Miss Tollemache had settled down at Oropi to the performance of her
daily duties, and, like Massinger, commenced to discover that New
Zealand was a most interesting, not to say exciting, place of abode.
After completing her portion of the household work, which she gladly
took upon herself in order to spare her friend's failing strength,
she applied herself diligently to the study of the Maori tongue and
the historical records of this newer Britain. The genial climate and
regular exercise acted upon her constitution so favourably that she
soon attained the fullest measure of health and spirits. Never yet had
she felt stronger in mind and body, never yet so eager for opportunity
to devote herself to the good work spread so abundantly before her.
She was rewarded primarily by noting the gradual improvement of Mrs.
Summers' health, and receiving the heartfelt thanks of the Reverend
Cyril, who, between domestic troubles, parochial duties, and a natural
apprehension of danger to his defenceless household, sorely needed aid
and support. Such he found, in addition to intellectual companionship,
in the presence of this high-souled, devoted maiden, whom he did
not hesitate to say the providence of God had sent to them in their
distress. As a school-friend of his wife's, a closer companionship and
more sympathetic intimacy was established than could have been possible
with any other inmate. Would but this wretched war end, and a lasting
peace be established, he felt as if their future lot might be one of
almost unalloyed happiness.
As for Hypatia, her fearless, eager spirit, scornful of obstacles and
inglorious ease, rejoiced in the difficulties of the position. After a
laborious day's work, during which she astonished the Maori handmaids
by the energy which she threw into her household tasks, working in
common with them, and eagerly possessing herself of the vernacular, she
pored over Maori grammars and dictionaries with an ardour not inferior
to that which had secured her the unique academical distinctions of her
year. She learned the history, the language, the manners and customs
of the singular people among whom she dwelt, with a rapidity which
astonished Mr. Summers, and caused him to remark to his wife that
he had been wont to consider the scholastic triumphs of her friend
somewhat exaggerated, but was happy now to recant and apologize. Never
before had he seen a woman in whom were allied extraordinary mental
powers with such unflagging industry, steady application with such
brilliant conceptions. Sufficiently rare among men, the combination was
almost unknown, in his experience, among women students.
"You have left out her beauty and her simplicity of manner, my dear,"
said his wife, as she smiled up at her husband's earnest face. "You
generally remark these attributes first, you know."
"True--most true," he said, relaxing his countenance. "These I had
forgotten. They make the sum-total of high gifts in her case still
more surprising. For the most part beauties are neither clever nor
studious. Nor are the studious women beautiful. Nature, in a fit
of absence of mind, has split the ingredients while fashioning her
favourites, and given Miss Tollemache a double allowance of good looks
with all the talents."
"Leaving some poor girl high and dry with neither," said Mrs. Summers.
"You do see that occasionally. Watch her there; she does not look like
the top mathematician of her year."
Nor did she, perhaps, to a superficial eye, as she sat outside the
detached building which served as a kitchen, peeling potatoes, or
rather scraping them, native fashion, with a shell; afterwards
placing them in a wooden vessel shaped like a canoe for future
culinary treatment, the while in animated conversation with Miru, a
good-humoured, round-faced native girl, whose peals of laughter were
evoked from time to time by her wonderful Maori sentences.
"Yes," said Cyril Summers, "there she sits, suitably dressed, yet
looking like a society girl at a South Kensington cookery class,
perfectly at her ease with Miru, who worships her, and yet doing the
work that is set before her thoroughly and efficiently."
"She takes the deepest interest in our converts, too," said Mrs.
Summers. "'One ought to prefer our white heathen, of course,' she said
to me the other day, 'but I must confess they seem to me unutterably
inferior in manners, dignity, and truthfulness to this race. Their
ingrained selfishness and coarseness always revolted me, in spite of my
sense of duty. Now, these people have all the simplicity and directness
of nature. Such courage, too! What tales we hear from the front of
their contempt of danger! They are, or rather have been, cruel; but so
have all nations in the barbaric stage. We don't hear of anything but
straightforward fighting now, and that is easy to understand when one
looks around on this beautiful country.'"
"Yes, indeed. I suppose it must have come sooner or later. Yet when you
contrast the old peaceful mode of living--which I used to admire when
we first came here, and were not afraid to visit their kaingas--with
the present, one cannot but grieve. It was the most perfect embodiment
of the fabled Arcadian life that could be imagined. The palisaded
pah, at once a fortress and a town, serving the purpose of the feudal
castle of the Middle Ages, to which the inhabitants retreated in time
of war; the fields and gardens so neatly cultivated, the groups of
women and children, the young men and girls of the tribe, the gossip,
the laughter, the games and exercises, of which they had a great
variety; then our canoe trips on the broad Waikato, or short boat
excursions from the coast settlements;--such pictures of natural rural
contentment, as superior to the ordinary life of common Europeans as
can be conceived."
"But then their wars--cruel and remorseless. Think of Rauparaha and
Hongi! Think of the wholesale massacres, the cannibal feasts, the
torturings, the burnings!"
"No doubt. All these things were done in their unregenerate days, but
after the advent of that great and good man, Marsden, in 1830, and the
establishment of missionary stations, these horrors gradually lessened
and were in process of dying out."
"How do you think that can be? Were there not still tribal wars and
ruthless massacres?"
"A state of conquest, succeeded by retribution, could not be expected
to cease suddenly. But you may notice that as the old cannibal
chiefs and leaders died out, they in many instances recommended the
missionaries to their sons and successors. Then the Christianized
chiefs, like Waka Nene and Patuone, never relapsed into heathenism, but
fought for us and with us to the end."
"Certainly that showed their power to assimilate civilization, when
once introduced."
"Then, again, one remarkable result of the progress of religious
teaching was their abolition of slavery. The Maoris were large
slaveholders in proportion to their numbers. They made profitable use
of captives in agriculture and the laborious work of the tribe. They
pleased themselves also by feeling that they had thus degraded their
enemies. In the case of chiefs and high-born women it was held to be an
unspeakable degradation, personal and political. When one considers the
difficulty of inducing civilized nations to forego such privileges, one
is lost in amazement that a people but lately redeemed from barbarism
should act so humanely at the bidding of a handful of missionaries. It
was to forego an ancient institution which contributed so largely to
their pride and profit; for slaves were valuable alike in peace and
war."
Following up her researches and explorations in Maori lore, Hypatia was
daily more excited by the wondrous revelations which the library of
fact and fiction furnished. A procession of warriors, orators, poets,
priests, and patriots passed before her eager vision. Conquerors who,
like Timour and Zenghis Khan, marched from one extremity of the island
world to the other, slaying and enslaving, devouring and torturing,
extirpating the weaker tribes--a devastating wave of conquest.
