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Bernard Rejoins Jack Stanley.
It seems strange that I should write a preface to this book, after having published fourteen story books already, which all went into the world unheralded by anything of the sort.
For an Author is the last person who should write a preface to his own book, for he cannot say “It is a good book: I advise you to read it;” and if he attempts to think it is otherwise, he had best leave it unpublished; and we are all so conceited, that we like our books better than ever the Public can be expected to like them.
After all, a preface honestly written resolves itself into nothing more than this:
“I hope you will appreciate my book as much as I do.”
“Allow me to Introduce my Hero, Mr. John Stanley.”
In a lodging-house parlour in London there sat one evening, some twenty years ago, a gentleman of scarcely middle age and a youth of sixteen or seventeen. The gentleman held in his hands a newspaper; but he had not been reading it for some minutes past. After a time he gave up all pretence of reading, and laid the paper down, and covered his face with his hands. The boy, who had been until then occupied with drawing, glanced again and again at his companion, as if unable any longer to take interest in what he was doing, then he rose and walked towards him, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.
“What is it, father?” he asked. “Anything fresh?”
His father shook his head; then, with an effort, he roused himself to answer.
“No, my boy,” he said; “nothing more than the old miseries: they are quite enough, Jack.” And he smiled sadly, and stroked his son's hand, which rested on his shoulder.
“You must tell me, father. You never will tell me about it.”
“Why should I talk over a very disagreeable subject, Jack? You will know all about it soon enough; but for the present I would rather leave you as free from care as you can be. You are very young.”
“Oh, come, father!” said Master Jack, “you forget that I am more than sixteen years old, and I am nearly as tall as you, dear old Pater. I think you might tell me.”
“Some day I will, my dear,” his father answered. “Boys cannot understand money matters, and it is as well they should not. Money is a great misery—or the want of it, rather, Jack. Don't ask me any more now. Go back to your drawing. I want you to cultivate drawing, Jack. You will find it useful some day.”
Jack went back to his drawing without further questions, and appeared to be busy for a time. In another half-hour his father rose and took his hat, and left the room and the house. Then Jack shoved away his drawing, and set himself to think.
Things had not been always with his father and himself as they were now. This shabby lodging-house parlour,
As the boy sat with his head in his hands, his mind travelled back to those old days.
Jack had been, even in his own estimation, a little fellow then; but he could recollect all that past life. It went by him like a succession of pictures in his mind: the lawn upon which the dining-room opened, the lovely flower-garden—he could see that in his memory even as he thought of it—the large shady trees: he seemed to hear the cawing of the rooks, and to smell the sweetest of perfumes, the scent of the larches. Then there were dogs, he recollected, and horses: he had had a pony of his own in those days. Since those days, thought he rather bitterly, he had had to trudge on foot. How gay the house used to be! Always friends coming and going, always gaiety, always laughter. What a fuss his father's acquaintances had been used to make about him, Jack, when he went down after dinner to dessert! Such pleasant people those seemed to be, looking back upon it. Now they had no friends; no one ever came to see them in this London lodging. Jack could hardly remember any one calling upon them for months past, with the exception of a Mr. Denby, a lawyer.
Then all at once something had happened—something which had changed everything in their pleasant life. Jack
Then there was great excitement, and great amusement too, to the child, who did not understand why he was pleased, and who wondered that his nurse was found so many times crying when by herself, and why the servants, one after the other, kissed him, and said “good bye” to him, and went away.
He could remember how they all spoke of his father as “poor dear master,” and said “it was a shame, that it was;” but it had been a great amusement to him to escape from the nursery, and look at the crowds of people in the house and about the grounds, and to see all the furniture and the books and pictures brought out and carried away. He knew now what he had not understood at that time, that everything in the place had been sold by auction, and that The Beeches itself had been brought to the hammer.
Then, in a little while after, his father and he left their home and came to London.
Of course, at the time the little boy had been full of questions as to the reason of all these things; but he had been hused down, and told he must not distress his poor papa, and somehow from that day Jack had learnt to look upon his father as upon a man who was to be pitied.
Yet why had the Beeches been sold? Jack had again and again asked the question.
