CHAPTER XVI

The hour before dawn, when "deep sleep falls upon men," found the whole

household wrapped in that slumber which was the natural outcome of an

anxious and exciting day. But the quick loud bark of an angry dog,

subsiding into a sustained suspicious growl, and joined to a woman's

scream from the camp of their native adherents, told Cyril Summers that

the enemy was at hand. A confused murmur of voices, the trampling of

feet, with the ordinary indefinable accompaniments of a body of men,

aroused the sleepers with startling suddenness.

Mrs. Summers and Hypatia, like women on a sinking ship, displayed

unwonted courage. Dressing themselves and the wondering children in

haste, they joined Mr. Summers in the living-room of the cottage at

the same moment that it was filled by an excited crowd of the wildest

natives which any of the party had ever seen.

The leader, a ferocious-looking Maori, whom Mr. Summers had no

difficulty in recognizing as Kereopa, advanced with threatening air

towards him; but, seeing that the missionary had no weapon, nor

apparently the wish or means to defend himself, he halted abruptly.

Behind him stood a crowd of natives, the greater part of whom had

advanced into the room, while others could be seen through the open

door between the cottage and the outbuildings. Looking more closely in

order to discover if by chance there were among them any of his former

servants, Mr. Summers saw, to his horror and disgust, a white man.

This renegade, dead to every feeling of manhood, a deserter from his

regiment, was one of those abandoned wretches to be found in all new

countries, who, associating with savages, encourage them in outrage and

rapine. Outcasts from their race, aware that a speedy death by bullet

or halter awaits them on capture, they have always been noted as the

most remorseless foes of their own people.

Feeling, however, that by interrogating the man he might procure more

accurate information than from the dangerously excited chief and his

followers, he addressed him.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion at this hour? Ask Kereopa if he

has not made some mistake."

The renegade, apparently pleased at being civilly addressed, translated

the question, and repeated it to the chief, who in a loud and

threatening voice replied--

"Tell the Mikonaree that I, a prophet of the Pai Marire, have received

authority from the angel Gabriel to kill or take into captivity all the

pakehas, with their wives and daughters, as did the Israelites with the

Amalekites."

"Have I ever done you harm? Have I not taught your people to grow the

bread-grain, the potato, the vegetables on which they grow strong and

healthy?"

"What have you done--what have the white men done?" shouted the

wild-eyed chief, now working himself into an insane fury. "You have

taught us your prayers and stolen our lands. You have given us the

grain and taken the fields. Where are our brothers, our sons, our

chiefs? Slain by your soldiers, after robbing them of their lands--even

Waitara and Tataraimaka. They are cold in the ground on which they

planted and feasted, but which now only serves them for graves."

"Surely you would not kill people with no arms in their hands. Which of

our missionaries has ever fired a gun even in defence of his life?"

"The priests of your people do not fight, but they act as spies; they

have betrayed our plans to the pakeha general. They will all be killed,

like Volkner, to show the world that we shall have no spies, no false

prophets, no priests of Baal, amongst us. Prepare to die, even as

Volkner died, whose head, with that of the pakeha Boyd, is with us. Let

their hands be tied."

At once several eager warriors sprang forward, by whom the women and

the missionary were seized. Their hands were bound behind them with

strips of the native flax, which effectively rendered them helpless

captives.

"You will die when the sun goes down," he said, indicating Cyril

Summers. "Call on your God to help you. The rope is ready, and the tree

on which you will hang, as did Volkner. But all are not here. Where is

the wounded pakeha, and the Ngapuhi girl Erena?"

"They have gone; they went yesterday."

"Which path was theirs? If you deceive me, great suffering will be

yours before you die."

"They went into the forest; that is all I can say. The God in whom I

trust will save me from cruelty at your hands."

A native at this time said some words in the Maori tongue which seemed

for the time to allay the wrath of the raging wild beast into which

Kereopa was transformed.

"It is well. Their tracks will be found; Ngarara is a keen hunter

when the prey is near. He is pursuing the Ngapuhi girl Erena, whose

heart the pakeha soldier has stolen from him. He will cut _his_ heart

out of his breast and eat it before her eyes. I will give her to him

for a slave. All the pakeha women shall be slaves to the men of the

Pai Marire when the day of deliverance shall come. _Hau-Hau, Hau-Hau,

Hau-Hau!_"

Here the countenance of the half-insane savage became changed into

the likeness of a ferocious beast, as he yelled out the war-cry of

the sect, which was immediately caught up and re-echoed, dog-like, by

every individual in the maniacal crowd. With eyes almost reversed in

their sockets, with tongue protruding, with the foam flying from his

lips, and every human feature lost in the bestial transformation, he

resembled less a human being than a monstrous demon from the lowest pit

of Acheron.

Mrs. Summers fainted, the children screamed piteously, and Cyril made

one step forward, as if, even with his fettered hands, he essayed to

do battle with the destroying fiend. He was immediately seized by two

powerful natives, who had been standing near him, and forced back to

his former position. Realizing his utter helplessness, he groaned

aloud as he saw Hypatia bending over his wife's drooping form, while

she adjured her to preserve her presence of mind for the sake of the

terrified children and her unhappy husband.

"We shall need all our strength to carry us through this ordeal," she

said. "We need it for prayer and faith, which, even in this dark hour,

will save us."

As she spoke, the brave spirit of the devoted wife and mother recalled

her to life and consciousness. She gazed on the strange surroundings of

their once peaceful home, and after giving vent to her emotions in one

wild burst of tears, resumed her efforts at composure.

Fortunately for the overwrought feelings of the captives, a diversion

at this critical moment was effected through an unusual noise beginning

among the natives clustered beyond and around the open door. A cry,

whether of warning or triumph, came from the forest path; gradually it

swelled into greater distinctness, until it resolved itself into the

well-known shout of triumph which proclaimed the capture of an enemy

of note. It was then seen, by the full dawn light now breaking through

the masses of gloom, to proceed from a body of men emerging from the

forest. The leaders of the party were dancing and singing with an

exuberance which betokened victory and triumph. When the whole body

debouched from the wood, it was seen to have in its midst a litter

borne by four men, beside whom walked a girl with haughty and defiant

mien. She looked more like a barbaric queen than a captive taken in

war, as her fettered wrists showed her to be. Her attendants had been

similarly treated, with the exception of the bearers, who were so

closely surrounded that their escape had been considered improbable.

By the time they had reached the open space behind the cottage, the

whole party, including Kereopa, had quitted the room, and joined in the

tremendous volume of triumphant yells and cries which rent the air.

"Let the pakeha wahine come forth and look upon their friends," said

Kereopa, with devilish malice. "They will see how the prophets of the

Pai Marire obey the message of the angels, how the sword of the Lord

and Gideon is made sharp for the evil-doer, and how the convert from

the Ngapuhi is rewarded in the hour of victory."

Fearful of further violence, Cyril Summers had partially supported

his wife, followed by the shuddering children, to the porch, around

which in happier days he had pleased himself with training a clematis.

Hypatia stepped forward with wide eyes, as expectant of instant

tragedy. Almost unheeding of her own danger, and the fearful position

in which all were placed, she could not repress her interest in

Massinger, as with almost equal eagerness she looked at Erena. He

lay back on the rude pillow which had been placed below his head,

deathly pale, and only exhibiting consciousness through his heaving

breast and the movements of his eyes. But when she turned her gaze

upon the dauntless form of Erena Mannering, all womanly jealousy was

obliterated by the glow of admiration which the girl's regal bearing

and fearless spirit evoked in her. She moved among the fierce crowd of

half-doubtful, half-bloodthirsty Hau-Haus with the air of a princess

among pariahs. Upon those who pressed closely to her side she from time

to time bestowed a glance of scorn and menace, accompanied by a few

words in their own tongue, from which they shrank as from a missile.

Her eyes blazed as they were turned upon Kereopa, who with sneering

smile approached her, pointing to the half-inanimate form of Massinger.

"The pakeha is sick; the pakeha is tired," he said with affected

regret. "It is wrong that he was carried so far. His wound must be

unhealed. The Pai Marire grieve. _He will not stand the fire well_,

tomorrow. There will be a _haka_ too, in honour of Ngarara's marriage,

which he must first witness."

"Dog of the Hau-Haus!" said the indignant maiden, with all the

scorn and wrath of a line of chiefs shining from her storm-litten

eyes. "Speak you to a war-chief's daughter of the Ngapuhi as to a

slave-woman? What false tohunga have ye, that thy doom and that

of thy herd of swine is concealed from thee? See thy future fate,

as in that darkening cloud, coming nearer and yet nearer!" As she

spoke, she pointed to a thunder-cloud which, after the mists of the

morning, had gathered size and volume, and was now moving with the

course of the dawn-wind towards them. Such was the majesty of her

mien, such the tragic earnestness of her tones, as she stood, like a

priestess of old, denouncing wrong and oppression, that the crowd,

deeply superstitious as is the race, turned instinctively towards the

approaching phenomenon; and when the thunder rolled, and the jagged

fire-stream issued from the ebon, a shuddering sound was audible, which

showed how deeply fear of the supernatural was rooted in the native

mind. "Behold!" said the fearless, inspired maiden, as she raised her

hand and pointed to the sky, "the Atua of the Storm has spoken! Beware

how you touch a hair of our heads. Shed the blood of these pakehas, who

have never done your nation aught but good, who are now helpless in

your hands--torture this sick soldier--and not a man here will be alive

when the moon is dark!"

As Erena uttered the words of doom, she paused for a moment, while the

audience gazed around, as if waiting for some physical manifestation

in answer to her words. Kereopa preserved his expression of malicious

unbelief, as though willing to torment his captives with all the

dreadful uncertainty which might comport with a treacherous delay.

Glancing at him for a moment with unutterable scorn, she left her

position, and, moving to the side of the litter, gazed into the face of

the sick man with anxious tenderness.

But it was evident that the natives generally had attached more meaning

to her words than could have been expected. She had stirred their blood

and aroused their superstitious fears. This killing of pakehas, except

in fair fight, had always been regarded as unlucky. Terrible penalties

had been exacted, even when the offence in war-time had seemed to them

trifling and unimportant. Then, this Erena Mannering was the daughter

of a man more fierce and implacable even than their own warriors--a

war-chief of the Ngapuhi, and as such likely to exact a memorable

revenge. The Pai Marire was only of recent date. There were even now

rival seers and prophets, as in the case of Parata, who withstood

Kereopa, and had bitterly reproached him for the barbarous murder of

the missionary Volkner. There was a movement of doubt and opposition

afoot, which was evidently strengthened, as an aged warrior came

forward and addressed the natives.

"Men of the Pai Marire," he said, "let us beware of going too far in

this matter, lest we offend a more powerful Atua than those of the

Hau-Haus, whom we knew of but a short while since. If we kill the

soldiers of the pakehas, who have killed our sons and brothers"--here

the old man's features worked convulsively--"taken our lands, and

burned our kaingas, that is just, that is _utu_. But to kill the

Mikonaree, who fights not with guns or swords, who teaches the children

the pukapuka, who heals the sick and feeds the hungry, that is not

_tika_. The Atua of the Storm has spoken." Here another volley of

heaven's artillery shook the air, as the lightning played in menacing

proximity to the disturbed and upturned faces of his hearers. "Beware

lest worse things than the slaughter of chiefs at Te Ranga happen to

us."

A strong feeling of indecision was now apparent in the excited crowd,

who but an hour since were eager for blood and flames, the death of

the men, the leading into captivity of the women and children. It is

possible that the mass vote of the Hau-Haus would have gone against

Kereopa, who was not an hereditary chief of importance, only an obscure

individual, lifted by superior cunning and energy to power in disturbed

times. But at that moment the malignant face of Ngarara was seen to

emerge from among the last arrivals, and his voice was heard.