Individuals, again, of such force of character and fixity of resolve
that they committed themselves to the hazard of strange vessels,
voyaging over unknown seas in order to reach the wondrous isles at the
world's end, whence came these strong white strangers, who bore such
rich and rare, even terrible commodities, to the children of Maui.
Among these strong-souled envoys the historic Hongi, who dissembled
successfully, while honoured in the midst of kings and courtiers,
until he procured possession of the first firearms, after which he
cast away the veneer of civilization, and stood forth a second Attila,
the remorseless destroyer of his race. Not less, in peace or war,
the warrior and diplomatist, the Napoleon of his time, the terrible
Waharoa; risen from a slave's hard fate and toilsome life through the
mistaken lenity of his captors, he exhibited his talents by devastating
the lands of neighbouring chiefs, and his gratitude by almost
obliterating the tribe which had protected him in youth and set him
free to commence his march of doom!
Strange to say, those remorseless despots, red with the blood of their
countrymen, and unsparing of the lives of women and children, protected
the missionaries. Scorning to change their ancient faith, they yet
threw no impediment in the way of their successors becoming Christians
in name and faith, or loyal allies of the white strangers.
The names of women, too, this earnest student found profusely
associated with heroic deed and resolve, such as have rendered
individuals of the sex celebrated, nay, immortal, since the dawn of
history. Parallels were there for all the legendary heroines. In the
revival of "Hero and Leander," it was the Maori maiden, and not the
lover, who dared the peril of the midnight wave, and, more fortunate
than he, survived to form a happy union and earn the immortal fame
which still illumines the name of Hinemoa--that name still celebrated,
even though the fairy terraces of Tarata charm the traveller no more,
and the magical fire-bordered lake, even Rotorua, be whelmed in a
cataclysm.
Mr. Summers was kept accurately informed by his native converts of the
progress of the war. He heard details of the siege of Orakau in which
the little household was more than usually interested, from the fact of
Henare Taratoa and other converts being in the enemy's ranks.
"Poor Henare!" said Mrs. Summers; "he was our most promising
scholar--gentle, brave, chivalrous, the very embodiment of generosity.
He no doubt believes that he is fighting for his king and country now
that they have set up this fetish of Potatau. It seems very hard, after
all the trouble we took with him and the others."
"And why should he _not_ fight?" asked Hypatia, with raised head and
flashing eyes. "And--
'How can man die better,
When facing fearful odds?'
The position is exactly that of Horatius. History repeats itself. I,
for one, do not wonder that any man of his tribe, or woman either,
should fight to the death in this quarrel. The more I learn about the
beginning of this lamentable war, the more I feel that the authors of
it must be condemned by impartial observers."
"It cannot be logically defended," admitted Mr. Summers; "and,
personally, I deplore the inevitable consequences, the temporary ruin
of our hopes, the destruction of our schools and churches, the arrest
of civilized progress. But some such conflict was unavoidable."
"But why?" asked Hypatia.
"The two races," answered he, "would never have continued to live
together in peace. The Maori nature, proud, jealous, revengeful,
holding themselves to be the original owners of the country, the
English to be strangers and invaders, forbade a lasting peace. They
were unwilling to dispose of their lands--these millions of fertile
acres of which they made little or no use. The colonizing Briton would
never have consented to stand idly by and see this great country,
fitted to be the home of millions of Anglo-Saxons or other Europeans,
held by a handful of barbarians."
"But how about the Divine command, 'Thou shalt not steal,' 'Do unto
others'--ordinances, the keeping of which is enjoined upon individuals,
but which are so conveniently ignored by nations?"
"As a minister of the Gospel and a preacher of the Word, I am compelled
to admit that our national policy and our national religion are
often at variance. Still, it cannot be denied that the advance of
civilization has mainly depended upon conquests and the doctrine of
force. In our own land the ancient Britons were dispossessed by the
Romans and the Iberian Celts; these, again, by Jutes and Saxons,
who in turn were conquered by the Normans. These people found a
weaker race, the Morioris, whom they slew and enslaved. They nearly
depopulated the South Island, and would have wholly done so but for our
arrival. They have always acted upon, and perfectly understand--
'The ancient plan,
That they should take who had the power,
And he should keep who can.'"
"That is intelligible," said Hypatia, with a sigh; "but I must say I
cannot help sympathizing with the Maori Rangatira, in the spirit of the
Douglas at Tantallon moralizing over Marmion--
'"'Tis pity of him, too!" he cried;
"Bold can he speak and fairly ride.
I warrant him a warrior tried."'
"Do not forget the poor wahines," said Mrs. Summers. "Like all women
in these affairs of state, they seem to have the worst of it. Think of
them at Orakau, marching out of their blood-stained pah in the midst of
a hail of bullets, hungry, thirsty, perhaps wounded, and yet, without
doubt, they joined in the defiant shout of '_Akore, akore, akore!_'"
"It was glorious," said Hypatia. "I could have wished to have been
there. It has immortalized them, as well as the warriors among whom
they fought. It will re-echo through the ages long after the pahs are
grass-grown, or perhaps made into tea-gardens for the coming race."
"That reminds me that it must be lunch-time," interposed Mrs. Summers,
gently; and, with a half-reproachful gaze, the indignant advocate
subsided, and retired to her chamber.
* * * * *
Matters went on calmly and peacefully in this lodge in the wilderness,
disturbed but from time to time with war rumours and tidings of siege
or skirmish. Occasionally a burst of weeping and dolorous long-drawn
lamentation in the Maori camp told that a friend or kinsman had been
added to the death-roll. Then a former convert or pupil would stagger
in, wounded almost to the death, to be tended, and cured, if such
were possible, for no slightly wounded combatant ever taxed the warm
welcome of the Mikonaree and his household. They were either sent
away rejoicing in their new-found strength and ability to level a
musket once more at the marauding pakeha, or, in other case, were laid
to rest in the mission graveyard, comforted by the thought that the
Burial Service would be read over them by the good pakeha whom they had
learned to trust and revere.
Sometimes, when hope had departed, and they began to count their
remaining hours, they returned to the lessons which had been with
such care instilled into them in the old peaceful days of the earlier
missions. They placed their trust in the mediation of Him whom they
connected with their conversion, and recalled the weekly services and
baptismal vows, happy in the unshaken faith of youth, and passing away
to spirit-land without doubt or fear.
