', pasted over the
fireplace in the whare where she lived, and neatly bordered by vandyked
strips of silvered tea-paper. She had pasted it in the place of honour,
or as near as she could get to it. The place of honour was sacred
to framed representations of the Nativity and Catholic subjects,
half-modelled, half-pictured. The print was a portrait of the last Czar
of Russia, of all the men in the world; and August was reported to have
said that she loved that man. His father had been murdered, so had her
mother. This was one of the reasons why the teacher with the literary
ambition thought he could get a romance out of her.
After the first week she hung round the new schoolmistress,
dog-like--with “dog-like affection”, thought the teacher. She came down
often during the holidays, and hung about the verandah and back door for
an hour or so; then, by-and-bye, she'd be gone. Her brooding seemed
less aggressive on such occasions. The teacher reckoned that she had
something on her mind, and wanted to open her heart to “the wife”, but
was too ignorant or too shy, poor girl; and he reckoned, from his theory
of Maori character, that it might take her weeks, or months, to come to
the point. One day, after a great deal of encouragement, she explained
that she felt “so awfully lonely, Mrs. Lorrens.” All the other girls
were away, and she wished it was school-time.
She was happy and cheerful again, in her brooding way, in the
playground. There was something sadly ludicrous about her great,
ungainly figure slopping round above the children at play. The
schoolmistress took her into the parlour, gave her tea and cake, and was
kind to her; and she took it all with broody cheerfulness.
One Sunday morning she came down to the cottage and sat on the edge of
the verandah, looking as wretchedly miserable as a girl could. She was
in rags--at least, she had a rag of a dress on--and was barefooted and
bareheaded. She said that her aunt had turned her out, and she was going
to walk down the coast to Whale Bay to her grandmother--a long day's
ride. The teacher was troubled, because he was undecided what to do.
He had to be careful to avoid any unpleasantness arising out of Maori
cliquism. As the teacher he couldn't let her go in the state she was in;
from the depths of his greenness he trusted her, from the depths of
his softness he pitied her; his poetic nature was fiercely indignant on
account of the poor girl's wrongs, and the wife spoke for her. Then he
thought of his unwritten romance, and regarded August in the light of
copy, and that settled it. While he talked the matter over with his
wife, August “hid in the dark of her hair,” awaiting her doom. The
teacher put his hat on, walked up to the pa, and saw her aunt. She
denied that she had turned August out, but the teacher believed
the girl. He explained his position, in words simplified for Maori
comprehension, and the aunt and relations said they understood, and that
he was “perfectly right, Mr. Lorrens.” They were very respectful. The
teacher said that if August would not return home, he was willing to let
her stay at the cottage until such time as her uncle, who was absent,
returned, and he (the teacher) could talk the matter over with him. The
relations thought that that was the very best thing that could be done,
and thanked him. The aunt, two sisters, and as many of the others,
including the children, as were within sight or hail at the time--most
of them could not by any possible means have had the slightest
connection with the business in hand--accompanied the teacher to the
cottage. August took to the flax directly she caught sight of her
relations, and was with difficulty induced to return. There was a lot
of talk in Maori, during which the girl and her aunt shuffled and swung
round at the back of each other, and each talked over her shoulder, and
laughed foolishly and awkwardly once or twice; but in the end the girl
was sullenly determined not to return home, so it was decided that she
should stay. The schoolmistress made tea.
August brightened from the first day. She was a different girl
altogether. “I never saw such a change in a girl,” said the young
schoolmistress, and one or two others. “I always thought she was a
good girl if taken the right way; all she wanted was a change and kind
treatment.” But the stolid old Maori chairman of the school committee
only shrugged his shoulders and said (when the schoolmistress,
woman-like, pressed him for an opinion to agree with her own), “You can
look at it two ways, Mrs. Lorrens.” Which, by the way, was about the
only expression of opinion that the teacher was ever able to get out of
him on any subject.
August worked and behaved well. She was wonderfully quick in picking up
English ways and housework. True, she was awkward and not over cleanly
in some things, but her mistress had patience with her. Who wouldn't
have? She “couldn't do enough” for her benefactress; she hung on her
words and sat at her footstool of evenings in a way that gladdened the
teacher's sentimental nature; she couldn't bear to see him help his wife
with a hat-pin or button--August must do it. She insisted on doing her
mistress' hair every night. In short, she tried in every way to show her
gratitude. The teacher and his wife smiled brightly at each other behind
her back, and thought how cheerful the house was since she came, and
wondered what they'd do without her. It was a settled thing that they
should take her back to the city with them, and have a faithful and
grateful retainer all their lives and a sort of Aunt Chloe for their
children, when they had any. The teacher got yards of copy out of her
for his “Maori Sketches and Characters”, worked joyously at his romance,
and felt great already, and was happy. She had a bed made up temporarily
(until the teacher could get a spring mattress for her from town) on the
floor in the dining-room, and when she'd made her bed she'd squat on it
in front of the fire and sing Maori songs in a soft voice. She'd sing
the teacher and his wife, in the next room, to sleep. Then she'd get up
and have a feed, but they never heard her.