"Men of the Pai Marire, listen not to the words of age and fear! He

speaks the words of the pakehas and their lying priests. The prophets

of the Pai Marire have foretold that the Hau-Haus are to rule the

land, to drive the pakeha into the sea, whence in an evil hour they

came, to inhabit their towns, and to take their wives and daughters as

slaves. Even now, the Ngatitoa are marching to Omata, whence they will

capture Taranaki with all the pakeha's treasure. It has been foretold

that the Pai Marire shall increase as the sands of the sea, that all

the tribes shall join from the Hokianga to Korararika. I have left the

Ngapuhi to follow the Pai Marire, and I know that the tribe, except a

few old men, have resolved to abandon Waka Nene and his pakeha friends,

and to give the young chiefs authority to lead. You have but to join

the march to Waikato, and the land of Maui is yours again."

"You have well spoken," shouted Kereopa, whose fierce visage was now

aflame with wrath, and the half-insane gleam of whose eyes told of

that fanatical ecstasy which is akin to demoniacal possession. "The

land will be ours, the pakeha's treasures shall be ours; his women

shall work in our fields and carry burdens, even as the women of the

South were wont to do after our raids. Place the head on the _niu_, and

let the war-dance begin. The angel has again spoken to me, and I am

commanded to cause the sword of the Lord and Gideon to be reddened with

the blood of the Amorites."

Then commenced a scene of savage triumph, appalling, revolting, almost

beyond the power of words to describe. The fury of the excited natives

appeared to have transformed them into the brutish presentments of

the herd of animals which surrounded the fabled enchantress. The head

of the unfortunate Captain Boyd, raised on a pole planted in the

ground, was surrounded by a yelling mass dancing around it, with

fiendish gestures of rage and derision. All likeness of manhood seemed

obliterated, and the ancient world would seem to have been reproduced,

with a company of anthropoids devoid of human speech, and capable only

of the purely animal expression of the baser passions.

What the feelings of the forlorn captives were, thus delivered into

the hands of the most remorseless foes of their race, can scarcely

be imagined or described. They deemed themselves at that moment to

be abandoned by man, forgotten of God. A dreadful death, horrors

unspeakable, degradation irrevocable, awaited them. Like a fated crew

awaiting their doom upon a sinking ship, all sensation was perhaps

deadened, absorbed in despairing expectation of the last agony

immediately preceding death.

The Christians summoned from their cells to the arena in the reign of

Nero must have had like experiences. Alike the agony of despair, the

doubt of Eternal Justice, the shrinking of the frail flesh about to

be delivered to the hungry beasts of prey, the torturing flame, the

gloating regard of the pitiless populace. All these were apparently to

be their portion in this so-called civilized century, this boasted age

of light, of freedom, of art, and intellectual environment.

Similar thoughts may have passed through the mind of Hypatia

Tollemache, as she recalled her classical studies, and saw the

blood-soaked arena of the Roman amphitheatre before her, of which the

essential features were now in rude and grotesque presentment.

And had it all come to this? Was all the labour, the self-denial, the

toilsome day, the weary night, the exile, the home-sickness, but to

end thus? Not for herself did she mourn, perhaps, so much; not for

the warrior maid, whose high courage and inherited traditions enabled

her to defy insult and brave death. They had courted the danger and

must now pay the price. With Massinger, too, his chief regret would

be that he could not stand in the ranks as at Rangariri and Orakau,

dealing death around, and fighting breast to breast with the ruthless

foe. And though death by tortures, dreadful and protracted, such as all

had heard of in old Maori wars (and it was whispered around camp-fires

was not wholly obsolete), was gruesome and unnatural, still it was,

in a rude sense, the payment lawfully exacted by the victors. But

for these mild and gentle teachers of the Word, who had, for nearly

a decade, wearied every faculty of mind and body in the service of

their heathen destroyers, it was indeed a hard and cruel fate. She

saw, in imagination, Cyril Summers dragged to the fatal tree, with the

rope around his neck, as was that steadfast servant of the Lord, Carl

Volkner. She saw the ashen face and stricken limbs of Mary Summers, as,

all-expectant of her own and her children's fate, she would witness

the death and mutilation of her beloved partner. What was the mercy,

the justice, of that Supreme Being to whom they had bowed the knee

in prayer since infancy, where was an overruling Providence, if this

tragedy was permitted to be played out to the last dreadful scene?

Where, alas! could one turn for aid or consolation?

Such thoughts went coursing through her brain, mingled with such

curious and even trifling observation, unconsciously made, as during

the fast-fleeting moments of life have often been noted to occupy the

mind. She looked mechanically at the war-dance still being performed

by the exulting savages, varied by the devilish rites, if such they

could be called, performed around the dead officer's head, which with

awful eyes appeared to stare down upon the unholy crew. Cyril Summers

and his wife were kneeling in prayer; the children, having exhausted

themselves in weeping, were examining the _débris_ of their household

gods. Hypatia herself, with her masses of bright hair thrown back from

her face, and carelessly tied in a knot behind her head, was leaning

against the doorsill, in position not unlike the Christian maiden

in a great picture, where each martyr is bound to a pillar in the

amphitheatre, when she saw Erena move more closely to Massinger's couch

and whisper in his ear. The Maori guard was temporarily occupied, as

an expert, in noting the evolutions of the war-dance, and had relaxed

his watch. The sick man lay motionless, but the languid eyes opened;

a gleam of hope--or was it the fire of despair?--was visible, with a

slight change of expression.

"She knows something; she has told him," thought Hypatia, as she moved

cautiously but slowly, and very warily, within hearing.

At this time the supreme saltatory expression of triumph was being

enacted. The noise was deafening, so that the clear tones of Erena's

rich voice were audible.

"This is nearly the end of the war-dance; then the murders and the

torture will commence. The torture will last all night; they will take

out Roland and tie him to a stake, cutting pieces of flesh from his

body. Poor fellow! there is not much on his bones. As for us, we shall

be carried away to the Uriwera country."

"You want to frighten me to death," said Hypatia. "What dreadful

things even to speak of! Can we not kill ourselves? I never thought I

should wish to do that. I can now feel for others who have done so."

"They have prevented it. Our hands are tied. There is no river here; no

precipice, or we could throw ourselves over, as our women have often

done."

"You seem strangely indifferent, Erena. I cannot think you heartless;

but on the verge of death, or a captivity infinitely worse, surely you

cannot jest about our position?"

"Far from it. My whole heart is quivering with excitement and anxiety;

for _his_ life, which I value a thousand times more than my own, is

trembling in the balance. But, after all, I do not really think these

dreadful things will come to pass."

"Why? What reason have you?"

"You remember that I came in late, the day after our arrival--on the

day when I wished to go on with our journey?"

"Now I do remember. You looked as though you had been a long way."

"I had indeed. I went back on our tracks very nearly as far as the cave

where Roland lay concealed, when we brought him away from the Gate Pah.

I thought I might meet some of my father's people, who would have made

short work of these bloodthirsty Hau-Haus. But he had gone off towards

Opotiki, as a report had come of another rising. But luckily I met some

one, and it will go far to save our lives."

"Who was it?" asked Hypatia, breathlessly.

"It was Winiata. He had heard of these Hau-Haus being on the march, and

that Ngarara had persuaded Kereopa to follow us up."

"And what aid did he give you?"

"Merely this--that a body of Ngatiporu were following up this _taua_,

led by the most dreaded warrior in all New Zealand, Ropata Waha Waha."

At the mention of this name, so well known throughout the length and

breadth of New Zealand--

"In close fight a champion grim,

In camps a leader sage"--

Hypatia could hardly repress a cry of joy.

"Then perhaps we may be saved, after all."

"If he comes in time; and God grant he may. He should be very close

now. And I know Winiata will travel without rest or food till he

strikes his trail. And yet I have a foreboding that one of us will die.

So said the tohunga, whose words never failed yet. I cannot shake off

the feeling."

"You have overworked yourself," said Hypatia. "You can have had little

rest, food, or sleep since you left yesterday. It is the result of

fatigue and anxiety."

"Anxiety has too often been my lot," said the girl, with a deep accent

of sadness. "But fatigue I never felt yet. These wretches are spinning

out their dance. They had better make the most of it. If all goes well,

it is the last some of them will ever join in. Now, listen! Do you hear

nothing?"

Hypatia bent her ear towards the forest, and listened with all the

eagerness which the situation demanded. A faint murmur once, and once

only, made itself audible.

"It is the sound of the breeze among the pines," said she at length.

"Listen again! Do you hear nothing?"

"Only a far-off sound like the rippling of the river. Once I thought I

heard the trampling of feet; but it must be a mistake."

"It is no mistake," said Erena. "I hear the steady tramp of a large

body of men; and so would these fools, if they were not too much

occupied with their absurd dance, which they intend to finish up with

blood. And so it will; but not as they think."

The war-dance, with its stamps and roars, its shuddering hisses and

accurate evolutions as if of one man, was drawing to a close. Already

one of the foremost warriors, at a sign from Kereopa, had placed a rope

round the neck of Cyril Summers, who had commenced in a final prayer to

commend his soul and his loved ones to the protection of their Maker,

when a shout from a number of unknown voices made the forest ring, and

caused the crowd of Hau-Haus to turn their faces in that direction. At

the same moment a close and well-directed volley was poured in, which

laid fully one-half of them low, and wounded a much larger number. Then

a man stalked calmly forward, sword in hand, whose sudden apparition

created as much consternation among the Hau-Haus as if he had been a

Destroying Angel specially commissioned for their extirpation. One

look at the stern features and martial form of him who stood calm and

unmoved amid the pattering hail of bullets, with which the Hau-Haus

strove to return the fire, was sufficient for most of the Pai Marire.

With a wild cry of "Ropata Waha Waha!" which came tremulously from

their lips, they fled in all directions in a state of the most abject

terror. And well might they or other rebels take panic at the sight of

him who stood exposed to danger, both from friends and foes, as though

the thick-flying bullets were thistledown.

The hostile tribes were fully of opinion that he bore a charmed life,

that no shot had power to harm him, probably in consequence of Satanic

influence. Hence his _sobriquet_ of Waha Waha was strangely suggestive

of an unholy alliance between the Prince of Darkness and the cool

strategist and remorseless warrior, to whom fear and mercy were alike

unknown. A target for the best marksmen in a hundred fights, himself

chiefly unarmed, he had never received a wound or spared an enemy. As

he stood there, with an expression of scorn and concentrated rage upon

his expressive features, with dripping sword and blazing eyes, he might

well have stood for a portrait of an avenging angel, or indeed Azrael,

the minister of Death, in all his lurid majesty.

Kereopa and his principal followers, who had fled at the first onset,

probably thought that they had a fair chance of escape. But Ropata,

with his usual astuteness, had formed a cordon around the Hau-Hau band,

into which the surprised natives ran, only to find themselves shot down

or captured. Among the latter were eleven members of his own tribe, the

Aowera. Of these he proceeded to make an example upon the spot. Calling

them out of the group of captives by name, he thus addressed them--

"You are about to die. I do not kill you because you are found in arms

against the pakehas. But I forbade you to join the Hau-Haus. You have

disobeyed me; you must now pay the penalty."

Having revolvers handed to him, he then shot every man with his own

hand.

"Bring forward the deserter."

The soldier, a man of the 57th, bound and helpless, was then led up.

"You," he said, addressing the renegade, "are a disgrace to your

regiment and to your country. You are said to have shot two of your

own officers in battle. You have helped these natives to commit crimes

which are a thousand times worse than open war. You will kill no

pakehas or natives after today."

With the instinct of a born leader, Ropata had taken in the various

points of the situation at a glance, and issued his orders with the

promptitude which the crucial moment demanded.