At other times, the warrior, roused to frenzy by pain or despair, would
solemnly renounce the stranger's God and all His ways, and quit this
life, so incomprehensible to him, chanting the ancient war-song of
his ancestors, and electing to follow them to the Maori heaven by the
stormy path of the reinga.
A chance newspaper--for, of course, all mail-carrying had been stopped,
as well as their irregular intelligence department--brought them the
news of the greater and the lesser world from time to time. In one of
these latter distributors of hopes and fears they came across these
alarming head-lines:--
"The Gate Pah! Captured after a Stubborn Resistance! Panic among the
43rd Regiment! Loss of Officers unprecedented! Names of the Killed and
Wounded!"
The list was long, and eagerly scanned. Many were names of European
reputation; others, again, of colonial fame, well known to all New
Zealand residents. With their heads close together, the names were
read out first by one, then another, as different degrees of knowledge
or acquaintance prevailed. Mrs. Summers was repeating the last two
or three names, when she came to Lieutenant Massinger of the Forest
Rangers, "_Reported missing!_"
"Whom did you say?" cried Hypatia, almost with a shriek. "Not Roland
Massinger? Oh, don't say he is dead!"
"He is not dead, my dear," said Mrs. Summers, "only missing. That
means, I suppose, that he has not rejoined his regiment. There is
nothing so very alarming about that."
"Not alarming--not alarming!" answered Hypatia, in low anguished tones.
"Do you know what it means? It may be worse than dead--far worse. He
may be in the hands of the enemy--given over to torture. Who can tell?
And it is I who am to blame for his presence in this country, for his
taking part in this dreadful war. His blood is upon my head, wretched
girl that I am!"
"My dear Hypatia," said Mrs. Summers, gently taking her hand, "why rush
to such extreme conclusions? In the first place, the poor fellow is not
known to be dead, or even a prisoner. In the next, you cannot be held
responsible for the rash resolve of a man whom you felt you could not
marry. It is most unfortunate, I grant you, but surely you are not to
be held accountable."
"No, no! it was all my doing. My heedlessness and vanity must have
encouraged him, or he would never have thought of me in that way.
Then a foolish ambition stifled any natural liking. I _did_ like and
respect him far more than any other man I had ever met. And now, this
is the end of it! He is dead, and I am the unhappy cause. I shall never
recover it."
Words were of no avail. In vain Cyril Summers and his wife tried to
moderate her passionate remorse. She could see nothing but the darkest
fate and endless sorrow before her. She had destroyed his happiness,
his career, and now his life had been sacrificed to her insane desire
to travel out of the sphere which Providence had assigned to her.
Comparatively soothed by Mr. Summers' promise to send a trusty
messenger to procure reliable information as to his disappearance and
probable fate, she at length consented to retire with her friend and
comforter. To retire, but not to rest. If she slept, troubled visions
of pale corpses and blood-stained victims mingled with her dreams, and
the dawn had appeared before the slumbers which soothe alike the young
and old, the innocent and the guilty, brought transient rest and peace
to her troubled spirit.
Mr. Summers tranquillized her somewhat by sending away a native
convert, long associated with the mission, and at her request his wife
went also. They were a trustworthy and devoted pair, whose loyalty had
been well tried since the outbreak of hostilities. Known by the rebels
as Mikonaree natives, they were enabled to pass and repass unharmed.
Indeed, they were always welcomed by the insurgents, who never charged
them with bad faith. It was rather the other way, inasmuch as the
friendly natives were more than suspected of giving information of
probable movements by the troops to their countrymen. But, if it
were so, their apologists replied that it was, after all, merely in
accordance with the ancient Maori custom, which was to send notice to
the enemy that they were coming to attack them. The famous Hongi did so
in the case of his next-door neighbour, Hinaki, Chief of the Ngatimaru
tribe, when they met in Sydney, at Mr. Marsden's dinner-table, after
the former's return from England, saying, "Get your tribe ready as
soon as you return, for I am going to attack you when I get back to Te
Hauraki." He was as bad as his word, and with the aid of civilization
(muskets and powder), succeeded in taking the famous Totara pah,
slaughtering a thousand Ngatimaru, then killing (and eating) a large
proportion of his compatriot's tribe.
Ponui and Awariki did not lose time, but started away in light marching
order for the seat of war, secretly pleased and excited by the prospect
of hearing all about the bloody engagement and its attendant horrors,
while manifesting a decent show of sorrow for the pakeha's early fate.
They were several days absent, during the lingering hours of which
Hypatia held herself to be a prey to the fabled Furies. She was fully
impressed with the idea that an evil fate had befallen the missing
soldier, on account of which the messengers hesitated to return,
awaiting fuller information.
Thus, daily becoming more and more deeply depressed and remorseful,
she pondered upon the mysterious workings of Providence, disposed
to question its justice in permitting so bitter a blow to be dealt
to her--to her, who had always acted in undoubting faith! Upon what
trifling events do the great evils and misfortunes of life appear to
depend! Like the extra allowance of sunshine in the Alpine world,
which sets free the tiny ice stream, which again unlooses the blind
and devastating avalanche, what a tragedy had her heedless action set
in motion! And the end was not yet. Of what gruesome, bloodcurdling
tidings might not the messengers be the bearers!
After a night of miserable imaginings, Hypatia arose to find that the
messengers had returned, and furnished a report of their inquiries
to Mr. Summers, who, condensing it for her information, hastened to
relieve her worst apprehensions.
"Before entering into detail, let me assure you, my dear Miss
Tollemache," he said, "that we have good grounds for believing that Sir
Roland is alive, and, if not unwounded, most likely in good hands."
"What do they say?" asked she, with tremulous lips. "Were they able to
see any one who knew? His friends--Mr. Slyde, I mean. I have heard
they were comrades."
"They joined the Forest Rangers at the same time, I heard; and there
was also the half-caste guide, Warwick, a very fine fellow, who has
attached himself to our friend. Ponui saw both of them."
"Surely they would know. They did not desert him?"
"There was no hint of desertion. Every officer of note was killed or
wounded within the first twenty minutes of the assault of the storming
party--they among the number. Warwick was severely wounded. Mr. Slyde
was unconscious, and it was thought mortally wounded; but after Warwick
had staggered to the place where he had seen Lieutenant Massinger fall,
he found that he had disappeared."
"Then they know nothing--absolutely _nothing_!" said Hypatia. "I
thought you said there were grounds for believing----"
"Allow me to continue," said the Reverend Cyril. "Awariki went among
the women of the camp, of whom there were many. There she found a
cousin who had married a Ngapuhi. She seemed to have been under fire
also, as she had a bullet through her upper arm."