Her manners at the table (for she was treated “like one of themselves”
in the broadest sense of the term) were surprisingly good, considering
that the adults of her people were decidedly cow-like in white society,
and scoffed sea-eggs, shell-fish, and mutton-birds at home with a gallop
which was not edifying. Her appetite, it was true, was painful at times
to the poetic side of the teacher's nature; but he supposed that she'd
been half-starved at home, poor girl, and would get over it. Anyway, the
copy he'd get out of her would repay him for this and other expenses a
hundredfold. Moreover, begging and borrowing had ceased with her advent,
and the teacher set this down to her influence.
The first jar came when she was sent on horseback to the town for
groceries, and didn't get back till late the next day. She explained
that some of her relations got hold of her and made her stay, and wanted
her to go into public-houses with them, but she wouldn't. She said that
SHE wanted to come home. But why didn't she? The teacher let it pass,
and hoped she'd gain strength of character by-and-bye. He had waited up
late the night before with her supper on the hob; and he and his wife
had been anxious for fear something had happened to the poor girl
who was under their care. He had walked to the treacherous river-ford
several times during the evening, and waited there for her. So perhaps
he was tired, and that was why he didn't write next night.
The sugar-bag, the onion-basket, the potato-bag and the tea-chest began
to “go down” alarmingly, and an occasional pound of candles, a pigeon,
a mutton-bird (plucked and ready for Sunday's cooking), and other little
trifles went, also. August couldn't understand it, and the teacher
believed her, for falsehood and deceit are foreign to the simple natures
of the modern Maoris. There were no cats; but no score of ordinary cats
could have given colour to the cat theory, had it been raised in this
case. The breath of August advertised onions more than once, but no
human stomach could have accounted for the quantity. She surely could
not have eaten the other things raw--and she had no opportunities for
private cooking, as far as the teacher and his wife could see. The other
Maoris were out of the question; they were all strictly honest.
Thefts and annoyances of the above description were credited to the
“swaggies” who infested the roads, and had a very bad name down that
way; so the teacher loaded his gun, and told August to rouse him at
once, if she heard a sound in the night. She said she would; but a
heavy-weight “swaggie” could have come in and sat on her and had a smoke
without waking her.
She couldn't be trusted to go a message. She'd take from three to six
hours, and come back with an excuse that sounded genuine from its very
simplicity. Another sister of hers lay ill in an isolated hut, alone and
uncared for, except by the teacher's wife, and occasionally by a poor pa
outcast who had negro blood in her veins, and a love for a white loafer.
God help her! All of which sounds strange, considering that Maoris are
very kind to each other. The schoolmistress sent August one night to
stay with the sick Maori woman and help her as she could, and gave her
strict instructions to come to the cottage first thing in the morning,
and tell her how the sick woman was. August turned up at lunch-time next
day. The teacher gave her her first lecture, and said plainly that he
wasn't to be taken for a fool; then he stepped aside to get cool, and,
when he returned, the girl was sobbing as if her heart would break, and
the wife comforting her. She had been up all night, poor girl, and was
thoroughly worn out. Somehow the teacher didn't feel uncomfortable about
it. He went down to the whare. August had not touched a dishcloth or
broom. She had slept, as she always did, like a pig, all night, while
her sister lay and tossed in agony; in the morning she ate everything
there was to eat in the house (which, it seemed, was the Maori way of
showing sympathy in sickness and trouble), after which she brooded
by the fire till the children, running out of school, announced the
teacher's lunch hour.
August braced up again for a little while. The master thought of the
trouble they had with Ayacanora in “Westward Ho”, and was comforted, and
tackled his romance again. Then the schoolmistress fell sick and things
went wrong. The groceries went down faster than ever, and the house got
very dirty, and began to have a native smell about it. August grew fat,
and lazy, and dirty, and less reliable on washing-days, or when there
was anything special to do in the house. “The savage blood is strong,”
thought the teacher, “and she is beginning to long for her own people
and free unconventional life.” One morning--on a washing-day, too, as it
happened--she called out, before the teacher and his wife were up, that
the Maoris who supplied them with milk were away, and she had promised
to go up and milk the cow and bring the milk down. The teacher gave her
permission. One of the scholars usually brought the milk early. Lunch
time came and no August, no milk--strangest of all, only half the school
children. The teacher put on his hat, and went up to the pa once more.