"Release the pakehas. Kill that Hau-Hau dog holding the rope, and hang

up the deserter with it; he is not worthy of a soldier's death. Bind

that Ngapuhi; he shall answer to his own chief."

These orders, coming from a man who rarely had occasion to speak twice,

were obeyed on the instant. The amateur executioner was tomahawked

before his surprise permitted him to drop the rope. Cyril Summers

was freed, and the deserter was run up to the branch of the willow

tree destined for his martyrdom. The cords which bound Erena and her

attendants were loosed by willing hands, the men and even the women

promptly possessing themselves of weapons from their dead captors.

Ngarara's countenance, when he saw himself at once baulked of his

revenge and cheated of his prey, was a study of all the evil passions

which degrade the human race to the level of the brute. Such is the

phrase, unfair indeed to the animal creation, which, however unsparing

in its allotted course of action, is never guilty of the calculated

cruelty of _la bête humaine_. For one moment he stood indifferent

to his coming fate as Ropata himself; then, drawing his revolver,

fired point-blank at Massinger, who had raised himself to a sitting

posture with Erena's assistance, and was watching the conflict with an

eagerness which betokened a partial renewal of strength. As he raised

the weapon Erena flung herself before her lover, with an instinctive

movement of protection. Passing her right arm around his neck, she

lowered him to his pillow, with all the heroic tenderness which from

time immemorial has characterized the woman as nurse and ministering

angel. With a grin of fiendish malice Ngarara parried the tomahawk blow

aimed at him by a blood-bespattered Aowera, and, eluding his clutch,

dashed into the forest and disappeared.

* * * * *

The fray was over. The Hau-Hau prisoners were securely bound. Sullen

and despairing, they stood in a circle on the spot where their

war-dance and the Pai Marire rites had been performed. The derision of

their captors was openly expressed. The bodies of their comrades and

relations lay around in all the hideous abandon of the death-agony.

From the tall pole the head of the ill-fated soldier still stared with

eyeless sockets and bared teeth on the ghastly scene--it might have

been fancied with grim triumph and exultation; while from the willow

tree dangled the corpse of the deserter, an unconscious witness, where

he had so lately posed as an actor.

As if the dreadful spectacle had a fascination which they could

not resist, or that their miraculous deliverance had rendered them

incapable of connected thought, the destined victims had remained

almost in their positions taken up previous to the arrival of Ropata

and his contingent.

Mrs. Summers had sunk down on a sofa which had been dislodged from its

position, with her children, wondering and tearful, beside her. The

female attendants of Erena were clustered around their mistress. Cyril

Summers, over whom the bitterness of death had passed, stood by his

wife, gazing with awe-struck eyes into the distance, while his moving

lips from time to time gave token that he was returning thanks to that

Almighty Being to whom he had appealed in his darkest hour. While

Hypatia, wrapped in a world of strange and awful phantasy, still stood

by the outer entrance of the porch, looking straight in front of her,

at this weird melodrama of human life, in which the reality so often

transcends the unrealities of the "fantastic realm."

Erena and Roland Massinger had preserved their position unaltered,

except that, from one of support, the girl gradually sank forward,

until her head rested on her lover's breast. A cry from one of the

Maori girls arrested the attention of all. Hypatia, roused from

her trance, rushed over to find two of them raising Erena from her

reclining position, with looks of alarm, while the arterial blood which

welled up from her bosom told of a mortal wound. Massinger's death-pale

countenance, stained with blood, as were the coverings of his couch,

seemed to denote that these lovers, thrown together by such fortuitous

circumstances in life, were fated to be undivided in death.

Though Massinger was unwounded by the bullet which, aimed with fatal

accuracy, had pierced the bosom of Erena, his situation was most

critical. For her there was no hope. The lung had been perforated; the

laboured breathing showed but too truly that death was imminent. In

Massinger's case the appearances were hardly more promising. The rude

treatment to which he had been subjected after his capture had caused

the partly healed wound to break out afresh. He was rapidly approaching

the state of mortal weakness to which Erena was succumbing. Such was

only too probable; but Cyril Summers, who had gone through a course of

instruction in surgery, was enabled to stop his bleeding, and to afford

temporary relief to Erena.

Massinger at first resented the proffered aid. "Why trouble me?" he

said resentfully. "She has given her life to save mine; it were base of

me to survive her at such a cost. Let us die together. My life belongs

to her, who has now saved it for the third time."

"Then it is mine to dispose of," came the answer, in her low rich

tones. "I die happy, since you are saved. If the bullet of Ngarara had

found your breast instead of mine, I would have followed you to the

spirit-land. You do not doubt that--oh, my darling--my own beloved! The

sun would not have gone down before I should have commenced my journey

to the reinga."

"Erena," said Massinger, "have I ever doubted your love, true alike in

life and the dark realm, to which we are hastening?"

"Raise me," she said, "that I may see his face once more. My eyes are

darkening. Oh, my beloved!"--and her soft voice faltered, and became

hollow and inexpressibly mournful--"I have loved you with every fibre

of my being, with every motion of my heart! The pakeha girl loves you

also, though she cared not to own it, in her own land. She will live

for you in the days that are to come--days of peace and happiness,

now that the war is over. Would she die for you as I have done? Yes;

for she is noble, she is true. She would have scorned to take your

love from poor Erena, even had you offered it. Her soul lay open to

me--and yours. You were true to your word. She was too proud to steal

your heart from the poor Maori girl. And now, farewell--farewell

for ever--oh, my loved one! I die happy. I have given my life for

yours--what does a daughter of the Ngapuhi wish more?"

She leaned forward and hid her head on the breast of her lover, while

her long black tresses flowed over his pillow, as her arms strained him

to that faithful bosom, still warm with the heart's purest feelings.

Reverently the little group of spectators gazed on the dying girl.

Sobs and lamentations came from the women of her own race, while tears

flowed fast from the eyes of Mary Summers and Hypatia.

Raising herself for a moment, she motioned to Hypatia to come nearer.

Her dark eyes glowed with transient light as she kissed her hand; then

laying it in that of Massinger, she whispered--

"He is yours now. May all happiness befall you! Yet forget not--oh!

forget not--poor Erena."

A deep sigh followed the last words. Her head fell back; the hand which

Massinger and Hypatia held was pulseless. The faithful spirit of the

nymph of the wood and stream, the fabled Oread of the old-world poets,

had passed away.

* * * * *

The tragedy at Oropi, so nearly completed, might have been averted,

but for an unlucky accidental circumstance, the occurrence of which

embittered the remainder of Allister Mannering's life. And yet he could

not wholly abandon himself to self-accusation and ceaseless regrets,

inasmuch as he had quitted the trail on which, as the avenger of

blood, he was pursuing the Hau-Hau band, in order to save the lives of

innocent and helpless people.

He, indeed, with his contingent, would have arrived at Oropi on the

same day as Ropata, or, perhaps, earlier. He would then have been able

to prevent the preliminary sufferings of the missionary household, and

could have ensured the safety of his beloved daughter and only child.

The cause of his leaving the direct track to the mission station of

Cyril Summers was sufficiently imperative--such as, indeed, no man of

ordinary humanity could disregard.

A panting messenger, speeding along the track from Whakatane, arrived

with the news that another band of Hau-Haus had killed the crew of the

_Jane_ schooner at Opotiki, had murdered Mr. Fulloon, and captured

the Reverend Mr. Grace, whom there was every reason to believe they

intended to murder.

It was not known to Mannering at this time that there was any

likelihood of Kereopa's band being in near proximity to Erena and

her wounded charge. By ordinary computation she should have reached

Tauranga several days before that bloodthirsty fanatic could have

overtaken her party. Cyril Summers and his household, having been

warned by the bishop, would probably have moved into one of the coast

settlements.

Thus one danger was contingent, the other was a pressing and instant

summons. Life and death were in the decision. Murder and outrage,

perhaps, even now, had taken place. The full complement of horrors

could only be averted by a forced march and the sudden appearance of

his _hapu_ upon the scene. "Angel of God was there none" to whisper

that loved daughter's name, darling of his heart, apple of his eye,

that she was? Was there no mysterious spirit-warning such as, if tales

be true, has often, through invisible sympathetic chords, eliminated

time and space? Did not the traditional second sight, inherited from

Highland ancestors, and of which he and Erena claimed their portion,

prove faithful in that dread hour? Long afterwards--in years when he

could talk calmly of his loss, dwell upon her courage, her beauty, and

extol her intellectual range--he confessed to his closest friend and

comrade that he had felt, from the time he turned aside to Opotiki, an

overshadowing, inexplicable gloom and despondency. He was convinced in

his own mind that (as he said) some dreadful deed had taken place, or

was even then about to happen. Therefore he was hardly surprised, after

hours of feverishly fast travelling, to find Mr. Volkner's mutilated

corse beneath the willow tree which he had himself planted. Mr. Grace,

after being in hourly expectation of a violent death, had been rescued

by Captain Levy, one of the survivors of the crew of the _Jane_, and

put on board H.M.S. _Eclipse_, Captain Fremantle.

Burning with wrath, and maddened with the doubt as to whether Erena

and Massinger might not even yet be within the region traversed by the

Hau-Hau scouts, Mannering made a forced march, halting neither by day

nor night, rendered still more furious and despairing by the freshness

of the trail, leading straight for the Oropi mission station. Kereopa

had sworn, as rumour had it, that he would kill the third Mikonaree

pakeha and carry off his wife and children as a prey, before proceeding

to join the Kingites in the sack and plunder of Auckland.

It was midnight when the mission was reached. An unwonted stillness

reigned; no dog barked, no voice was heard from the native camp--an

unusual state of things within his experience, the wakeful Maori being

always ready for converse at any hour of the night. The mission house

itself was partially closed only, but silent and deserted. The trim

garden was trampled over. The shrubs and fruit trees had been broken

down. The keen eyes of the Maoris discerned a spot where the ground had

been disturbed. A short search exhumed more than one body, on which

bullet and tomahawk had written the history of the engagement. The

furniture in some rooms was intact, in others recklessly broken up. A

handkerchief, a shoe, a neck-ribbon, told of recent occupation. One

article of female Maori headgear, a plume of the beautiful _huia_, the

distracted parent recognized as an ornament of Erena's.

Meanwhile, like questing hounds, the Ngapuhi warriors traversed the

surrounding thickets with all the keenness of a savage race. Imprints

and signs, so faint as to be almost invisible to the white man, told

all too plainly to them the history of the occupation of the Hau-Haus,

the arrival of Ropata and his men, the fight (if such it could be

called) and finally the departure of the whole party, including the

family, the victorious contingent, and the prisoners, in full march for

Tauranga.

Hoping against hope, yet with a cruel doubt eating at his heart,

Mannering sat with his head between his hands for a stricken hour,

before he gave orders for his troop to be in readiness to march, when

the Southern Cross pointed towards dawn. Long before the stars had

paled, he strode fast and eagerly at the head of his faithful band, on

the well-marked Tauranga track.

It was past midday when they arrived. The place was astir, the streets

were filled. There was murmur of voices, and that indescribable feeling

in the air as of woe, or death imminent. Such was the conviction which

smote the strong soul of Allister Mannering as, with his warriors

ranked in battle line, he joined the throng, evidently converging

towards a lofty cliff, which reared itself above the harbour.

An enclosure in which shrubs were in luxuriant growth now came into

view, and marble columns showed themselves amid the dark green foliage.

It was the cemetery.

The truth flashed across him. He had been afraid to ask. Was it, could

it be, the funeral procession of his darling daughter--of Erena, the

bright, beautiful, fearless maiden, whom he had so lately seen in the

pride of her stately maidenhood and joyous youth? Lovely and beloved,

was it possible that she could be now, even now, before his haggard

eyes, borne to her tomb? He gazed on the little band of mourning girls

who carried the flower-decked coffin. The native attendants of the

missionary family walked behind with Mrs. Summers and Hypatia, while

Cyril Summers, in full canonicals, with another clergyman, the army

chaplain, preceded the _cortége_.