"I _should_ like to have been there," said Hypatia, her eyes lighting
up with a gathering intensity, as she gazed before her towards the
dark-hued mountains which bounded their landscape. "What did she see?"
"As she rushed forward through the _mêlée_--for her husband was badly
wounded--she saw the 'pakeha rangatira,' as she called him, fall,
apparently dead. A Maori was just about to tomahawk him, when Mr.
Mannering (Tao-roa, as they call him) dashed him aside, knocking him
down, and calling aloud to his people, two of whom lifted up the
pakeha, and commenced to carry him to the rear. Immediately afterwards
several women joined them, one of whom she was confident was Erena
Mannering, his daughter, who, of course, was well known to the tribe.
After this ensued the extraordinary panic of the 43rd, and all trace of
him was lost."
"Then they did not succeed in getting him back to the Ngapuhi camp
(isn't that the name?), and they do not know what has become of him,
after all?"
"Merely this, that Awariki says she is certain that if Erena had been
taken prisoner, she is a person of such importance that the whole
_hapu_ would have been sent in pursuit. She is confident that she and
the others are in safety, or else Mr. Mannering would not be at ease
and with his people."
"But why did she not ask him?"
"He is a war chief of the Ngapuhi, and she, a common person, did not
dare to address him on such a subject. It would not be _tika_, or
etiquette, breaches of which are severely punished."
"But what do _you_ think yourself? All this is very slender
evidence--mere hearsay, in fact."
"I fully believe that he is in some secure retreat, watched over by
this extraordinary girl, Erena Mannering, whose courage and devotion
have, under Providence, saved his life."
"May she find His mercy in her hour of need!" said Hypatia, with
clasped hands and streaming eyes. "If it be so, my soul will be freed
from a burden almost too heavy to bear. It may be hoping against
hope, but I really begin to believe that his life will be spared. That
granted by Heaven, I shall have nothing--positively _nothing_--to wish
for in the future."
The remaining incidents in the capture of the memorable Gate Pah were
duly recorded by Awariki for the benefit of the household--how the
sailors, the sea-warriors of the pakeha, whose raiment was of a blue
colour, they who sprang over the palisades as if they were ships'
rigging, and the men in red who fought madly and cursed always, had
been bewitched by the spell of the Tohunga of the Ngaiterangi, and had
fled. The men in big hats (the Forest Rangers), who walked through the
bush, the flax, and the fern by night and day; the Ngapuhi, who rushed
on like a breaking wave, were all in vain against the rifle-pits of the
Ngaiterangi, whereby men were killed without seeing who fired at them.
* * * * *
Passing from one mood to the other, as is wont with women whose highly
strung nervous system seems impatient of continuous action, Hypatia at
length made up her mind that Massinger was alive, and safely bestowed
in some sylvan retreat, under the care of this mysterious, fascinating
Maori girl, of whom she had already heard much.
The natural jealousy, invariably felt by the average woman during
the appropriation by another one of an erstwhile, probable, or even
possible lover, had no place in Hypatia's generous mind. "If only he
is alive and well, I care nothing," thought she. "That she risked her
life to save his, I can well believe. All honour to her. I am at
least guiltless of his blood. I shall always feel grateful to her, for
lifting that load from my soul."
Thus, when she arose next morning and commenced to busy herself about
the indispensable duties of the household, she experienced a feeling
of relief to which she had been long a stranger. The day was fine, the
clouds of heaven had disappeared, it would seem, simultaneously with
those of her spirit. As in the Northern Britain, with its frequent rain
and hail, mist and snow, this rare day, on which the disturbing forces
of the elements held truce, was inexpressibly lovely. The mountain
snow-crown was revealed in all its purity and austere majesty, a
silver diadem against the blue and lustrous heavens. The fruit trees
in the garden, the oaks and elms, poplars and walnuts, planted in fond
remembrance of the dear old home-land, seemed bursting into redundant
greenery. The river rippled and murmured under its o'er-arching ferns,
and as the little band of dark-skinned children, with their glancing
eyes and smiling faces, all obedient and cheerful, passed on to the
modest building, wherein they were daily so patiently taught by their
pastor and his wife, she could hardly refrain from expressing her
thankfulness for the success of this single-hearted enterprise, in
which she had been deemed worthy to share.
That the wave of barbaric warfare might at any moment sweep over the
peaceful scene, leaving ruin and desolation in its track, seemed, in
the glory of that beauteous morn, incredible and preposterous. During
later musings, however, when the routine business of the little school
failed to absorb her attention, the thought would obtrude itself
of the strange complication of affairs which would arise if, as was
rumoured, Roland was about to marry this half-savage girl, as she could
not but consider her. Beautiful she was by all report, devoted she must
have been to her white lover, educated to a certain extent, and, in
virtue of her father's lands granted in earlier times, an heiress of
considerable pretensions. But----! She well knew what a death-in-life
it would be considered by his English friends. Of course, it was far
from improbable. Younger sons and others of aristocratic British
families had married these fascinating half-caste girls, even those
of pure Maori blood. This she knew from authentic sources. In this
distant land, so far from British social edicts, such a marriage was
not looked upon as a _mésalliance_. And if such should be his lot, who
would have been the dominant factor in thus shaping his destiny? Who
but herself, unwilling, doubtless, but none the less the primary agent
in his deportation, his colonial career, with its risks, dangers, and
this irrevocable lapse--finally, his absorption in a different class
and an alien race? She felt minded to groan aloud. Why should she have
been selected to work all this misery and ruin, ending, perhaps, in
death? Why could she not foresee the direful consequences flowing from
his fatal _entrainement_?
It was hard, very hard. Other men had paid her court before and since
his advent. They had accepted their dismissals calmly, carelessly,
irritably, sullenly, according to their several temperaments; in no
case had serious results followed. They had mended their damaged or
disturbed organs by philosophy, travel, gaiety, or marriage, chiefly
affecting the latter anodyne. It was surely one of the ironies of
Fate that the consequences to this particular _pretendu_ had been so
serious--the only one as to whose denial she had felt suspicion of her
heart's teaching in the ordeal.
Now, at least, all was over. She had decreed that he should have no
further part or lot in her life. If he was safe, Fate might do her
worst. She had always claimed the right to mould her own existence.
Surely she could do so still. Yet she sighed as she told herself thus
proudly that she was sufficient for her own high conception of duty. As
to happiness, that was another thing. Who were we, worms of the dust,
ephemera of the hour, that we should arrogate to ourselves the right
to a condition of perfect satisfaction? Harmony with our surroundings,
always improbable, was chiefly impossible. The stars in their courses,
as well as all the powers of darkness, were leagued to prevent it. And
yet--and yet----Here the introspective reverie ceased, and Hypatia
recalled herself to the more urgent and practical demands of daily life.