Shortly after coming to London, Mr. Stanley, his father, had found employment in an office. He, who had done nothing but play and enjoy himself in his youth, and had been used to every indulgence and luxury, had to submit to the drudgery of a clerk's life. It was the most galling of all occupations to a man who had lived as Mr. Stanley had lived, and Jack wondered how his father could submit to it; but when he asked the question, “Papa, why do you go to that horrid office? Why are things so changed from what they used to be? Why did we ever leave The Beeches?” Mr. Stanley would look pained, and try to turn the subject.
But one day, when Jack pressed him for an answer, Mr. Stanley said,
“My dear boy, it is very painful to me to talk of those days at The Beeches, and it is, as you say, very irksome, after all the past, to have to work at what you call ‘that horrid office.’ But it must be done, Jack. It was my duty to leave The Beeches, and it is my duty now to work at whatever I can do in order that we may both live. Do not ask me any more questions about it. You will know all, I dare say, some day. If it would make you happier, Jack, I would tell you now; but it would not do so, and your happiness is the one thing left me to live for now.”
And Jack threw his arms round his father's neck, and hugged him tightly, and resolved in his own mind that he
Jack had been sent to a school in the neighbourhood during the day, coming home at night, and sleeping at the lodgings. He had become used to the discomfort of the dingy rooms, and had ceased to miss the luxuries of their former life, which at first had seemed indispensable. Such mere outward things we soon get used to, if we have any sense; but Jack loved his father dearly, and he could never become used to seeing him look unhappy and full of care.
He did not remember his mother. She must have died very early in his life, for she was not mixed up with any of his memories of home. His father had occasionally mentioned her name in former days; of late he had not spoken of her. She had been included in the painful past which was not spoken of. He had always been an only child, and Jack's father had been everything in the world to him.
In those old days gone by, when Jack used to scamper about the country on his pony, and everything was delightful and pleasant, his father and he used to talk about his future, and the boy earned all sorts of nicknames because of his wish to go to sea, and it was an understood thing that Jack was to be a sailor; but since things had been so altered, Mr. Stanley never spoke of Jack's going to
Jack Stanley possessed that noblest of qualities—un selfishness; noblest, because it is nearest to the godlike character. His love for his father made him see the impossibility of sending himself to a naval training school. He could guess that the disappointment was as great to Mr. Stanley as it was to him, and he allowed the time to pass over when he might have qualified himself for the navy, trying to be content and to be cheerful in going to the second-rate school.
You may be sure Jack's father knew the struggle which was in the mind of his boy, and he loved and honoured him for it.
So the time for going to sea had passed over, and Jack sometimes vaguely wondered if he was destined in after life to sit upon a three-legged stool in an office, and he would get quite hot at the mere thought, and say to him-self,
“I wonder if I could endure it? I don't believe I could. I would sooner enlist as a private soldier, or go to sea before the mast.”
Fortunately all boys are not constituted alike, for some must go into offices, as others must go to sea or into the army.
The night upon which my story opens was a very foggy
Now, after thinking of the past, he got to dreaming of the future, and gradually his head fell forward upon the table against which he sat, and he dropped off asleep.
Jack Stanley's later life had been a peculiarly lonely one. The school to which he went daily was, as I think I have already made you understand, from the fact that his father could not afford to send him to a more expensive one, the reverse of exclusive; indeed, the proportion of gentlemen in the school was a very small one.
Perhaps from an over-sensitiveness and fear that his son, through his own reverse of fortune, should sink in the social scale, Mr. Stanley had warned Jack repeatedly against making intimacies with boys beneath him in birth and position. There had been no need of any such warning: without the restriction, Jack held himself aloof from almost all his schoolfellows. He was too proud to
I do not say he was right. Men are not made to be indifferent as machines; but I think, considering all things, that his feeling was natural.
From this uncomfortable, uneasy sleep upon the table, Jack Stanley was aroused by a loud knocking at the hall door, and raising his head to listen, he became aware of a sound of voices talking in the passage below. With the thoughts which had been thronging into his mind still fresh in his memory, and the sudden disturbance from his uncomfortable sleep, the feeling that something unusual
Jack is Left His Own Master, Very Much to His Own Regret.
Jack Stanley opened the sitting-room door, and looked over the banisters into the hall below. There was the landlady, Mrs. Bennett, talking very fast and crying at the same time—so it sounded—and gesticulating with her hands. Although Jack could not hear distinctly what she was talking about, he felt sure that something dreadful had taken place, although he could not have told why he thought so; and when he heard a voice which was that of a stranger say, “Let me see him, my good woman: you cannot do any good by all this noise,” he felt sure the stranger wanted to see himself, and running down the stairs, he said,
“What is it? Tell me what has happened. I am John Stanley.”