Behind them, again, came a company of the 43rd with their officers,

another of the 68th, and the Forest Rangers, with Von Tempsky at their

head. Also Messrs. Slyde and Warwick, who had been granted special

leave for that day only by the army surgeon, looking weak and pale

after their enforced seclusion.

Then came the native allies, the Arawa, the Ngapuhi, the Ngatiporu, all

stern and warlike of appearance, proud to do honour to the maiden whose

mother was of their race, with the blood of chiefs in her veins, whose

descent could be traced back to the migration from Hawaiki.

Those who knew of the love, so deep, so passionate, which subsisted

between the daughter and the sire, could partly realize the dull

despair, the agonizing grief, which filled his heart at the moment. But

none of the ordinary signs of sorrow betrayed the storm of anguish,

the volcanic wrath and stifled fury, which raged within. His stern

countenance preserved a rigid and awful calm. His voice faltered not

as, walking forward when the _cortége_ halted, he respectfully made

request that the coffin-lid should be raised.

"Let me look upon the face once more," he said, "even in death, that I

shall never see again on earth."

His request was granted. He stooped, and raising the cerecloth, gazed

long and fixedly on the face of the dead girl. Then moving forward,

he signed to the clergyman to proceed with the service, remaining

uncovered until the last sad words were, with deepest feeling, solemnly

pronounced.

As the irrevocable words were spoken, and the clay-cold form, which had

held the fiery yet tender soul of Erena Mannering, was lowered into

the grave, a tempest of sobs, cries, and wailing lamentation, until

then repressed, burst forth from the Maoris in the great gathering.

Then Mannering slowly turned away, and after dismissing his following,

accompanied Mr. Summers. From him he learned the full particulars of

the Hau-Hau invasion--of their captivity, their fearful anticipation

of death by torture, the sudden appearance of Ropata and his warriors,

their miraculous escape, and the death of Erena in the very moment of

deliverance.

"She gave her life to save that of the man she loved," said Mannering.

"Her mother, long years since, did the same in my case. She is her

true daughter. It was her fate, and could not be evaded. She had the

foreknowledge, of which she spoke to me more than once."

Roland Massinger, on the way to recovery, but too weak for independent

action, still lay in the military hospital.

Mannering, as he stood beside his couch, and gazed on his wasted

features, looked, with his vast form and foreign air, like some fabled

genie of the Arabian tale.

"She is gone," said the sick man, as he raised himself and held out

the trembling fingers, which feebly grasped the iron hand of his

visitor--"she is gone; she died in shielding me. I feel ashamed to be

alive. I cannot ask your pardon. I was the cause of her death."

The rigid features of the father relaxed, as he watched the grief-worn

countenance of the younger man, and noted the sincerity and depth of

his despairing words.

"My boy," he said, "you have played your part nobly, as did she; and

you have, by a hair's breadth, escaped being buried beside her this

day. She died for the man she loved, as only a daughter of her race can

love. There must be no feeling but affection and respect between us. I

mourned her mother as do you her daughter. Poor darling Erena! Oh, my

child--my child!"

Mannering's freedom from ordinary human weakness deserted him here. He

threw himself on his knees by the side of Massinger's bed, who then

witnessed a sight unseen before by living eyes--the strong man's tears

as he abandoned himself to unrestrained grief. Sobs and muffled cries,

groans and lamentations of terrible intensity, shook his powerful

frame. Weakened by his wound, and compelled to thus relieve his

intolerable anguish, Roland Massinger's tears flowed fast in unison, as

for a brief interval they mingled their sorrow. Then raising himself,

and regaining the impassive expression which his features, save in

familiar converse, ordinarily wore, the war-chief of the Ngapuhi bade

adieu to the man whom he had looked forward to acknowledging with pride

as the husband of the darling of his heart, the idol of his latter

years.

"Fate has willed it otherwise," he said. "You may have happy years

before you in your own land, with perhaps a wife and children to

perpetuate your name and inherit your lands. I wish you such happiness

as I know _she_ would have done. Her generous heart would so will it,

if she could speak its promptings from 'the undiscovered country.'

In her name, and with her authority, knowing her inmost thoughts, I

say--May God bless you and prosper you in the future path! In this life

we shall meet no more."

* * * * *

Kereopa and Ngarara had escaped; but Ropata, who had started as soon

as he delivered up his Hau-Hau prisoners, was hot on their trail.

Kereopa, in spite of his keen and eager pursuit, fled to the Uriwera

country, where he found shelter for a time, but led the hunted life of

the outcast until it suited his protectors to betray him. Forwarded to

Auckland, he was duly tried, convicted, and hanged.

Ngarara had a shorter term of comparative freedom. One morning, shortly

after the attack on the mission, a small party of the Aowera appeared

at Whakarewarewa, the main body of the tribe being encamped on Lake

Rotorua. A bound prisoner was in their midst, on whose movements they

kept watchful guard. It was Ngarara! A sub-chief, having been apprised

of the capture, arrived with leading warriors. One glance at his stern

features assured the captive that he had no mercy to expect. Contrary

to Maori usage, he did not disdain to beg for it.

"I tried to kill the pakeha," he said. "What harm was there in that? He

stole the heart of the girl I loved; who, but for him and his cunning

ways, might have loved me. I would have given my life for her. Other

men have killed pakehas--Rewi, Rawiri, even Te Oriori; why should I be

the sacrifice?"

The chief listened with an air of disgust, but did not deign to reply.

Meanwhile an order had been given, and the party marched on, taking

the prisoner with them, preserving a strict silence, which evidently

impressed him more deeply than any other treatment. In about three

hours they arrived at the mission station of Ngae. Here a feeling of

misgiving appeared to arise in the captive's mind, and he muttered the

word "Tikitere" with an accent of inquiry. But no man answered or took

notice of his speech.

But when they reached that desolate and awful valley, and saw the mud

volcanoes and steaming springs in furious motion, his courage failed

him. He saw the hissing, bubbling lakes separated by a narrow ridge,

aptly named the Gate of Hell, standing on which the traveller shudders,

while breathing sulphuretted hydrogen and beholding the turbid waves on

either side--the while the tremulous soil suggests the enormous power

of the central fires, which at any time might rend and ruin all around

with earthquake shock and suddenness.

He knew also, none better, of the dread blackness of the inferno, in

which the sombre billows of a tormented sea of boiling mud are heaving

and seething continually.

As with careful steps his guards half dragged, half carried him across

the treacherous flat, seamed with fissures, where death lay in wait for

the heedless stranger, he appeared to comprehend fully the fate that

awaited him. He yelled aloud and struggled so wildly, even despite his

bonds, that, at a motion of Ropata's arm, two stalwart natives stepped

forward to the aid of their comrades as he neared the fatal abyss.

"Dog of a murderer, coward and slave besides," said the chief, as,

halting on the brink, the guards awaited his signal--"a disgrace to

the tribe which never was known to flee! Did Erena show fear when the

bullet pierced her breast? Did the pakeha soldier shriek like the night

owl when thy traitor's bullet struck his back--his back, I say, and he

with thee in the same battle against the Ngaiterangi at Peke-hina? Did

the pakeha girl, the white Rangatira, or the Mikonaree cry for mercy

when Kereopa was ready to commence the torture? It is not fitting for

thee to die the death of a warrior or a soldier. A coward's death, a

slave's, a cur's, is thy only fitting end. Such, and no other, shalt

thou have." He motioned with his hand.

A yell which made the deeps and hollows resound came from the unhappy

wretch, as his captors lifted him on high and raised him for a moment

above the Dantean abyss. As the miserable traitor fell from their

grasp, he seized in his teeth the mat (_purere_) of the nearest man,

who, but for the prompt action of his comrade, might have been dragged

with him into the inferno. But that wary warrior, with lightning

quickness, struck such a blow on the nape of his neck with the back of

the tomahawk hanging to his wrist with a leather thong, that he fell

forward, nerveless and quivering, into the hell cauldron beneath. For

one moment he emerged, with a face expressive of unutterable anguish,

madness, and despair, then raising his fettered arms to the level of

his head, fell backward into the depths of the raging and impure weaves.

* * * * *

"_Tutua-kuri-mokai!_" said the chief, as he gave the signal for return,

and sauntered carelessly homeward. "He will cost nothing for burial.

There are others that are fitting themselves for the same place."

* * * * *

Cyril Summers with his family returned to England, rightly judging

that, in the present state of Maori feeling, it was unfair to expose

his wife to the risk of a repetition of the horrors from which they had

escaped. Hypatia accompanied them, unwilling to forsake her friend,

whose state of health, weakened by their terrible experiences, rendered

her companionship indispensable. On reaching England the Reverend Cyril

was offered an incumbency in the diocese of his beloved bishop, now of

Lichfield, in the peaceful performance of the duties of which he has

found rest for his troubled spirit. His wife's health was completely

re-established. Without in any way derogating from the importance of

his work among the heathen, which, after having reached so encouraging

a stage, had been ruthlessly arrested, he arrived at the conclusion

that he had a worthy and hardly less difficult task to perform in the

conversion of the heathen in the Black Country. His bishop acknowledged

privately with regret that their savages, though not less truculent,

were devoid of many of the redeeming qualities of the Maori heathen.

Roland Massinger remained in New Zealand until his health was

thoroughly re-established, when, having received the welcome

intelligence that Mr. Hamon de Massinger, an old bachelor and a distant

relation, had left him a very large fortune, he so far modified his

thirst for adventure and heroic colonization as to take his passage to

England, where his lawyers advised that his presence was absolutely

necessary.

Upon his arrival, he lost no time in visiting his county and looking

up his friends, who made a tremendous hero of him, and would by no

means allow him to deny astonishing feats of valour performed during

the Maori war. He also discovered that his Australian successor, though

most popular in the county, had become tired of the unrelieved comfort

and too pronounced absence of adventure in English country life. The

sport, the society, the farming even, so restricted as to be minute

in his eyes, all had become uninteresting to the ex-pioneer, not

yet old enough to fall out of the ranks of England's empire-makers.

These considerations, coupled with a fall in wool, and the rumour

of a drought, widespread and unprecedented in severity, decided Mr.

Lexington to return to the land of his birth.

His elder daughter had married satisfactorily, and settled in the

county. "She had," she averred, "no ultra-patriotic longings. England,

with an annual trip to the Continent, was good enough for her. She

doubted whether George would care for Australia. Then there was the

dear baby, who was too young to travel. She was truly sorry to part

from her family, but as the voyage was now only a matter of five weeks

by the P. and O. or the Messageries boats, she could come out and see

them every other year, at any rate."

As for the younger girl, she began to pine for the plains and forests

amid which her childhood had been passed. England was a sort of

fairyland, no doubt. Climate lovely and cool, and the people kind and

charming; but somehow the old country--that is, the new country--where

they had been born and bred, seemed to have prior claims. She would not

be sorry to see the South Head Lighthouse again and Sydney Harbour.

The eldest son had gone more than a year ago. He was very glad, he

wrote, that he had done so. One manager had become extravagant; another

had taken to drinking. Everybody seemed to think that they (the family)

had left Australia for good. There was such a thing as the master's

eye, without doubt. Such had been his experience. He would tell them

more when he saw them.

One of the reasons which actuated Mr. Lexington, a shrewd though

liberal man in business matters, was a dislike to paying the income-tax

in two countries at the same time. He could afford it, certainly,

but it struck him as wasteful, and in a measure unfair, to make an

Australian pay extravagantly for desiring to live in the mother-land.