* * * * *
On the following morning Mr. Summers appeared at breakfast in an
unwonted state of excitement, almost of agitation.
"What is the matter, my dear Cyril," inquired the anxious wife. "Is the
war news worse than usual?"
"Not quite so bad as that," he said, with a reassuring smile, "but
important, notwithstanding. I have just heard that the bishop is coming
to pay us a visit, and will stay all night on his way to Tauranga."
"How did you hear? You quite frightened me. I shall be charmed to have
him. Hypatia will be overjoyed, I know. He is one of her heroes."
"A Maori messenger gave me this note," he replied, producing a twisted
and discoloured piece of paper, on which was written--
"MY DEAR CYRIL,
"I propose, with God's blessing, to be with you on Tuesday at midday.
If Mrs. Summers can accommodate me, I should like to remain with
you for one night. Will hold service in afternoon. Assemble the
people--it may be for the last time.
"G. A. NEW ZEALAND."
"And when does he say that we may expect him?" asked Hypatia.
"At or before midday," replied Mr. Summers. "Of course, he will only
remain for the night, as he is anxious to push on to Tauranga. But
he would like to hold an afternoon service; so I must get in all our
people in the neighbourhood, and, of course, the school-children."
"I am charmed with the idea," said Hypatia. "Just fancy! I have had him
in my thoughts ever since I thought of coming to New Zealand. One does
not often see an _apostle_ in the flesh. And he is one, if ever it is
given to man to behold one of God's messengers."
"That I, too, am overjoyed, you will not doubt," said Cyril. "I have a
filial feeling towards him. I was one of his curates when he first came
to New Zealand. How many a long journey on foot we made together! He
is a tireless walker, and a champion athlete in half a dozen classes.
Such a man in a boat, too! He has risked his life scores of times to my
knowledge. And now to think that so much of his life's labour has been
lost! It is heartbreaking."
"Do not say that, my dear Cyril," came in Mary Summers' quiet voice.
"The good seed has been sown. In the time to come it will bring forth,
'some fiftyfold, some an hundredfold,' as we are told in God's Word.
Look what poor Henare Taratoa did, even when fighting against us in the
Gate Pah! That was the fruit of our teaching here, I am thankful to
say."
"What was that?" said Hypatia.
"One of the Maori women that came away from the Gate Pah said that when
Colonel Booth was lying mortally wounded and perishing with thirst--for
there was no water in the pah for the last two days--Henare stole out
by night and passed through our lines, thereby risking his life, and
brought back a calabash of water, which he placed by the side of the
dying man. It was found there next morning by our men after the natives
had left the pah."
"What a splendid fellow!" said Hypatia. "He fought for his country, as
why should he not? But then, having received the Christian faith, he
followed implicitly the precepts he had learned. Our men would have
given water to wounded Maoris, but which of them would have risked his
life to procure it?"
"I could tell you of other instances of similar conduct," said Mr.
Summers. "The bishop, when he comes, will, I am sure, add to my list.
But we must set to work now to ensure him a suitable reception. You
will have a sermon, too, which, like all his addresses, will be deeply
impressive."
All requisite preparations having been made, and a sort of "fiery
cross" sent round in the hands of a fleet-limbed native youngster, a
considerable gathering of Maoris of all ages and conditions was present
at the appointed time. They came in honour of that heroic personage,
George Augustus Selwyn, the famous Bishop of New Zealand, the hero
of a hundred legends, the pioneer missionary, the modern embodiment
of faith, zeal, and devotion, who had always been willing--nay,
passionately eager--in the words of St. Paul, "to spend and be spent"
in the service of his Master.
Hypatia stood back a little space while Mr. Summers and his wife
warmly welcomed their pastor and master, with an earnestness there
was no mistaking. The dark-skinned contingent then closed in, and
obstructed her view of the man whom (with one exception), of all living
personages, she was the most anxious to see, whom by reputation she
honoured with a feeling akin to adoration.
He had come attended only by a middle-aged Maori, whose grizzled
countenance and war-worn features showed that he had done his share in
the professional occupation of the Maori _gentilhomme_ of the period.
He stood apart, leaning on his musket, but from the respect with which
he was treated by all who approached, it was evident that he was a
personage of no ordinary consideration.
It was a scene of more than ordinary interest. The older members of
the _hapu_ who still dwelt in the vicinity of the mission, were
chiefly those who from age or infirmity were debarred from going to
the war, then waged within so short a distance of their homes. A large
proportion was composed of women, children, and young people not yet
entitled to rank as combatants. All in turn came to be presented to
the _Pihopa_ Rangatira, making obeisance due and lowly. To each one
he addressed a few words in Maori, the replies to which were made
with evident pleasure, the children almost gasping with pride and
gratification at the honour of the interview. Inquiries were made after
well-known men, who had formerly been regular attendants at the little
church, but too often resulted in downcast looks, as the sad word
_maté_ (dead) came forth, and in broken accents the name of the battle,
skirmish, or locality was uttered. Well posted in the personal history
of the missionary centres and their converts, the bishop never failed
to bestow a word of sympathy or condolence upon the mourners.
The reception being ended, Mr. Summers announced that the assembly
was free to betake itself to their _kai_ (or meal), which had been
prepared, taxing to the utmost the resources of the establishment.
"Permit me, my lord, to present to you Miss Tollemache, a friend and
schoolfellow of my wife," said Mr. Summers, as they moved towards the
cottage. "A young lady lately from England, who has cast in her lot
with us."
The bishop looked with extreme surprise at the distinguished-looking
girl, so unlike what he naturally expected to see at the place and
time. Bowing, however, with easy grace, he said--
"I am afraid I cannot congratulate you upon the occasion you have
selected in which to commence your labours in the Master's vineyard.
Have you had previous experience, may I ask?"
"I have had two years' work in and around Whitechapel," said she. "I
took up the East End City Mission work soon after I finished my college
course."
"Then you have quitted your first sphere of usefulness, may I say, for
a wider field?"
"I discovered," said Hypatia, "that the locality was not suited to my
age and disposition. I retired in favour of more experienced workers.
Gathering from the letters of my dear friend and schoolfellow, Mrs.
Summers, that she needed help, I decided to come here."