He found August squatted in the midst of a circle of relations. She was
entertaining them with one of a series of idealistic sketches of the
teacher's domestic life, in which she showed a very vivid imagination,
and exhibited an unaccountable savage sort of pessimism. Her intervals
of absence had been occupied in this way from the first. The astounding
slanders she had circulated concerning the teacher's private life came
back, bit by bit, to his ears for a year afterwards, and her character
sketches of previous teachers, and her own relations--for she spared
nobody--would have earned a white woman a long and well-merited term of
imprisonment for criminal libel. She had cunningly, by straightforward
and unscrupulous lying, prejudiced the principal mother and boss woman
of the pa against the teacher and his wife; as a natural result of which
the old lady, who, like the rest, was very ignorant and ungrateful,
“turned nasty” and kept the children from school. The teacher lost
his temper, so the children were rounded up and hurried down to
school immediately; with them came August and her aunt, with alleged
explanations and excuses, and a shell-fish. The aunt and sisters said
they'd have nothing to do with August. They didn't want her and wouldn't
have her. The teacher said that, under those circumstances, she'd better
go and drown herself; so she went home with them.
The whole business had been a plot by her nearest relations. They
got rid of the trouble and expense of keeping her, and the bother of
borrowing in person, whenever in need of trifles in the grocery line.
Borrowing recommenced with her dismissal; but the teacher put a full
stop to it, as far as he was concerned. Then August, egged on by her
aunt, sent a blackguardly letter to the teacher's wife; the sick sister,
by the way, who had been nursed and supplied with food by her all along,
was in it, and said she was glad August sent the letter, and it served
the schoolmistress right. The teacher went up to the pa once more; an
hour later, August in person, accompanied, as usual, by a relation
or two, delivered at the cottage an abject apology in writing, the
composition of which would have discouraged the most enthusiastic
advocate of higher education for the lower classes.
Then various petty annoyances were tried. The teacher is firmly
convinced that certain animal-like sounds round the house at night were
due to August's trying to find out whether his wife was as likely to be
haunted as the Maoris were. He didn't dream of such a thing at the time,
for he did not believe that one of them had the pluck to venture out
after dark. But savage superstition must give way to savage hate.
The girl's last “try-on” was to come down to the school fence, and
ostentatiously sharpen a table-knife on the wires, while she scowled
murderously in the direction of the schoolmistress, who was hanging out
her washing. August looked, in her dark, bushy, Maori hair, a thoroughly
wild savage. Her father had murdered her mother under particularly
brutal circumstances, and the daughter took after her father.
The teacher called her and said: “Now, look here, my lady, the best
thing you can do is to drop that nonsense at once” (she had dropped the
knife in the ferns behind her), “for we're the wrong sort of people
to try it on with. Now you get out of this and tell your aunt--she's
sneaking there in the flax--what I tell you, and that she'd better clear
out of this quick, or I'll have a policeman out and take the whole
gang into town in an hour. Now be off, and shut that gate behind you,
carefully, and fasten it.” She did, and went.
The worst of it was that the August romance copy was useless. Her lies
were even less reliable and picturesque than the common Jones Alley hag
lie. Then the teacher thought of the soft fool he'd been, and that made
him wild. He looked like a fool, and was one to a great extent, but it
wasn't good policy to take him for one.
Strange to say, he and others had reason to believe that August
respected him, and liked him rather than otherwise; but she hated his
wife, who had been kind to her, as only a savage can hate. The younger
pupils told the teacher, cheerfully and confidently, that August said
she'd cut Mrs. Lorrens' throat the first chance she got. Next week the
aunt sent down to ask if the teacher could sell her a bar of soap, and
sent the same old shilling; he was tired of seeing it stuck out in front
of him, so he took it, put it in his pocket, and sent the soap. This
must have discouraged them, for the borrowing industry petered out. He
saw the aunt later on, and she told him, cheerfully, that August was
going to live with a half-caste in a certain house in town.
Poor August! For she was only a tool after all. Her “romance” was
briefly as follows:--She went, per off-hand Maori arrangement, as
'housekeeper' in the hut of a labourer at a neighbouring saw-mill. She
stayed three months, for a wonder; at the expiration of which time she
put on her hat and explained that she was tired of stopping there, and
was going home. He said, 'All right, Sarah, wait a while and I'll take
you home.' At the door of her aunt's house he said, 'Well, good-bye,
Sarah,' and she said, in her brooding way, 'Good-bye, Jim.' And that was
all.
As the last apparent result of August's mischief-making, her brother
or someone one evening rode up to the cottage, drunk and inclined to
bluster. He was accompanied by a friend, also drunk, who came to see the
fun, and was ready to use his influence on the winning side. The teacher
went inside, brought out his gun, and slipped two cartridges in.
“I've had enough of this,” he said. “Now then, be off, you insolent
blackguards, or I'll shoot you like rabbits. Go!” and he snapped his jaw
and the breech of his gun together. As they rode off, the old local hawk
happened to soar close over a dead lamb in the fern at the corner of the
garden, and the teacher, who had been “laying” for him a long time, let
fly both barrels at him, without thinking. When he turned, there was
only a cloud of dust down the track.
. . . . .
The teacher taught that school for three years thereafter, without a
hitch. But he went no more on Universal Brotherhood lines. And, for
years after he had gone, his name was spoken of with great respect by
the Maoris.