Then, after assisting to enlarge the empire abroad, the price of

landed estates in England had gone down seriously--was, indeed, going

down still. With a probability of a serious fall in values in both

hemispheres, it was better to part with his English investment while he

could get a purchaser for it, who, like himself, was not disposed to

stand upon trifles.

So it came to pass that, after a conference between his own and the

Massinger solicitors, Mr. Lexington accepted the proposal to sell

Massinger Court, with the Hereford herd of high-bred cattle, hacks,

hunters, carriage-horses, vehicles, saddlery--indeed, everything just

as it stood. All these adjuncts to be taken at a valuation, and added

to the price of the estate, the re-purchase of which by a member of the

family was what most probably, though his solicitor declined to say,

old Mr. Hamon de Massinger, the testator, had in view all along.

The county was ridiculously overjoyed, as some acidulated person

said, that the rightful heir, so to speak, was come to his own again.

Independently of such feeling, nowhere stronger than in English county

society, few localities but would feel a certain satisfaction at the

return of a county magnate--rich, unmarried, and distinguished, as a

man must always be who has fought England's battles abroad, and shed

his blood in upholding her honour. Thus, although the free-handed and

unaffected Australian family was heartily regretted, and "farewelled"

with suitable honours, the sentimental corner in all hearts responded

fervently to the news that the young squire had returned to the home

of his ancestors, and would henceforth, as he declared at the tenants'

enthusiastically joyous reception, live among his own people.

Of course, all sorts of exaggerated versions of his life in the

far South prevailed. These comprised prowess in war, hairbreadth

escapes, wounds, and captivity, the whole rounded off with a legend

of a beautiful native princess, who had brought him as her dower a

principality beneath the Southern Cross. To these romantic rumours he

paid no attention whatever, refusing to be drawn, and giving the most

cursory answers to direct questions. But when, after spending a quiet

year on his estate, in the management of which he took great interest,

it was announced that he was about to be married to the beautiful,

distinguished, fascinating, eccentric Hypatia Tollemache, all the

county was wildly excited. When the event took place, the particulars

of the quiet wedding were read and re-read by every one in his own and

the adjacent counties.

Fresh tales and legends, however, continued to be circulated. His first

wife--for he had married a beautiful Maori princess; at any rate, a

chief's daughter--was killed fighting by his side in a tribal war. She

was jealous of Miss Tollemache, and had committed suicide. Not at all.

Her father, a great war-chief, disapproved of the union, and, carrying

her off, had immured her in his stronghold, surrounded by a lake, which

her despairing husband could not cross. So she pined away and died.

_That_ was the reason for his occasional fits of depression, and his

insensibility to the charms of the local belles.

He was obdurate with respect to giving information as to the truth

or otherwise of these interesting narratives; indeed, so obviously

unwilling to gratify even the most natural curiosity, that at length

even the most hardened inquisitor gave up the task in despair.

The county had more reason for complaint when it was further announced

that Sir Roland and his bride had left for the Continent immediately

after the wedding, whence they did not propose returning until the near

approach of Christmas-tide. Then such old-world festivities as were

still remembered by the villagers in connection with former lords of

the manor would be conscientiously kept up, while the largesse to the

poor, which under the new _régime_ had not by any means fallen into

disuse, would be disbursed with exceptional profusion.

After the sale Mr. Lexington had been besought to consult his own

convenience, absolutely and unreservedly, as to the time and manner

of his departure. The purchase-money having been received, and all

legal forms completed, he was to consider the house and all things

appertaining thereto at his service. Messrs. Nourse and Lympett had

instructions to take delivery of the estate whenever it suited him to

vacate it. The Australian gentleman, having had much experience in the

sale and taking over of "stations" in Australia--always regarded as a

crucial test of liberality--was heard to declare that never in his life

had he purchased and resold so extensive a property with so little

trouble, or concluded so considerable a transaction with less friction

or misunderstanding on either side.

And so, when the leaves in the woods around the Chase had fallen, and

the ancient oaks and elms were arrayed in all their frost and snow

jewellery, word came that the squire with his bride were returning from

their extended tour. They would arrive on a certain day, prepared to

inhabit the old hall which had sheltered in pride and power so many

generations of the race. Then the whole county went off its head, and

prepared for his home-coming. Such a demonstration had not been heard

of since Sir Hugo de Massinger, constable of Chester, came home from

the wars in Wales after the death of Gwenwyn.

When the train drew up to the platform, such a crowd was there that

Hypatia looked forth with amazement, wondering whether there was a

contested election, with the chairing of the successful candidate

imminent. Every man of note in the county was there, from the Duke

of Dunstanburgh to the last created knight. Every tenant, every

villager, with their wives and daughters, sons and visitors; every

tradesman--in fact, every soul within walking, riding, or driving

distance--had turned up to do honour to Sir Roland of the Court, who,

after adventures by sea and land, through war and bloodshed, had been

suffered, doubtless by the direct interposition of Providence, to come

to his own again.

As Sir Roland and his fair dame passed through the crowd towards their

chariot, it was quickly understood what was to be the order of the day.

The horses were taken out, and a dozen willing hands grasped the pole,

preparatory to setting forth for the Court, some three miles distant.

Waving his hand to request silence, the bridegroom said--

"My lord duke, ladies and gentlemen, and you my good friends, who have

known me from childhood, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for

the welcome which you have given to me and my dear wife on our return

to our native country and the home of my ancestors. My wife would

thank you on her part, if her heart was not too full. We trust that in

the future we may show by our lives, lived among you, how deeply, how

intensely, we appreciate your generous welcome. At present I can say

nothing more, than to invite you, one and all, to accompany us to the

Court, to do us the honour to accept the first hospitality we have been

in a position to offer since I left England."

Due notice had been given. Preparations had been made on a scale

of unprecedented magnitude. A partial surprise awaited the wedded

pair as the carriage passed through the massive gates, above which

the triumphal arch seemed to have levied contributions on half the

evergreens in the park. The heraldic beasts, each "a demi-Pegasus

quarterly or in gules," on the moss-grown pillars, were garlanded with

hot-house flowers, as also with the holly-bush and berries appropriate

to the season. Marquees had been erected on the lawns, where all manner

of meats, from the lordly baron of beef to the humbler flitch of bacon,

were exhibited in such profusion as might lead to the inference that a

regiment had been billeted on the village. It would not have been for

the first time. Cromwell's Ironsides _had_, indeed, tried demi-saker,

arblast, and culverin on the massive walls of the old hall, without,

however, much decisive effect. Hogsheads of ale were there more than

sufficient to wash down the solid fare, for which the keen bright

atmosphere furnished suitable appetites.

The nobility and gentry were entertained in the great dining-hall,

where a _déjeuner_ had been prepared, thoroughly up to date, abounding

in all modern requirements. Champagne and claret flowed in perennial

abundance. The plate, both silver and gold, heirlooms of the ancient

house, had been brought back from their resting-places. It was evident

that the whole thing--the cuisinerie, the decorations, the waiters, the

fruit, and flowers--had been sent down from London days before; and

as Sir Roland and Hypatia took their places at the head of the table,

mirth and joyous converse commenced to ripple and flow ceaselessly.

Even the ancestral portraits seemed to have acquired a glow of

gratification as the lovely and the brave, the gallant courtiers or

the grim warriors, looked down upon their descendant and his bride; on

those fortunate ones so lately restored to the pride and power of their

position--so lately in peril of losing these historic possessions, and

their lives at the same time.

Did Hypatia, as an expression of thoughtful retrospection shaded her

countenance momentarily, recall another scene, scarcely two years

since, when the bridegroom, now rejoicing in the pride of manhood, lay

wounded, and a captive, helplessly awaiting an agonizing death; herself

in the power of maddened savages, as was Cyril Summers with his wife

and children? Then the miraculous interposition--the fierce Ropata

sweeping away the rebel fanatics, with the fire of his wrath! And

she--alas! the faithful, the devoted Erena, but for whose sacrificial

tenderness Sir Roland would not have been by her side today! What was

she, Hypatia, more than others, that such things should have been done

for her? The tears _would_ rise to her eyes, in spite of her efforts to

compose her countenance, as she looked on the joyous faces around. Mary

Summers and her husband sat in calm enjoyment of the scene. Then, with

a heartfelt inward prayer to Him who had so disposed their fortunes to

this happy ending, she strove to mould her feelings to a mood more in

accordance with her present surroundings.

A change in the proceedings was at hand. The Duke of Dunstanburgh,

rising, besought his good friends and neighbours to charge their

glasses, and to bear with him for a few moments, while he proposed a

toast which doubtless they had all anticipated.

His young friend, as he was proud to call him, whose father he had

known and loved, had this day been restored to the seat of his

ancestors, to the ancient home of the De Massingers in their county.

He would but touch lightly on his adventures, by flood and field, in

that far land, to which he had elected to find--er--an--outlet for

his energy. Danger had there been, as they all knew. Blood had been

shed. The lives of himself and his lovely bride, who now shed lustre

upon their gathering, had trembled in the balance, when by an almost

miraculous interposition succour arrived. He would not pursue the

subject, with which painful memories were interwoven. Enough to state

that under all circumstances, even the most desperate, Sir Roland

had maintained the honour of England, and had shed his blood freely

in defence of her time-honoured institutions. (Tremendous cheering.)

He had returned, thank God! he would say in all sincerity, and was

now, with his bride, a lady who in all respects would do honour to

the county and the kingdom, placed in possession of the hall of his

ancestors. He was come--they had his assurance--prepared to live

and die among them; among the friends of his youth, and those older

neighbours who, like the speaker, had hunted and fished and shot

with his father before him. He was proud this day to give them the

toast of Sir Roland and Lady de Massinger--to wish them long life and

prosperity--and he was sure he might add, in the name of the whole

county, to welcome them most heartily to their home.

When the cheering had subsided, taken up again and again, as it

was from the outer hall and even from the lawn, by the tenants and

villagers, who, if they could not see, could at least judge by the

storm of voices as to the nature of the address which had called it

forth, Sir Roland stood up and faced the crowd of guests, who cheered

again and again as though they never intended to stop. He commenced

with studied calmness, thanking them all, his good friends and

neighbours, the old friends of the house, and those among whom he had

lived so long in friendship, he might say affectionate intimacy, until

circumstances, apparently, made it necessary for him to leave the home

of his childhood. They would doubtless appreciate the greatness of the

sacrifice, the bitterness of feeling, with which he quitted the home of

his race. He resolved to go as far as was possible from home and its

memories, and had, in fact, gone so far South that the Pole only would

have been the next abiding-place. It was a British outpost, however,

well deserving the name of the Britain of the South; destined in years

to come to be the home, the prosperous home, of millions of the men

of our race, and one of the brightest jewels in the Imperial crown.

Difficulties had arisen with the Maori nation, a proud, a brave, a

highly intelligent people, who had made the best defence in war against

British regulars by an aboriginal race since the days when the stubborn

valour of the ancient Britons scarce yielded to the legionaries of

Rome. (Tremendous cheering.) That war, fraught with disastrous losses

in men and officers to Britain's bravest regiments, was now over, he

was rejoiced to say. There might be irregular fighting from time to

time, but the high chiefs had surrendered, and vast areas of the most

fertile land in the world had now become the property of the Crown. He

himself held what might be considered an incredibly large domain, which

must prove of great value in time to come. He would not mention the

number of acres. He was _not_ going back there. (Redoubled cheering.)

He could assure them of that fact, though in days to come another

Massinger Court might arise beneath the Southern Cross. (Renewed

cheering.) He was as fixed here, under Providence (he told them now),

as the "King's Oak" in the Chase. (Loud and prolonged cheering.) He and

his wife had experienced a sufficiency of adventure, by land and sea,

to last them for their natural lives. They desired, in all humility,

to return heartfelt thanks to Almighty God for their restoration to

this pleasant home, and those dear friends whom at one time they never

thought to see again. They hoped to prove their gratitude, by lives of

usefulness in their day and generation.