"And you did well, my dear young lady, to follow the dictates of your
heart, though I would it had happened a few years previously, when
we were all rejoicing in the fruition of our hopes and the visible
reward of years of toil and privation. Now, alas! there have been sad
backslidings, griefs, and discouragements. I have been sorely tempted
to despair; but He who has hitherto led us through the wilderness will
not abandon us now. May His blessing be upon you, my dear child, and
upon all in this household. Though terrors encompass us, we know in
whom to trust, as our Defender and Guide."
As he spoke, standing within sight of the mountain and the wave, with
head raised, and that noble countenance illumined with the courage that
is not of this earth--the fervent faith in things not seen--he appeared
to Hypatia as a prophet inspired, transfigured, worthy to bear His
sacred message, to speak the words of the Most High. Her overwrought
emotional feelings overpowered her. Yielding to an irresistible
impulse, she cast herself on her knees before him and cried aloud--
"Bless me, O my father, even me!"
Strongly stirred, the good bishop laid his hands solemnly upon her
head, saying--
"May the Lord God, Most High, Most Mighty, bless, protect, and save
thee, dear child, from all evils of body and mind, also from all the
sorrows and terrors of this distracted land. May He shield thee in the
hour of need, and may His guidance be with thee until thou art led in
safety to thy home and thy friends. For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
Hypatia retired to the little room which she had occupied since her
sojourn in Oropi, feeling a renewed confidence in the vocation which
she had adopted, and a fervent resolve to persevere in the path marked
out for her, no matter what obstacles might present themselves.
When she appeared at the simple midday meal, all traces of emotion and
excitement had vanished. The little household talked freely of the
conclusion of the war as being at hand, and, that once an established
fact, the recovery of the country and the revival of the Church were
but matters of time.
"And do you think that the two races will ever agree to live in peace
and amity, after all the blood that has been shed?" asked Hypatia,
leaning forward with a rapt and eager look upon her face which reminded
the bishop of the early Christian martyrs.
"One may well doubt, Miss Tollemache," said he, with a sad yet
unshaken air of confidence. "The best blood of England has been shed
like water in these sieges and engagements. Still, I foresee the
termination. It cannot be distant now. The flower of the Maori warriors
and their leading chiefs lie low. All history teaches us that a
conquered people is always absorbed into the superior race in course of
time."
"But the difference in origin and tradition?" queried Mr. Summers.
"Is by no means an insuperable obstacle," answered the bishop. "In
those mixed unions which have already taken place, no degeneration of
type is apparent; indeed, to speak frankly, it has even appeared to me
that the offspring in many instances show an advance, physically and
mentally, upon both the parent stocks. I could name instances, but it
is perhaps unnecessary."
"We have our Joan of Arc, too," interposed Mrs. Summers; "only,
unfortunately for the romance, she is fighting or nursing, whichever it
may be, on the invaders' side."
"You mean Erena Mannering," said the bishop. "I know her well--or
did, rather, in the dear old past days. She is truly a noble damsel
in every sense of the word. Her Herculean father is a paladin for
valour, struggling with the tastes of a _savant_ and philosopher. In a
different age he would have stood at a monarch's right hand, or more
probably have been a conqueror in his own person. Her mother was a
chieftainess, brave, beautiful, and of long descent. No wonder that she
is a marvel of womanhood!"
"She is not without friends who appreciate her," said Hypatia, smiling
at the enthusiasm of the sympathetic prelate. "Fortunate girl! to be
born to a heroine's task, a heroine's applause. This is the last home
of romance, it would appear, since it has quitted Britain, at any rate
for the present."
"Have you heard the last rumour about her, my lord?" said Mr. Summers.
"No, indeed. Koihua and I came across the bush after leaving the Forest
Rangers before Orakau. I trust no harm to her is feared."
"No, but the situation is not wholly free from risk. A young lieutenant
of the Forest Rangers, wounded in the storming party, which was
repulsed at the Gate Pah, is reported missing. It is said that she was
seen with a small party of natives, who carried him off at the bidding
of her father, and that neither she nor he have been since heard of."
"In that case it is most probable that she saved his life, and, in the
absence of definite information, I should be inclined to believe that
he has been taken to a place of safety, where he will remain for the
present. What did you say his name was?"
"Roland Massinger."
"Not De Massinger of the Court, in Herefordshire--surely not?" said
the bishop, more keenly interested. "I saw him in camp when I came
from Pukerimu, poor boy! I knew his people well in England--among the
very oldest families in the land. I met him soon after his arrival in
Auckland. Whatever hard fate brought him into this disastrous strife?
But I should not say fate; rather the will of God, which often from
present chastening leads to our eventual gain. But the time draws near
for our service--the last, most probably, that I shall hold here. It
will be my farewell to these poor people, whom I have loved and prayed
for so often."
And as the good man retired to his chamber for the preparation
of prayer which he always held to be necessary, even in the most
thinly populated and apparently humble localities, Hypatia took
the opportunity of escaping from a conversation which threatened
embarrassing conditions.
Punctually at the appointed hour, the bell of the little church
having sounded for the canonical time, the man of God walked through
the crowd of dark-skinned proselytes, who awaited his arrival with
unaffected reverence; and murmurs of approbation were heard as he
paced with solemn steps towards the humble building, for which many
of those present had contributed labour or materials. Yet were not
all fully agreed. Some of the older men had been acted upon by the
disaffected of the tribe, and hardly concealed their distrust of the
pihopa, who went between the contending forces, and might, perhaps,
convey information to their foes. This allegation, openly made at the
rebel camp, caused the good bishop the most poignant grief--to think
that his people, his children in the Lord, as he fondly called them,
should distrust him, who for them, for their present advantage and
eternal weal, had sacrificed the intellectual luxuries of the parent
land, his place among the noble and the great, all the unspeakable
social advantages which await the distinguished son of literature and
the Church in Britain! And for what? To live in self-imposed exile in
a distant colony, among a barbarous people but recently redeemed from
the grossest heathen practices! It was more than discouraging, it was
heartbreaking, to one of his sensitive temperament and fervent spirit.
The service of the Church of England was read by Mr. Summers. Hypatia
was touched by the manner in which the responses were made by young
and old. Nowhere in the world could more earnestness have been shown,
less apparent wavering from the appointed ritual, which was wholly in
the Maori tongue. She had made sufficient progress in the language to
follow easily--a task lightened by the preponderance of vowels and the
disuse of the perplexing consonants so frequent in European tongues. A
greater advance can be made in Maori in a shorter time than in almost
any living language. There is much of the _ore rotundo_ claimed for the
noble fundamental languages, which now only survive among degenerate
descendants of the orators, warriors, statesmen, and artists, who,
while they rolled out the sonorous sentences, swayed the known world
with their pre-eminence in arts and arms, speech and song.