Then the strange gentleman took Jack by the hand very kindly, and led him into Mrs. Bennett's little sitting-room, and said,
“I have come to fetch you, my boy: your father wants you. He is not well.”
Jack caught him by the arm. “Is he dead? Is he dead?” he asked.
“No, no, no,” said the stranger. “What puts such an idea into your head? How could he want you if he were, you goose?”
Jack tried to smile, but he felt nervous and anxious, and more inclined to cry.
“There, get your hat and come with me,” said the stranger. “I have kept the cab at the door.”
Jack was with him again in a moment, and they got into what they took for granted was the cab, for the fog was so thick that they could not possibly see it. Then, when they were seated side by side, Jack asked,
“Where are we going, sir? Where is father? How was he taken ill? Why did not he come here, instead of sending for me?”
At any other time I think the stranger would have smiled at the rapidity of the boy's questions, but now it was not the time for smiling; and, being a very kind-hearted man, with boys of his own, he took Jack's hand in his before he answered,
“Your father has met with an accident: he was knocked down by a carriage, being unable to see his way in this fog. I know you are the sort of boy that will never think of being so selfish as to make a fuss at such a time as this. You will try and help all you can, and to bear up like a man, and be a comfort to your father.”
Jack had felt very much inclined to get excited when first he heard the words, “Your father has met with an accident;” but by the time the stranger had come to the end of his speech, he had determined to behave like a man. He said nothing, for he could not trust his voice; and the gentleman went on:
“I am taking you to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where your father has been carried.”
Has he broken a limb, sir?” asked Jack, after a moment.
“No, my boy, he has not broken an arm or a leg; but he has injured himself very much, very much indeed,” said the stranger, gravely; then added, “Very seriously indeed, my poor boy.”
There was something in the way in which the gentleman said this, which brought to Jack Stanley a feeling of fear he could not control. He clutched the hand of his companion, and said,
“Tell me what has happened to him, sir, I beg of you. I will not make a fool of myself, I promise; but I must know. I must know before I see him.”
“I think you ought to know,” said the stranger, kindly. “My poor boy, your father has injured his spine in a very serious manner.”
“And will he die?” asked Jack.
“I fear so.”
“Are you a doctor, sir?” asked Jack again.
“Yes, I am a doctor; so, you see, I do not speak without
Jack gave no answer, for he could not speak.
“Don't mind crying before me,” said the doctor. “I don't expect you not to cry; but I want you to try and bear up when you are with your father.”
He put his arm round Jack as he spoke, and the action made the boy break down. As the kind doctor hoped, he cried so violently for a short time that he was able to control himself when they arrived at the hospital.
Jack felt as if he could have flown out of the cab and along the streets. Every vehicle, even a railway train, seems to go so slowly at such a time; and the fog was so dense that every now and then there was a stoppage in the street, which prevented their moving along at all for some minutes, or, as it seemed to the boy, some hours.
After a length of time they arrived at the hospital, and Jack and his companion hurried through the wards, in order to reach Mr. Stanley. When they actually stood by the bed-side Jack had no inclination to cry, he felt so awestruck by the change which had taken place in his father since the few hours ago when they had parted. What the change consisted in he could not have said: there seemed all at once to have come a distance between the two. Jack had never seen a dying man in his life, but there was a look upon his father's face which he knew at once was death.
“Ah, Jack,” said he, “I sent for you. You were a good boy to come. You always were a good boy. If it had not been for that fog—but who was to know? it was impossible to foresee such a thing as that. I had something to say to Jack. I must see him as soon as possible.”
Then he stopped speaking, and looked hard at his son with a pained expression of face, as if striving to remember, so as to make the boy's eyes fill with tears: he had not expected to find his father wandering in his mind.
“You will think of it presently, father,” said he; “I shall stay with you.”
“You see,” resumed Mr. Stanley, “I have not liked to talk on the subject, but my son ought to know. I had hoped that I might be able to start him in life at least. Will you send for Jack? Do send for Jack: I ought to speak to him.”
“Oh, father, father! do not you know me?” said Jack.
“Hush!” said a young man, who was standing near, and who was the house surgeon of the hospital; “you must not excite him. Very likely he will know you again in a little while.”