* * * * *

The adventures of Sir Roland de Massinger and Hypatia his wife,

insomuch as regards peril and uncertainty of war or peace, travel by

land and sea, or even the stormy politics of a new nation, must be

said now to have lost much of their interest. Henceforth Sir Roland

was contented to pursue the ordinary course of the country gentleman

of England, which, if not exciting or adventurous, is surely one of

the happiest lives in the world. He was contented to manage his New

Zealand property through an agent. Indeed, after Mr. Slyde's appearance

in England--that gentleman having received a year's leave of absence,

on account of his wound and eminent services in the war--he was pleased

to place the whole management of Waikato Court and Chase, near the

flourishing township of Chesterfield, in his hands. Mr. Slyde was about

to relinquish his connection with the New Zealand Land Company, having,

as he said with his customary cynicism, been fool enough to encumber

himself with a picturesque and fertile block of land, on the same

river, and also to commit the crowning folly of matrimony with a young

lady to whom he had become engaged just after the war. New Zealand was

bad enough, he averred, but for a man who had been born without the

proverbial silver spoon, England was the worst country in the civilized

world. Therefore, if his comrade, Sir Roland, had sufficient faith in

his intelligence and honesty--rather rare endowments in a colony--he

supposed he could manage both properties with much the same outlay of

cash and industry as his own.

The arrangement was completed, and worked so satisfactorily, that for

many a year Sir Roland had no duties connected with the antipodean

estates beyond supervising the sale of wool, frozen mutton, butter,

cheese, cocksfoot grass seed, and other annual products, which so

excited the admiration of his neighbours and tenants that they could

hardly be made to believe that such satisfactory samples could be

produced out of England, his frozen lamb, equal to "prime Canterbury,"

notwithstanding.

Hypatia is truly happy in her home--blessed with a growing family,

contented with her duties as the wife of a county member, and, above

all, firmly convinced that Roland was the only man she had ever loved.

She is almost convinced, as her outspoken friend Mrs. Merivale (_née_

Branksome) often assured her, that it served her right for her absurdly

altruistic notions and general perversity that she so nearly lost him.

The days are only too short for her employments and enjoyments. Nor

did she abandon the philanthropical obligation, but as the kindly,

generous, and capable Lady Bountiful of the estate, is "earthlier

happy as the rose distilled" than in any imaginable state of "single

blessedness," however advanced and politically eminent.

THE END

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.

STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

Crown 8vo. 6s.

ONE OF THE GRENVILLES

By SYDNEY ROYSE LYSAGHT

AUTHOR OF "THE MARPLOT"

_GUARDIAN._--"We shall tell no more of Mr. Lysaght's clever and

original tale, contenting ourselves with heartily recommending it to

any on the look-out for a really good and absorbing story."

_SATURDAY REVIEW._--"Mr. Sydney Lysaght should have a future before

him among writers of fiction. _One of the Grenvilles_ is full of

interest."

_BOOKMAN._--"Is so high above the average of novels that its readers

will want to urge on the writer a more frequent exercise of his

powers."

_ACADEMY._--"There is freshness and distinction about _One of the

Grenvilles_.... Both for its characters and setting, and for its

author's pleasant wit, this is a novel to read."

_SPEAKER._--"Let no man or woman who enjoys a good story, excellently

told, recoil from One of the Grenvilles because of length. From first

to last there is hardly a page in the book the reader would willingly

skip.... We expected much from him after his admirable story of _The

Marplot_. Our expectations are more than fulfilled by _One of the

Grenvilles_."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Since he wrote _The Marplot_, Mr. Lysaght has

degenerated neither in freshness, originality, nor sense of humour."

_SPECTATOR._--"It has proved a welcome oasis in the progress of at

least one reviewer through the never-ending Sahara of modern fiction."

_PUNCH._--"His characters, and his brief analysis of them

individually in various phases of their career, are as amusing as his

story is interesting.... 'One of the best.'"

_LITERATURE._--"Displaying qualities all too rare in the bulk of

modern fiction.... Mr. Lysaght is fortunate in his characters, who

are many in number and excellently well chosen to illustrate his

view of life. They are well drawn, too, with humorous perception and

a keen insight into human conduct.... A good novel--one of the best

we have seen for a considerable time. It comes near to being a great

novel."

_LITERARY WORLD._--"A volume to be read in a leisurely manner, for it

is far too good to repay the reader who only skims through a book."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

RHODA BROUGHTON'S NEW NOVEL

THE GAME AND THE CANDLE

_OBSERVER._--"The story is an excellent one.... Miss Rhoda Broughton

well maintains her place among our novelists as one capable of

telling a quiet yet deeply interesting story of human passions."

_SPECTATOR._--"The book is extremely clever."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE TREASURY OFFICER'S WOOING

By CECIL LOWIS

_GUARDIAN._--"An exceedingly well-written, pleasant volume....

Entirely enjoyable."

_LITERATURE._--"A capital picture of official life in Burma."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Emphatically of a nature to make us ask for more

from the same source.... Those who appreciate a story without any

sensational incidents, and written with keen observation and great

distinction of style, will find it delightful reading.... Cannot fail

to please its readers."

_SPECTATOR._--"Mr. Lowis's story is pleasant to read in more senses

than one. It is not only clever and wholesome, but printed in a type

so large and clear as to reconcile us to the thickness of the volume."

_ATHENÆUM._--"The author writes in a clear, attractive style, and

succeeds in maintaining the reader's interest from the first page to

the last."

_WORLD._--"One of the best stories that we have recently read. The

touches of Burmese ways and character are excellent. The local colour

is sufficient, and the little group which plays the skilful comedy

has rare variety and lifelikeness."

_DAILY NEWS._--"We are grateful to it no less for its large and clear

type, than for its merits as a novel."

_ACADEMY._--"The life of the station is admirably drawn by Mr. Lowis,

and the love-story holds, without exciting, the reader. A most

readable novel."

_LITERARY WORLD._--"Charming.... The reader may be assured of

entertainment who trusts himself to Mr. Lowis's care."

_SCOTSMAN._--"So much has been made of Anglo-Indian society in recent

fiction that it must be doubly difficult for a novelist to excel

in this field. But in this pleasant and refreshing story Mr. Lowis

fairly does so, and his book deserves to be widely read."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

OFF THE HIGH ROAD

By ELEANOR C. PRICE.

AUTHOR OF "YOUNG DENYS," "IN THE LION'S MOUTH," ETC.

_ATHENÆUM._--"A pleasant tale."

_SPEAKER._--"A charming bit of social comedy, tinged with just a

suspicion of melodrama.... The atmosphere of the story is so bright

and genial that we part from it with regret."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"At once ingenious, symmetrical, and

entertaining.... Miss Price's fascinating romance."

_LITERATURE._--"A simple, but very pleasant story."

_SPECTATOR._--"The notion of an orphan heiress, the daughter of an

Earl, and the cynosure of two London seasons, flying precipitately

from her guardians, who are endeavouring to force her into a match

with a man she detests, and hiding herself under an assumed name in

a remote rural district of the Midlands, is an excellent motive in

itself, and gains greatly from the charm and delicacy of Miss Price's

handling."

_ACADEMY._--"A quiet country book in the main, with more emotion than

action, and continuous interest."

_DAILY MAIL._--"One of the sweetest and most satisfying love stories

that we have read for many weeks past. To read _Off the High Road_ is

as mentally bracing as an actual holiday among the rural delights of

the farm, the orchard, and the spinney, in which the scenes of the

novel are so refreshingly set."

_GUARDIAN._--"Is the story of a summer in the life of a high-spirited

and very charming heiress.... The book has a fresh open-air

atmosphere that is decidedly restful."

_BLACK AND WHITE._--"An admirable specimen of the genus 'light

story.' Miss Eleanor C. Price tells her story with a gay good humour

which is infectious. We are not asked to think, only to allow

ourselves to be interested and amused.... We feel grateful to Miss

Price for her bright well-written book. The girl of the mysterious

advertisement is a charming character."

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._--"A decidedly attractive little book, with a

pleasing atmosphere of green fields, orchards, and wild-rose hedges."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

_Forty-third Thousand_

THE DAY'S WORK

By RUDYARD KIPLING

CONTENTS

THE BRIDGEBUILDERS--A WALKING DELEGATE--THE SHIP THAT FOUND

HERSELF--THE TOMB OF HIS ANCESTORS---THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP

SEA--WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR--007--THE MALTESE CAT--BREAD UPON THE

WATERS--AN ERROR OF THE FOURTH DIMENSION--MY SUNDAY AT HOME--THE

BRUSHWOOD BOY

_ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE._--"This new batch of Mr. Kipling's short

stories is splendid work. Among the thirteen there are included at

least five of his very finest.... Speaking for ourselves, we have

read _The Day's Work_ with more pleasure than we have derived from

anything of Mr. Kipling's since the _Jungle Book_.... It is in the

Findlaysons, and the Scotts, and the Cottars, and the 'Williams,'

that Mr. Kipling's true greatness lies. These are creations that make

one feel pleased and proud that we are also English. What greater

honour could there be to an English writer?"

_TIMES._--"The book, take it altogether, will add to Mr. Kipling's

high reputation both on land and by sea."

_DAILY NEWS._--"They have all his strength."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"If _The Day's Work_ will not add to the author's

reputation in this kind of work, which, indeed, might be difficult,

it at all events will not detract from it. There is no lack of spirit

and power; the same easy mastery of technical details; the same broad

sympathy with the English-speaking race, wherever their life-tasks

may lie. The style is throughout Kipling's own--terse, nervous, often

rugged, always direct and workmanlike, the true reflection of Mr.

Kipling's own genius."

_MORNING POST._--"The book is so varied, so full of colour and life

from end to end, that few who read the first two or three stories

will lay it down till they have read the last."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"There are the same masterful grip and wielding

of words that are almost surprised to find themselves meaning so

much; the same buoyant joy in men who 'do' things."

_ACADEMY._--"With sure instinct he labels the volume _The Day's

Work_. That is just what these tales are--the day's work of a great

imaginative and observant writer, of a master craftsman who, when

he has no _magnum opus_ on hand, rummages in drawers, peers into

cupboards, for notions noted and not forgotten, for beginnings laid

aside to be finished in their proper season."

_SCOTSMAN._--"A fine book, one that even a dull man will rejoice to

read."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

A DRAMA IN SUNSHINE

By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL

CONTENTS

THE PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I.--SAUSAGES AND PALAVER

" II.--ILLUMINATION

" III.--WILLIAM CHILLINGWORTH

" IV.--CALAMITY CAÑON

" V.--SPECULATIONS

" VI.--WHICH CONTAINS A MORAL

" VII.--OF BLOOD AND WATER

" VIII.--WHICH ENDS IN FLAMES

" IX.--"IS WRIT IN MOODS AND FROWNS AND

WRINKLES STRANGE"

" X.--THE DAUGHTERS OF THEMIS

_LITERATURE._--"It has the joy of life in it, sparkle, humour,

charm.... All the characters, in their contrasts and developments,

are drawn with fine delicacy; and the book is one of those few which

one reads again with increased pleasure."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"A story of extraordinary interest.... Mr.

Vachell's enthralling story, the dénouement of which worthily crowns

a literary achievement of no little merit."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"The tale is well told. Besides more than one

scene of vividly dramatic force, there is some really excellent

drawing of American character."

_WORLD._--"Curious and engrossing.... The wife of the man chiefly

concerned is a finely presented character, and at the close the

author achieves the beautiful and the true."