The prayers of the Anglican Church were concluded. Then the great
apostle of the South Seas ascended an ornate pulpit, the gift of a few
English friends of Mr. Summers, the carving of which had much impressed
the native congregation, themselves by no means without practice in
this ancient section of art. In his sermon--short, fervent, and chiefly
persuasive--he appealed to those better feelings which the teaching
of the missionary clergy, of whatever denomination, had been chiefly
desirous of fostering. "What," he asked, "had been the condition of
the tribes before that great and good man Marsden, the pioneer pastor,
came among them? War unbridled, ruthless, remorseless, with its
accompaniments still more dreadful--slavery, torture, child-murder, the
eating of human flesh, practices which, to their honour be it spoken,
the Maoris as a nation had discontinued. Were they not ashamed of these
things?" ("Yes, yes!" from the assembled crowd.) "Who had taught them
to be ashamed of these things? The missionary clergy, the pakeha from
beyond the seas. Who had given them the seed, the grain, the potato,
the domestic animals, the tools of iron, from which they now reaped
such abundant harvests and stores of produce? Bread, flour-mills,
garden-seeds and vegetables,--all these came from the pakeha. Who
taught them the use of all these things? The Mikonaree. He laboured
with his hands, he lived poorly, he coveted nothing for himself, he
only held a small portion of their waste lands on which to grow food
for himself and his family.
"He had done all this. But he had done more. He had taught them to
worship the only true God, and His Son Jesus Christ our Lord--the God
of mercy, of truth, of charity, of peace. And had they not lived in
peace, in plenty, in good will among themselves, until this war arose,
which was now raging to the destruction of Maori and pakeha alike? Who
counselled this shedding of blood, this burning of pahs? The clergy?
No. They knew that the voice of every clergyman, every missionary in
both islands, had been against it, was against it now. If his advice
had been taken, a runanga would have been held, of the wisest pakehas
and the high rangatiras. Judges like Mannering and Waterton would have
sat there--men who knew the Maori tongue and the Maori customs. They
would have done justice. The Waitara would never have been bought
from Teira. The Maori law would have been respected, as well as the
English law, in which every man has equal rights, the native as well
as the pakeha. Then there would have been no war; no killing of pakeha
settlers who wished to cultivate the soil and to live in peace; no
death of the soldiers and sailors; no death of the volunteers who
wished to buy and sell in the towns, who bought the natives' pigs and
potatoes, their wheat and their flax; no death of high chiefs or of
the young men of the tribes, of officers of the troops, of officers of
the ships. All these of the young and the old who now lie cold in the
earth or beneath the sky would be alive and well this day." Here more
than one face betrayed deep feeling; falling tears and gestures of
unutterable anguish told their tale.
"But the war, unhappily, had commenced, and still raged. Unwise white
men, proud and haughty chiefs, had been impatient, and forced on the
war. Had the Maoris respected the lessons they had been taught, and
been patient, even when suffering injustice, all would have been well.
The Waitara block would have been given up. It has been given up _now_.
They had many friends in the pakeha runanga; even in Sydney the Kawana
Dennitoni had sent a letter in their favour, warning the council of
the pakehas not to take Waitara. But there were unwise men on both
sides. Blood was shed. And the state of war took place. And now you
will say, 'This is all very well, but we knew much of this before. The
state of war is accomplished. What are we to do? What is best for the
Maori people?'
"I will tell you. This is my saying. I have prayed to God that it
may be right and wise, according to His will, and for your benefit,
who are my children in the Lord. We have always taught you to desire
peace--peace and good will towards all men. Cherish no more hard
feelings against the pakeha. You will have to live in the land with
him. His race is the stronger, the more numerous; he has ships,
soldiers, and guns, more than you can number; they are like the sands
of the seashore.
"The war must soon be over. I, who speak to you now, say so. Heed not
those foolish men of your race who tell you to go on fighting. It is of
no use. When the last battle is fought, and my words come true, yield
yourself to the Kawana, Hori Grey, saying, 'We are conquered. Show us
mercy. We desire peace for the future.' He has always been a friend
of the Maori people. He is a friend now. You will find that you will
receive mercy, that a portion of your lands will be restored to you.
Not all. Part will be taken for _utu_, as by Maori custom. After that
I say, heed my words and those of the good Mikonaree who have always
tried to do you good--who will do you more good in the future. 'Love
your enemies; do good to those who despitefully use you. If thine enemy
hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink,' as did Henare Taratoa,
whom I taught when he was young. You can read your Bible, many of you.
Do what you are there commanded, and it will be well with you.
"And now it may be that you will see my face no more. I have been
called back to the land whence I came, so many years ago, to do you
good, to help, to teach every man, woman, and child in this land of
Maui; such I may have done, though the seed of the Word has sometimes
perished by the wayside. But other seed, I will believe, has taken
root, and will bring forth, in due time, some twenty, some fifty, some
an hundred fold.
"And when the day comes, as come it will, when peace overspreads the
land, when the churches are again crowded, when the schools are full of
your children, when the harvests are bounteous, and the Maori people
are as well clothed, as well fed, and as well taught as the pakehas,
you will hear that your pihopa, the man who loved you and prayed with
you, is no more. In that hour remember that I told you all this would
come to pass, and honour his _mana_ by obeying the words of his mouth,
and the commandment of the most high God."
As the sermon neared this conclusion, the hearts of the people were
more deeply and strongly affected. Tears streamed down the faces of the
younger members of the congregation. Sobs and groans were frequent. And
as he turned to leave the little chapel, a simultaneous rush was made
to the door, so as to be enabled to say a last farewell. All doubt and
hesitation as to his actions since the war were swept away by the magic
of his vibrating voice, the magnetic force of his earnest tones. They
now commenced to realize that they were losing a friend in need, a
judge in Israel, a champion in the day of their oppression.
As he left the church with his host and hostess, the women and children
clustered around him, with cries of grief and genuine sorrow. They
knelt before him, they struggled for the right to kiss his hand, they
implored him to come again; they vowed that they would always be his
children, and would obey his commands till their death.