“He will blame me, perhaps,” re-commenced Mr. Stanley, “and I should not like my own boy to think I was to blame. I did all I could, and I wished if possible to
He looked his son full in the face as he spoke, without a gleam of recognition.
“Oh, it is so hard! it is so hard!” and Jack.
“I know it must be, my poor fellow! Though I have not lost a father, it must be a sad thing to bear, when you have loved him and known him as you seem to have done.”
“Of course I have loved him and known him,” said Jack, almost indignantly. “Is he not my father? Who are you? You say you have not lost a father: what do you know about it?”
“I have lost the one I loved as a parent,” answered the stranger, gently. “I can, at least, sympathize with you.”
Jack's eyes, still full of tears, glanced upon the speaker, but there was nothing in his appearance to arouse anger. He was a young, rather fair man, of three or four and twenty, very good-looking, with a rather sad expression of face—certainly not the sort of man to provoke anger; and Jack's flashing eyes became subdued, and he said,
“I shall be quite alone when he is gone. I shall be quite alone in the world. I have no one but him.”
“Then you and I are circumstanced pretty much alike,” answered the other. “I have not a relation that I know.”
“What are you? Who are you?” asked Jack.
The questions would have been rude under ordinary
“I am one of the house surgeons here,” answered the young man. “That is how I come to be in attendance on your father. It is my business to attend to any accidents that are brought in.—I remember,” resumed the young man, after a pause, for speaking of any sort was better than the awful silence which followed on their short conversation—“I remember what my poor aunt, whom I loved as a mother, and who educated and brought me up as if I had been her son, said to me when she was dying —I wish I remembered it oftener.”
“What was that?” asked Jack Stanley.
“I do not wish to preach,” answered the house surgeon, slightly colouring, and, as he spoke, raising Mr. Stanley's head into a more easy position, the action being done with the gentleness of a woman—“but at times like this her words come back to me. You know, she was leaving me, as I supposed, alone in the world, and she reminded me that God is more particularly the Friend of the friendless and the Father of the fatherless. Perhaps it may be because we do not feel the want of a Heavenly Friend and Father whilst we have everything in this world.”
“Anybody can say such things,” answered Jack Stanley, drearily, “but I doubt if anybody feels them.”
“Do not think that—pray do not think in that way!” said Mr. Bernard. “I believe—I know it is true!”
“Yes, it is true,” said Mr. Stanley, fixing his eyes upon
You can tell my son how it all was. Why did you answer none of my letters? It was very heartless—very wicked altogether.”
Then he wandered off to other things, and Jack could only kneel there by his side and watch him. He watched him through that long dreary night, listening to his random talking with very few and short returns to consciousness; and towards morning Mr. Stanley left off speaking, and lay quite still and composed. Bernard had been backwards and forwards during the night, having other duties to attend to; but as day dawned, he stood with the doctor who had fetched Jack from the lodgings once more by the bed.
“He is better, is he not?” inquired Jack, anxiously glancing from one to the other.
“He will be better very soon,” answered the elder man. “He is in no pain, not even the pain of restlessness: he is unconscious.”
“But he will wake again! he will wake again!” exclaimed Jack.
“Never in this world, my poor boy,” said the doctor, kindly. “Come with me into another room,” and he tried to draw Jack away.
But Jack resisted. He could not leave his father, although he was no longer aware that his son was near him. Before long there was nothing more that Jack could do but close the eyes which he remembered from his earliest infancy as always looking smilingly at him, and leave his parent's body to those who could best attend to it, and his soul where it had gone—with God.
It is a time which will in all probability come to each one of you who have parents. Think of it sometimes, boys and girls, while your parents are still with you, lest other feelings besides those of sorrow and regret for your own loss should come into your hearts when you look upon your father's or your mother's dead face—feelings of remorse for your own shortcomings and want of duty.
Jack Stanley had no just reproach of this sort to make against himself, but even with him the first feeling in his mind when he knew that his father was beyond his reach was regret that he had not been a more devoted and affectionate son.
He was turning away from the bed-side to make room for those who he was aware were ready to attend to the dead body when his eyes confronted those of Bernard, the house surgeon. The latter held out his hands, and it was
So Mr. Stanley was gone for ever beyond the reach of his son in this world, and had died without telling him what he had promised to tell for so long. In recalling the words his father had used shortly before his death, he tried to forget those which had appeared to reflect blame upon himself; but there was one thing which Mr. Stanley had given utterance to which greatly puzzled Jack, and the first time he was with the house surgeon he said to him,
“Did you observe that my father seemed to speak to you as if he knew you? Did you ever see him before?”