_ACADEMY._--"A virile and varied novel of free life on the Pacific

Coast of America."

_ATHENÆUM._--"It is a story which the English reader will greet with

pleasure.... The book is good reading to the end."

_SPECTATOR._--"Full of colour, incident, and human interest, while

its terse yet vivid style greatly enhances the impressiveness of the

whole."

_SCOTSMAN._--"Showing the grasp of a powerful hand on every page....

It is impossible in a brief sketch to give a grasp of all the threads

in this complicated story, but they are unravelled with so much skill

that the reader feels that everything happens because it must. The

characterization, generally speaking, is masterly, and the dialogue

is clever. The story increases in power and pathos from chapter to

chapter."

_DAILY MAIL._--"Full of spirit as well as of all-round literary

excellence.... The scenes are vivid, the passions are strong, the

persons who move in the pages have life and warmth, and the interest

they arouse is often acutely eager. The book grips."

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._--"A particularly clever and readable story."

Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE PRIDE OF JENNICO

_BEING A MEMOIR OF_

CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO

By EGERTON CASTLE

_ACADEMY._--"A capital romance."

_COUNTRY LIFE._--"This story of the later years of the eighteenth

century will rank high in literature. It is a fine and spirited

romance set in a slight but elegant and accurate frame of history.

The book itself has a peculiar and individual charm by virtue of the

stately language in which it is written.... It is stately, polished,

and full of imaginative force."

_LIVERPOOL DAILY MERCURY._--"The book is written in a strong and

terse style of diction with a swift and vivid descriptive touch. In

its grasp of character and the dramatic nature of its plot it is one

of the best novels of its kind since Stevenson's _Prince Otto_."

_COSMOPOLIS._--"A capital story, well constructed and well written.

The style deserves praise for a distinction only too rare in the

present day."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

STORIES FROM AMERICAN HISTORY

BUCCANEERS AND PIRATES OF OUR COASTS

By FRANK R. STOCKTON

AUTHOR OF "RUDDER GRANGE"

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_

GEORGE VARIAN AND B. WEST CLINEDINST

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"A fine book.... They are exciting reading....

Eminently informing."

_ACADEMY._--"Mr. Frank R. Stockton is always interesting, whether he

writes for young or old."

_SCOTSMAN._--"In these stirring romances of the sea he does not

profess to give anything fresh; he merely puts into bright, crisp,

modern language, the tales that were told in the seventeenth and

eighteenth centuries by the recognized chroniclers of the deeds of

the freebooters who disported themselves on the American coasts in

those picturesque times.... The book is very finely illustrated."

_INDEPENDENT (NEW YORK)._--"This book of buccaneers will stir the

blood of young people who care for stories that tell of wild fighting

on pirate ships and lawless riots ashore in the time when the ocean

was not at command of steam's civilizing power.... Mr. Stockton has

given the charm of his genius to the book."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE

TREASURY OFFICER'S WOOING

By CECIL LOWIS

_BRITISH WEEKLY._--"The scene is laid in India, and to our mind it is

quite as good as Mrs. Steel."

_WHITEHALL REVIEW._--"A clever tale."

_SPECTATOR._--"It is plain that the writer may yet be a formidable

rival to Mrs. Steel."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

BISMILLAH

By A. J. DAWSON

AUTHOR OF "MERE SENTIMENT," "GOD'S FOUNDLING," ETC.

A romantic story of Moorish life in the Rift Country and in Tangier

by Mr. A. J. Dawson, whose last novel, _God's Foundling_, was well

received in the beginning of the year, and whose West African and

Australian Bush stories will be familiar to most readers of fiction.

_Bismillah_ is the title chosen for Mr. Dawson's new book, which may

be regarded as the outcome of his somewhat adventurous experiences in

Morocco last year.

_ACADEMY._--"Romantic and dramatic, and full of colour."

_GUARDIAN._--"Decidedly clever and original.... Its excellent local

colouring, and its story, as a whole interesting and often dramatic,

make it a book more worth reading and enjoyable than is at all

common."

_SPEAKER._--"A stirring tale of love and adventure.... There is

enough of exciting incident, of fighting, intrigue, and love-making

in _Bismillah_ to satisfy the most exacting reader."

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._--"An interesting and pleasing tale."

_SCOTSMAN._--"Mr. Dawson sustains the interest of his readers to the

end. The characters are well defined, the situations are frequently

dramatic, the descriptive passages are clear and animated, and a rich

vein of genuine human nature runs through the narrative."

_DUNDEE ADVERTISER._--"Mr. Dawson has caught the spirit of the

country, and his romance has the Moorish glamour about it delicious

as a memory of Tangiers in sunset."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

HER MEMORY

By MAARTEN MAARTENS

AUTHOR OF "MY LADY NOBODY," ETC.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Full of the quiet grace and literary excellence

which we have now learnt to associate with the author."

_DAILY NEWS._--"An interesting and characteristic example of this

writer's manner. It possesses his sobriety of tone and treatment, his

limpidity and minuteness of touch, his keenness of observation....

The book abounds in clever character sketches.... It is very good."

_ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE._--There is something peculiarly fascinating in

Mr. Maarten Maartens's new story. It is one of those exquisitely told

tales, not unhappy, nor tragic, yet not exactly 'happy,' but full of

the pain--as a philosopher has put it--that one prefers, which are

read, when the reader is in the right mood, with, at least, a subdued

sense of tears, tears of pleasure."

_ATHENÆUM._--"Maarten Maartens has never written a brighter social

story, and it has higher qualities than brightness."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--" It is a most delicate bit of workmanship, and

the sentiment of it is as exquisite as it is true. All the characters

are drawn with rare skill: there is not one that is not an admirable

portrait.'

_LITERATURE._--"A powerful and sometimes painful study, softened

by many touches of pathos and flashes of humour--occasionally of

sheer fun. On the whole, it will stand comparison with any of its

predecessors for dramatic effect and strength of style."

_TRUTH._--"Mr. Maarten Maartens' latest and, perhaps, finest novel."

_SCOTSMAN._--"The book is one of singular power and interest,

original and unique."

_LEEDS MERCURY._--"_Her Memory_ is a book which only a man of genius

could write, and as a study of character it is fascinating.... The

prevailing impression left by _Her Memory_ is that of beauty and

strength. Unlike the majority of contemporary novels, the story

before us is one which arrests thought, as well as touches some of

the deepest problems of life."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE ADVENTURES OF FRANCOIS

_Foundling, Thief, Juggler, and Fencing Master during the French

Revolution_

By S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D.

AUTHOR OF "HUGH WYNNE," ETC.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"It is delightfully entertaining throughout, and

throws much instructive light upon certain subordinate phases of

the great popular upheaval that convulsed France between 1788 and

1794.... Recounted with unflagging vivacity and inexhaustible good

humour."

_DAILY MAIL._--"This lively piece of imagination is animated

throughout by strong human interest and novel incident."

_LITERATURE._--"It is a charming book, this historical romance of

Dr. Weir Mitchell's; in narrative power, in dramatic effect, in

vivid movement, and in mordant and singularly effective style.... No

novelist of whom we know, not even Felix Gras, has so vividly brought

before us the life of lower Paris in the awful days of the Terror. A

dozen or so admirable reproductions of the drawings specially made

by A. Castaigne for 'François,' during its serial appearance, add

attraction to a romance as notable as it is delightful."

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._--"The author meets with a master's ease every

call that is made upon his resources, and the calls are neither few

nor light. The design, bold though it is, lies so well within his

compass as to suggest a reserve of strength rather than limitations.

And a style that is versatile but always distinguished, delicate

but always virile, terse but never obscure, is in a strong hand an

instrument for strong work. The pictures by A. Castaigne are worthy

of the text."

_GLASGOW HERALD._--"Dr. Weir Mitchell's story deserves nothing but

praise."

_SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"There is plenty of movement, and the

interest culminates but never flags. It is quite the best picaresque

novel we have come across for a long time past.... The story could

hardly be bettered."

_GLASGOW DAILY MAIL._--"It is altogether a most entertaining

narrative, witty and humorous in its dialogue, exciting in its

incidents, and not without its pathetic side."

_DAILY CHRONICLE._--"Dr. Weir Mitchell is certainly to be

congratulated on the whole volume."

_Second Impression Now Ready_

Extra Crown 8vo. 6s.

ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN

_LITERATURE._--"A charming book.... If the delightful wilderness

which eventually develops into a garden occupies the foreground,

there is still room for much else--for children, husbands, guests,

gardeners, and governesses, all of which are treated in a very

entertaining manner."

_TIMES._--"A very bright little book--genial, humorous, perhaps a

little fantastic and wayward here and there, but full of bright

glimpses of nature and sprightly criticisms of life. Elizabeth is the

English wife of a German husband, who finds and makes for herself a

delightful retreat from the banalities of life in a German provincial

town by occupying and beautifying a deserted convent."

_SCOTSMAN._--"The garden in question is somewhere in Germany.... Its

owner found it a wilderness, has made it a paradise, and tells the

reader how. The book is charmingly written.... The people that appear

in it are almost as interesting as the flowers.... Altogether it is

a delightful book, of a quiet but strong interest, which no one who

loves plants and flowers ought to miss reading."

_ACADEMY._--"'I love my garden'--that is the first sentence, and

reading on, we find ourselves in the presence of a whimsical,

humorous, cultured, and very womanly woman, with a pleasant,

old-fashioned liking for homeliness and simplicity; with a wise

husband, three merry babes, aged five, four, and three, a few

friends, a gardener, an old German house to repose in, a garden to be

happy in, an agreeable literary gift, and a slight touch of cynicism.

Such is Elizabeth. The book is a quiet record of her life in her old

world retreat, her adventures among bulbs and seeds, the sayings of

her babies, and the discomfiture and rout of a New Woman visitor....

It is a charming book, and we should like to dally with it."

_GLASGOW HERALD._--"This book has to do with more than a German

garden, for the imaginary diary which it contains is really a

description, and a very charming and picturesque one, of life in a

north German country house."

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._--"No mere extracts could do justice to this

entirely delightful garden book."

_ATHENÆUM._--"We hope that Elizabeth will write more rambling and

delightful books."

_SPEAKER._--"Entirely delightful."

_OUTLOOK._--"The book is refreshingly good. It has a good deal of

stuff in it, and a great deal of affable and witty writing; and it

will bear reading more than once, which, in these days, is saying

much."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE LOVES

OF THE

LADY ARABELLA

By M. E. SEAWELL

_SPEAKER._--"A story told with so much spirit that the reader tingles

with suspense until the end is reached.... A very pleasant tale of

more than common merit."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"It is short and excellent reading.... Old

Peter Hawkshaw, the Admiral, is a valuable creation, sometimes quite

'My Uncle Toby'.... The scene, when the narrator dines with him in

the cabin for the first time, is one of the most humorous in the

language, and stamps Lady Hawkshaw--albeit, she is not there--as one

of the wives of fiction in the category of Mrs. Proudie herself....

The interest is thoroughly sustained to the end.... Thoroughly

healthy and amusing."

_WORLD._--"Brisk and amusing throughout."

_SATURDAY REVIEW._--"A spirited romance.... It is the brightest tale

of the kind that we have read for a long time."

_DAILY MAIL._--"A robust and engaging eighteenth century romance."

_SCOTSMAN._--"The story possesses all the elements of a good-going

love romance, in which the wooing is not confined to the sterner sex;

while its flavour of the sea will secure it favour in novel-reading

quarters where anything approaching sentimentality or sermonizing

does not meet with much appreciation."

_MORNING POST._--"There is a spirit and evident enjoyment in the

telling of the story which is refreshing."

_ACADEMY._--"A brisk story of old naval days."