It was to Hypatia a scene indescribably affecting. The tears came to
her own eyes as she stood there, sympathetic, emotional, wondering no
more at the contagious power of the united forces of faith, enthusiasm,
and oratory combined to sway a multitude and lead a people to heroic
deeds. The men stood aloof while the women were making their moan, and
then came forward respectfully, each to receive a handshake and a word
of greeting, advice, or friendly warning. Last of all, the few elders
who had attended as it were under protest, made known their recantation
of doubt or distrust. An aged chief, whose scarred countenance and
limbs told a tale of ancient wars, hobbled forward, leaning upon
his _hano_. With an air of mingled dignity and despondency he thus
delivered himself--
"This is my saying, the saying of Tupa-roa the aged. I have listened
to the words of the pihopa rangatira; they are good words. The great
Atua of the pakehas has spoken in them. If we had hearkened to them
before, if we had said at Waitara, 'This thing is unjust, but we will
not fight; we will leave it to a Court; we will send a letter to the
Kawini across the sea; we will ask for justice till the winds cease to
blow, till the fire-mountain in White Island stops breathing flame;'
then our wisdom would have been great. What the pakeha says is true. We
had many friends, just men, in the pakeha runanga. After all, Waitara
was given back. Why? Were the pakehas afraid? No! See what has come of
it. My son is dead, and his"--pointing to another elder who stood near
him--"and Takerei and Puoho, all dead--all gone past the reinga, where
I also shall soon follow. But we were as children, who see not into
the future. Those unwise ones, who should be silent in council, were
allowed to lead the nation; and now we are a broken people, our pahs
are burned with fire. Our lands are taken, our sons are dead, also our
high chiefs. If we had listened to the pihopa, to the Mikonaree, to
Kawana, Hori Grey, these things would not have come to pass. My saying
to you, O people, is to show honour to the pihopa and his _mana_,
and so will it be well with you, with all of us, and our children's
children."
Here he advanced, and motioning to one of the seniors who carried his
greenstone _mere_, an emblem always of honour and authority, he made
a gesture of humility and handed it to the bishop, who, receiving it,
shook hands warmly with the old warrior and his aged companions. At
this moment Mr. Summers gave out the Hundredth Psalm, which the whole
congregation took up and sang with wonderful fervour and correctness,
many of the voices being rich and expressive. At the close, the
bishop, raising his hand, solemnly pronounced the benediction, and the
congregation slowly departed.
"What a wonderful scene!" said Hypatia to Mrs. Summers, as she and the
two children walked slowly after the bishop and her husband. "I feel
certain that they will not believe it in England, when I write and tell
them what interest these people showed in the service. There was none
of the yawning or irreverence that one often sees in a village church
there. How they hung upon the bishop's words! I could understand a
good deal, but not all. It is a fine language, too, and by no means
difficult to learn."
"Didn't old Tupa-roa talk well, mother?" said the eldest girl, a
fair-haired Saxon-looking child, the rose bloom of whose cheeks did
justice to the temperate climate. "He looked very fierce, too, when he
spoke about the war, his sons, and the chiefs, all _maté, maté, maté._"
"I thought it inexpressibly mournful," said Hypatia. "The aged veteran,
a war-chief, I suppose, in his time, grieving over his broken tribe and
ruined land. Owning, too, that if wise councils had prevailed all might
have been avoided."
"He was a great chief once," said the little girl. "Old Tapaia told me
that he used to kill people, and eat them too. Wasn't that horrid? But
he has been good for a long time, hasn't he?"
"You mustn't believe all that Tapaia tells you," said Mrs. Summers;
"and you know I don't like you to talk to the old women, only to
Hiraka, who is sure to tell you nothing foolish. You monkeys can
chatter Maori as well as any child in the kainga. I think I must forbid
you going there at all."
"Oh, mother, I will be good, and never talk to the old women, if you
will let me go sometimes. The children are so funny, and they play such
nice games. One is just like our cat's cradle."
"You can go, my dear child, when I am with you, or Miss Tollemache,
but not by yourself. And now it must be nearly tea-time, so let us get
home. The bishop will leave us at sunrise, I know."
That evening, with its homely meal, was long remembered by Hypatia. The
quiet converse continued far into the night with Mr. and Mrs. Summers.
Even, moreover, a short private conversation which the good bishop
found time to arrange with her sank deeply into her heart.
Having questioned her kindly but closely as to her motives for leaving
her friends, and taking up the hard, unlovely, possibly dangerous,
vocation she had adopted, he warned her against mistaking a transient
preference--the novelty of a mission to the heathen--for the Divine
summons.
"I do you full justice, my dear child," said he; "you are devoting
yourself to the noblest earthly duty, but I feel it right to warn you
that, though the war must be nearing its close, there may be even
greater dangers in store for isolated households such as this. Even
after the collapse of the hostile tribes, there may be desperate
bands roaming the country, seeking by plunder and outrage to avenge
the downfall of their race. I have warned Cyril, and have counselled
him, on the first rumour of such horrors, to remove his household to
Auckland, and, even as I would do in the case of my own daughter, I
have urged him to send you to the protection of any friends you may
have in New Zealand 'until this tyranny be overpast.' Weigh my words
well, and may God give you power to choose aright."
"I cannot fully express my deep gratitude, my lord, for the honour you
have done me, and the interest you have taken in my welfare. That I
did not devote myself to mission work without earnest and prayerful
thought, your lordship may rest assured. I counted the cost beforehand,
and now I cannot dream of deserting my colours, so to speak. You will
not think that I am quite destitute of prudence. I shall accept the
decision of my dear friend and her husband. If they think it imperative
to retreat in the face of too evident danger, I shall accompany them.
But as long as they remain, whatever may be the disquieting rumours, I
shall be found at their side. '_Ake, ake, ake_,' as the men at Orakau
said. We must not let the Maoris have all the glory on their side."
The bishop smiled as she used the historical words of the unconquered
garrison, but could not forbear gazing with admiration at the
high-souled maiden, as she stood with upraised head and flashing eyes
before him; a marvel of classic beauty, embodying all the nobility of
form and feature which painters and sculptors have from the earliest
ages loved to depict--an emblem of matchless womanhood devoted to a
lofty ideal.
"We are all in God's hands," he said softly. "Let Him do what seemeth
to Him good. May He bless and protect you, my child, and all who are of
this household to-night."
Stars were contending with the rain-clouds of a stormy dawn as Hypatia
drew back the curtain from the window of her bedroom and looked out.
She saw the bishop come forth from the guest-room at the end of the
verandah, wrapped in his cloak. He handed his valise to the Maori
attendant, Koihua, who stood motionless at the foot of an English elm
tree, and with staff in hand set forth on the Tauranga road with the
free step and elastic stride of a trained pedestrian. Once, and once
only, at the first turn in the winding path did he look back for an
instant, and, noting Hypatia's face at the window, waved his hat in
token of farewell, and disappeared in the woodland. There were tears in
Hypatia's eyes, springing from a sentiment she could hardly analyze, as
she turned from the casement.