“Never before the night he was brought in here,” replied the surgeon.
“But did you notice what he said?” returned Jack. “He asked you when you had come, and said that you could tell me something or other; and he called you heartless: what did he mean?”
“People who are light-headed,” answered the other, after a rather long pause, “people who are light-headed and delirious frequently mistake one person for another: they may see a likeness, perhaps. I never saw your father before last night.”
“What is your name?” asked Jack Stanley, abruptly.
The young man gave no answer, and Jack, supposing he had not heard, repeated his question.
“Hope Bernard,” slowly replied the house surgeon, looking Jack full in the face.
“I do not remember ever hearing my father mention such a name,” said Jack.
“No, I should suppose not,” answered the other.
So Jack could only wonder what his father had meant by his words, without any prospect of their being explained to him now.
Jack Makes the Acquaintance of Mr. And Mrs. Denby.
We do not usually cry and make a fuss when a great grief comes upon us: we leave the crying for smaller matters. Many times, in looking back in after years on his father's death, Jack Stanley may have shed tears, but he did not at the time. He did not know how to act in any one thing; he understood nothing about the preparations for the funeral; he had only a few shillings in his pocket, and a few pounds in the pocket-book taken from his father; so he made up his mind, in a couple of hours after his father's death, to go to Mr. Denby.
The morning was clearer than it had been on the day before, and the walk did Jack good; but it seemed so strange to be going along the streets of London under his changed circumstances. He felt as if he was raised above the crowds he passed full of business, and toil, and occupation, by the great grief which he had in his breast, of which they knew nothing.
Mr. Denby was at home—that is, in his office, and Jack was shown up at once.
“Stanley?” said the lawyer, glancing up at him as his clerk closed the door: “bless me! oh, yes! I suppose you are Mr. Stanley's son: I thought it was your father.”
“My father is dead, sir,” said Jack, speaking and feeling almost fiercely; “he was killed yesterday; he was knocked down in the fog and killed. I don't know what to do, I have come to ask you.”
“Killed! dead!” said the lawyer. “Good Heavens! how did it happen? Who was with him?”
“I know very little more than I have told you,” Jack answered. “He is at St. Bartholomew's Hospital: he died a few hours ago; his back was broken.”
The boy spoke as calmly as if he had learnt a lesson, and was repeating it off by rote. Mr. Denby walked across the room, and took Jack by the hand.
“And what made you come to me?” asked he, kindly.
“He told me to come. He said that you will tell me his past history, which he has always intended to tell himself.” Jack spoke as if his father was still living: he could not yet remember that he was dead.
“So I will another day; not now. You say your poor father was taken to St. Bartholomew's. You had better leave all arrangements to me, my dear boy. Meanwhile, what are you going to do with yourself? Where are you going when you leave this?”
“I don't know,” answered Jack, hopelessly: he felt
“You had better come with me,” said Mr. Denby, presently rising and reaching down his hat. At the same moment he touched a bell, and when the clerk appeared, desired him to call a cab.
The cab was at the door almost as soon as Mr. Denby and Jack were, and getting into it, the lawyer gave the address of Mr. Stanley's lodgings. As soon as they arrived there, Mr. Denby said to Jack,
“Now, John Stanley, go in and pack up all your things. How long will it take you to do so, do you think?”
There are lots of books, sir, and—and—I hardly know what.”
“Then pack up your wearing apparel, and put all the books and everything else that may belong to you into the sitting-room and bed-room which your poor father occupied. I will ensure that they shall not be touched. Go at once. I will be back in two hours: you have no time to lose.”
Even at this moment, although Jack could not have explained the feeling in words, it annoyed him to hear his dead father spoken of as “your poor father.” The pitying tone which the living assume towards the dead is very galling to those who have already, in the acuteness
No sooner was the rattle of the cab-wheels out of hearing than Mrs. Bennett presented herself at the sitting-room door. Now, there is no doubt that every individual of us in this world is adapted to some special purpose. Mrs. Bennett was not a woman of any learning or much discretion, but she was warm hearted, and a good packer. Upon first opening the sitting-room door, her only intention was that of comforting Jack in his affliction; though in all probability her way of comfort would have been very jarring to his sensitiveness. She began at once:
“My poor dear blessed boy! only to think that it should come to this! and he, poor dear gentleman, only this time yesterday as well as me, and better; but we are here today and gone to-morrow, as the saying is, Master Stanley, and what's our loss is his gain, we may say.”