_SPECTATOR._--"Pleasant reading is furnished in _The Loves of the

Lady Arabella_."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

A

ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN

_AND OTHER STORIES_

By ROLF BOLDREWOOD

CONTENTS

A ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN

THE FENCING OF WANDAROONA: A RIVERINA REMINISCENCE

THE GOVERNESS OF THE POETS

OUR NEW COOK: A TALE OF THE TIMES

ANGELS UNAWARES

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Eminently readable, being written in the breezy,

happy-go-lucky style which characterizes the more recent fictional

works of the author of that singularly earnest and impressive

romance, _Robbery under Arms_."

_DAILY MAIL._--"As pleasant as ever."

_GLASGOW HERALD._--"They will repay perusal."

_SCOTSMAN._--"A volume of five short stories by Mr. Rolf Boldrewood

is heartily welcome.... All are about Australia, and all are

excellent.... His shorter stories will enhance his popularity."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THAT LITTLE CUTTY

_DR. BARRÈRE, ISABEL DYSART_

By MRS. OLIPHANT

AUTHOR OF "THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD," ETC., ETC.

_SATURDAY REVIEW._--"It has all her tenderness and homely humour, and

in the case of all three stories there is a good idea well worked

out."

_LITERATURE._--"To come across a work of Mrs. Oliphant's is to come

across a pleasant, little green oasis in the arid desert of minor

novels.... In these the author's refinement, tenderness, and charm of

manner are as well exemplified as in any of her earlier works.... The

book is one that we can most cordially recommend."

_DAILY NEWS._--"Each story that comes to us from the hand of Mrs.

Oliphant moves us to admiration for its delicate craftsmanship, the

keen appreciation it displays of the resources of situation and

character. The posthumous volume, 'That Little Cutty, and other

Stories,' is an excellent example of Mrs. Oliphant's power of telling

a story swiftly and with dramatic insight. Every touch tells....

The little volume is worthy of its author's high and well-deserved

reputation."

_DAILY CHRONICLE._--"All three are admirably written in that easy,

simple narrative style to which the author had so thoroughly

accustomed us. It will be for many of Mrs. Oliphant's friends a

wholly unexpected pleasure to have a new volume of fiction with her

name on the title-page."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"They are models of what such stories should

be."

_SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Excellent examples of Mrs. Oliphant's

work."

_SCOTSMAN._--"All three stories have a fine literary flavour and an

artistic finish, and within their limited scope present some subtle

analyses of character."

_NORTHERN WHIG._--"Anything from the pen of the late Mrs. Oliphant

will always be welcome to a large number of readers, who will

therefore note with pleasant interest the publication by Messrs.

Macmillan of a neat volume containing three tales, 'That Little

Cutty,' 'Dr. Barrère,' and 'Isabel Dysart.' Of the three, although

all are most readable, the most skilfully constructed is the second

named, the plot and climax of which are decidedly dramatic. The last

story deals with the still unforgotten period of the horrible Burke

and Hare revelations in Edinburgh."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE FOREST LOVERS

A ROMANCE

By MAURICE HEWLETT

_SPECTATOR._--"_The Forest Lovers_ is no mere literary _tour de

force_, but an uncommonly attractive romance, the charm of which is

greatly enhanced by the author's excellent style."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Mr. Maurice Hewlett's _Forest Lovers_ stands

out with conspicuous success.... He has compassed a very remarkable

achievement.... For nearly four hundred pages he carries us along

with him with unfailing resource and artistic skill, while he unrolls

for us the course of thrilling adventures, ending, after many

tribulations, in that ideal happiness towards which every romancer

ought to wend his tortuous way.... There are few books of this

season which achieve their aim so simply and whole-heartedly as Mr.

Hewlett's ingenious and enthralling romance."

_WORLD._--"If there are any romance-lovers left in this

matter-of-fact end of the century, _The Forest Lovers_, by Mr.

Maurice Hewlett, should receive a cordial welcome. It is one of

those charming books which, instead of analyzing the morbid emotions

of which we are all too weary, opens a door out of this workaday

world and lets us escape into fresh air. A very fresh and breezy

air it is which blows in Mr. Hewlett's forest, and vigorous are the

deeds enacted there.... There is throughout the book that deeper

and less easily defined charm which lifts true romance above mere

story-telling--a genuine touch of poetic feeling which beautifies the

whole."

_DAILY MAIL._--"It is all very quaintly and pleasingly done, with

plenty of mad work, and blood-spilling, and surprising adventure."

JAMES LANE ALLEN, Author of _The Choir Invisible_, writes of _The

Forest Lovers_: "This work, for any one of several solid reasons,

must be regarded as of very unusual interest. In the matter of style

alone, it is an achievement, an extraordinary achievement. Such a

piece of English prose, saturated and racy with idiom, compact and

warm throughout as living human tissues, well deserves to be set

apart for grateful study and express appreciation.... In the matter

of interpreting nature there are passages in this book that I have

never seen surpassed in prose fiction."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE

GOSPEL OF FREEDOM

By ROBERT HERRICK

AUTHOR OF "THE MAN WHO WINS," "LITERARY LOVE LETTERS, AND OTHER STORIES"

_DAILY MAIL._--"Distinctly enjoyable and suggestive of much

profitable thought."

_SCOTSMAN._--"The book has a deal of literary merit, and is well

furnished with clever phrases."

_ATHENÆUM._--"Remarkably clever.... The writing throughout is clear,

and the story is well constructed."

W. D. HOWELLS in _LITERATURE_.--"A very clever new novel."

_GUARDIAN._--"The novel is well written, and full of complex

interests and personalities. It touches on many questions and

problems clearly and skilfully."

_DAILY CHRONICLE._--"A book which entirely interested us for the

whole of a blazing afternoon. He writes uncommonly well."

_BOOKMAN._--"The excellence of Mr. Herrick's book lies not in the

solution of any problem, nor in the promulgation of any theory, nor

indeed in any form of docketing and setting apart of would-be final

answers to the enigmas of existence. He simply tells a story and

leaves us to draw what conclusion we like. The admirable thing is

that his story is a particularly interesting one, and that he tells

it remarkably well.... There are some delightful minor characters."

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._--"The characters, all American, have

originality and life. The self-engrossed Adela is so cleverly drawn

that we are hardly ever out of sympathy with her aspirations, and

Molly Parker, the 'womanly' foil, is delightful."

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE

GENERAL MANAGER'S

STORY

By HERBERT ELLICOTT HAMBLEN

_ILLUSTRATED_

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"Remarkable for the fulness of its author's

knowledge.... Nor does the interest of Mr. Hamblen's volume depend

solely on its vivid account of sensational escapes and dramatic

accidents, though there is no lack of exciting incidents of this kind

in his story.... What charmed us chiefly in the story was the close

and exact account of the everyday working of a great railroad....

There was not a page that we did not find full of interest and

instruction. It was all real, and most of it new, while Mr. Hamblen's

vivid and straightforward style does much to enhance the intrinsic

merits of his narrative.... We venture to think that no one will be

able to leave the breathless and realistic account of such an episode

as the chase of the runaway engine--not a figment of the imagination,

but a sober and hideous fact, accounted for and explained by the

most intelligible of mechanical reasons--without a thrill of genuine

excitement."

_SCOTSMAN._--"Mr. Hamblen shows a mastery of detail, and is easy and

fluent in American railwaymen's jargon, much of it more expressive

than polite. His book is well written, instructive, and of thrilling

interest. There are almost a score of capital illustrations."

_DAILY MAIL._--"The pages are full of rough, but attractive,

characters, forcible language, brakemen, locomotives, valves,

throttles, levers, and fire-scoops; and the whole dashing record is

casually humorous amid its inevitable brutalities, and is of its kind

excellent."

_ATHENÆUM._--"The story is vividly told, and decidedly well kept up

with tales of hairbreadth escapes and collisions commendable for

vigour and naturalness.... A book which holds the interest."

_WORLD._--"Better worth reading than half the romances published, for

it contains matter that is as interesting as it is absolutely novel."

_ACADEMY._--"A monstrous entertaining little book. Open it anywhere

and your luck will hardly fail you. And for real gripping adventure

you begin to doubt whether any career is worthy to show itself in the

same caboose with that of an 'engineer.'... His life is as full of

adventure as a pirate's.... A valuable contribution to the literature

that is growing around the Romance of Steam."

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE_.--"Singularly fascinating. It is just crammed

with moving episodes and hair-raising adventures, all set down with

a vivid and unadorned vigour that is a perfect example of the art of

narration. The pulses quicken, the heart bounds, as we read."

_DAILY CHRONICLE._--"A most interesting volume."

100,000 copies of this work have been sold

Fcap. 8vo. 6s.

THE CHOIR INVISIBLE

By JAMES LANE ALLEN

AUTHOR OF "SUMMER IN ARCADY," "A KENTUCKY CARDINAL," ETC.

_ACADEMY._--"A book to read, and a book to keep after reading. Mr.

Allen's gifts are many--a style pellucid and picturesque, a vivid

and disciplined power of characterization, and an intimate knowledge

of a striking epoch and an alluring country.... So magical is the

wilderness environment, so fresh the characters, so buoyant the life

they lead, so companionable, so well balanced, and so touched with

humanity, the author's personality, that I hereby send him greeting

and thanks for a brave book.... _The Choir Invisible_ is a fine

achievement."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--Mr. Allen's power of character drawing invests

the old, old story with renewed and absorbing interest.... The

fascination of the story lies in great part in Mr. Allen's graceful

and vivid style."

_DAILY MAIL._--"_The Choir Invisible_ is one of those very few books

which help one to live. And hereby it is beautiful even more than by

reason of its absolute purity of style, its splendid descriptions of

nature, and the level grandeur of its severe, yet warm and passionate

atmosphere."

_BRITISH WEEKLY._--"Certainly this is no commonplace book, and I have

failed to do justice to its beauty, its picturesqueness, its style,

its frequent nobility of feeling, and its large, patient charity."

_SPEAKER._--"We trust that there are few who read it who will fail to

regard its perusal as one of the new pleasures of their lives.... One

of those rare stories which make a direct appeal alike to the taste

and feeling of most men and women, and which afford a gratification

that is far greater than that of mere critical approval. It is,

in plain English, a beautiful book--beautiful in language and in

sentiments, in design and in execution. Its chief merit lies in

the fact that Mr. Allen has grasped the true spirit of historical

romance, and has shown how fully he understands both the links which

unite, and the time-spaces which divide, the different generations of

man."

_SATURDAY REVIEW._--"Mr. James Lane Allen is a writer who cannot well

put pen to paper without revealing how finely sensitive he is to

beauty."

_BOOKMAN._--"The main interest is not the revival of old times, but a

love-story which might be of today, or any day, a story which reminds

one very pleasantly of Harry Esmond and Lady Castlewood."

_ATLANTIC MONTHLY._--"We think he will be a novelist, perhaps even a

great novelist--one of the few who hold large powers of divers sort

in solution to be precipitated in some new unexpected form."

_GUARDIAN._--"One of those rare books that will bear reading many

times."

_DAILY NEWS._--"Mr. J. L. Allen shows himself a delicate observer,

and a fine literary artist in _The Choir Invisible_."

_ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE._--"A book that should be read by all those who

ask for something besides sensationalism in their fiction."

_SPECTATOR._--"Marked by beauty of conception, reticence of

treatment, and it has an atmosphere all its own."

_DAILY CHRONICLE._--"It is written with singular delicacy and has an

old-world fragrance which seems to come from the classics we keep in

lavender.... There are few who can approach his delicate execution in

the painting of ideal tenderness and fleeting moods."

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes.

1. Italic text is indicated by _underscores_ and bold text by

=equal signs=.

2. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as

possible.

3. Obvious punctuation, simple spelling, grammar, and typographical

errors have been silently corrected.

4. The spelling of some Maori words have been corrected.