I dare say she would have gone on for half an hour in this way, if she had not caught sight of the manner in which Jack had dragged a quantity of wearing apparel on
“Bless the boy!” she exclaimed, “whatever is he after? You don't ever expect to get them things in in that way, Master Stanley? Here, let me do it for you, my dear. Just you pick up the things from off the floor and hand them to me, and I'll do it for you in no time.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bennett,” said Jack, meekly. “I am not very used to packing, and I don't quite know how to begin.”
“So it seems,” said the landlady; “you needn't tell me. Now hand me those boots, sir; those which are lying on the bosom of that shirt—now the others. Are these here empty bottles to go?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Bennett,” said Jack; “I hardly know what I have put there on the floor.”
“Here's the hearth-broom for one,” said the old woman, talking with scarcely a pause; for she was afraid of trusting herself to look at her companion, and afraid of leaving off talking, lest she should break down at the sight of the many things belonging to the dead man. “Never mind; we'll get everything in its place after a bit.” And so she went on packing until, to Jack's surprise, the mass of things which had been lying on the floor was reduced to order, and he found that all his own clothes were comfortably folded and in the portmanteau. “And now, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennett, “if you will excuse my making so free, Mr. Denby said as he couldn't be back under a
“Oh, I couldn't eat anything, Mrs. Bennett, thank you,” said Jack.
“Yes, you could, my dear, and it's your duty so to do. I'm not much of a educated woman, Master Stanley, as would't beseem perhaps my station, but I know one thing that concerns us all alike, and that is this: that whatever happens, it is our duty to bear up and make the best of things. It is a hard trial to you losing your dear Pa, but that will not be an excuse for making yourself ill; so just you come down with me and eat some dinner: you'll find it will do you good. You look quite pale and knocked up now, you do; and you'll want your strength to do your duty.” Mrs. Bennett was a sensible woman, though an uneducated one; and as she went downstairs, talking all the way, Jack felt obliged to follow her.
He was chilly with want of rest during the past night, and really in want of food, though he would not acknowledge it, and the warmth of Mrs. Bennett's cheerful fire did him good. The strained feeling which came partly from over-fatigue began to wear away; and when the old woman brought him a basin of hot soup, which she must have been at some pains to make, and which had been simmering on the kitchen hob the whole morning, he had
But very likely even then he might have recovered himself, and sustained his manliness, if kind-hearted Mrs. Bennett had not spoilt everything by taking his hand in hers, and patting it tenderly. Jack could not stand it any longer, but laid his head upon the back of his chair and burst into tears. Then the old woman said,
“Never fear, my boy: you was a good son to him as is gone, and the blessing of God will be with you. God blesses good children in this world also. You was the comfort and the happiness of his life, he have told me so. That's right, do cry; it ain't right and it ain't natural not to cry; it will do you a deal of good, my dear.”
And the old lady sat down beside Jack, the hand which she had been holding in hers went round her neck, and somehow Jack Stanley found himself crying on Mrs. Bennett's shoulder, instead of the back of the chair.
He would have been very much surprised if any one had told him, only a few days before, that he should ever find himself on such terms with the landlady, whom he had been used irreverently to speak of as “old Mother Bennett” to his schoolfellows. But we never know, until circumstances occur to bring it out, how much goodness may be hidden in those of whom we think little.
It was a comfort to Jack to have his cry out, and then, after having taken his soup, to talk over things with his
Although on several occasions Jack had seen Mr. Denby in company with his father, he had never before encountered his wife, and it was a surprise to him that a lady upon whom he looked as a complete stranger should evince such a knowledge apparently of his affairs. From the first moment of their meeting, Mrs. Denby, as it were, took possession of him and of his interests. She talked of “your poor dear father,” and “our poor friend,” and “the dear worthy man,” all of which meant Mr. Stanley, as if she had intimately known him for years. She dismissed the subject of the funeral and of the spot where the body was to be buried, and suggested arrangements in connection with either, as if all these things depended upon her.
“John Stanley will have everything as quiet as possible, my dear,” said she to her husband, without any reference to John Stanley's wishes.
It is true that Jack would prefer all the arrangements to be as quiet as possible, but it irritated him when suggested by Mrs. Denby. Besides, Mrs. Denby could afford to view the whole thing in the most cheerful light, for the
I am afraid that Mrs. Denby's influence upon Jack was not for his good, and her platitudes about resignation and the effect of time, and many other truisms which have been said hundreds of times, yet which always irritate in the same manner the bereaved and sore at heart, had a very contrary effect from that which she may have intended. They resulted in his taking a very violent dislike to Mrs. Denby, and feeling her society so irksome to him that he shunned it as much as possible. This did not signify so far as the lady herself was concerned, for she was much too well satisfied with her own peculiarities to notice that they were not satisfactory to every one else.
Jack had a yearning feeling towards two people in the world—the very small world of his acquaintance, and these two were rather incongruous. They were the young man, the house surgeon at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Bernard, and the old woman of his lodgings, Mrs. Bennett. Jack would have been, perhaps, half-ashamed of acknowledging that, at this juncture, he would have preferred the society of the so-called vulgar old Mother Bennett to that of the so-called lady, Mrs. Denby; but it was a fact that he would have done so, and, perhaps, in the real sense, Mrs. Bennett was the better lady of the two.
So the funeral passed off like a dull dream, as if it had been somebody else who had been looking on at the burying
Jack Hears Facts Which Influence his Future Conduct.
Those deary intervening days passed, during which Jack Stanley was at Mr. Denby's house; and then the funeral; after which everything seemed suddenly to come to a standstill. It is such a mistake, under any circumstances in this life, to be idle. If we are suffering, we suffer much more acutely for having no occupation; work, which was originally given as part of the curse of sin, has by the goodness of God been turned into the greatest of blessings to every rightly constituted man. A man who dislikes work or is unwilling to work is only half a man, and certainly nothing of a gentleman. But what could Jack Stanley do, taken as it were against his will into the house of Mr. Denby, and feeling that he was expected to sit down and do nothing? Had he proposed even revisiting Mrs. Bennett's lodgings, he felt sure it would have been looked upon as eccentric, and would have provoked some more of Mrs. Denby's unanswerable remarks.
He was continually asking of himself the question, “What am I to do?” He had all at once come into possession of himself, his own future, and his own responsibilities. He had hoped that Mr. Denby would introduce the subject after all was over; but Mr. Denby's mind was engrossed by some fresh event which had taken place more recently than Mr. Stanley's death, and he did not do so. So, after breakfast on the third day following the funeral, Jack said to Mr. Denby,
“Can I speak to you to-day, sir, about myself?”
“What about yourself?” asked the lawyer, glancing up from the letters which he had been reading in the intervals between eating and talking.
Jack felt inclined to say, “Everything; all my future; all my life; everything that I care for!” but he answered instead, very deliberately,
“It is very kind, indeed, of you and Mrs. Denby to have taken me into your house in the way that you have. It is very kind; but I want to understand my position. I want to decide what I must do.”
“Mr. Denby and I have been talking that over,” said Mrs. Denby; “and,” glancing at her husband and nodding her head smilingly at Jack, “I think we have settled it all.”
Jack looked up quickly: it seemed to him strange that things should be supposed settled already for him without any reference to himself, for it does not take us long to realize our own independece, and Jack Stanley was beginning
“Hush, my dear!” said Mr. Denby to his wife. “I intend to explain to John Stanley what I have been thinking of; but there is no hurry.”
“Excuse me,” said Jack, “but I feel very anxious to know something definite of my future. Will you speak to me to-day? And, besides,” he added, “I must ask you to be so good as to explain to me what my father wished me to know of his former life. I am very impatient to hear that.”
“Young people are always impatient,” said the lawyer.
“But really, upon consideration, I don't see what good it will do to tell you the particulars you refer to.”
“My father wished me to know,” said Jack.
“So he told you when he was dying, my dear boy; but I think he would have spoken of it to you himself when in health had he much wished it. I don't see any end to be gained.”
Jack felt very much inclined to be angry; but Mr. Denby had been kind to him, and he remained silent.
“I think,” said the lawyer, “that you and I together had better look through your poor father's papers, if he has left any.”
“There is a number of letters at the lodgings,” said Jack.
“Very well; we will go there and look them over, some time or other,” said Mr. Denby.
“This morning, sir?”
“This morning, if you cannot wait till the afternoon.”
“Meanwhile, tell John Stanley what we have been thinking of,” observed Mrs. Denby, taking a seat opposite to Jack, with a placid smile upon her face, as if quite satisfied of his delight at hearing of the plan.
“You are sixteen, are you not?” asked Mr. Denby.
“Near seventeen, sir,” Jack answered.
“Well, you are young; but a youth of your age may be responsible and trustworthy.”
“I hope so, indeed,” said Jack, flushing.
“I was thinking that I will perhaps be able to find you employment in my office, John Stanley. I am in want at present of a junior clerk: of course, at first, you cannot expect any salary; but after a few years we will talk about it: there is time enough for that. Meanwhile, I know your poor father has left a few hundreds in the bank: he was always in the habit of saving a little yearly, with an eye to your future; and, perhaps, on investigating matters, we shall find that there will be enough to go on with for a time with strict economy, and—”
Mr. Denby might have talked on for some time longer, having quite arranged all Jack's future life in his own mind, had he not been brought to a standstill by catching sight of the very blank expression which had come over the face of his hearer. To be a lawyer's clerk for an unlimited space of years—upon nothing; in an office, and with a principal found for him, and whom he did not like,
“You are very kind, sir,” he stammered, after a time, during which all these thoughts had passed rapidly through his mind, “but I do not think, in fact, I do not believe, such a thing would suit me.”
“Your father was not above working in an office,” observed Mr. Denby, with a slightly offended air.
“Yes, I know; dear old father!” exclaimed Jack, passionately. “He worked in an office, as he has said, that we might both live, and that he might educate me for a profession. But that is at an end. I know that is at an end. But the work made him miserable, and it would drive me wild: I couldn't do it.”
“Don't talk nonsense,” said Mr. Denby, angrily. “You ought to be thankful for the offer. You should remember the proverb, ‘beggars cannot be choosers.”’
“I ought to have remembered I am a beggar, sir,” said Jack. “I will try to do so. Shall we go to the lodgings and look over my father's letters now?”
Jack rose as he spoke; and Mr. Denby, shrugging his shoulders and saying, “You will be brought to your bearings some day, young man,” went with him to the lodgings.
There was not much in the letters; but amongst the papers in his father's pocket-book, which until then Jack
“This is chiefly a request that I will make known to you the particulars you referred to. Your father seemed to imagine that his reputation was involved in having brought you up to a certain age in luxury and with the expectation of succeeding to a fortune and estate, and then leaving you under such circumstances. He was always eccentric and overstrained in his ideas, was your poor father.”
“He was always everything that a high-souled gentleman ought to be!” exclaimed Jack, impetuously.
“My dear boy,” said the lawyer, “when you have lived a little longer in the world you will not be quite so impulsive and unguarded in your way of speaking.”
“I trust I shall never live to hear the least slur cast upon my father without defending him,” said Jack, ready to cry with indignation.
“Well, well! we will put that aside for the present, and, if you will listen quietly and like a rational being, I will tell you the cause of your poor father's reverse of fortune.”
Jack sat still, with his eyes fixed upon Mr. Denby's face, only too anxious to hear what he had for so long wished to know.
The lawyer began:
“In early youth your father made acquaintance with a young man, with whom he afterwards became very intimate.
“What was his name?” asked Jack.
“William Maitland,” said the lawyer, unthinkingly for once. Then he presently added, “However, the name is of little consequence.”
“I have never heard it before that I can remember,” said Jack.
“I do not suppose you have. I should think it must be many years since that name has passed your father's lips.”
“Why?” Jack asked.
“My good fellow,” said Mr. Denby, “if you keep on interrupting me in this way with questions, I shall never get to the end of my story. You must be quiet if you wish me to tell it to you.”
“All right,” said Jack; “I will ask no more.”
“Well,” resumed Mr. Denby, “this man used to be with your father very frequently indeed. He was a very handsome man, who could do most things well, and he certainly gained a very undue influence over your father. I never liked the man myself. He was an idle fellow, without any profession, living no one knew exactly how, but certainly at the expense of other people more than his own. He was always staying about at the houses of friends, but more frequently at The Beeches than elsewhere. The Beeches was the name of your father's place.”
“Yes, I know, I know,” said Jack. “Go on, pray.”
“A sweet pretty place it was too,” said Mr. Denby, “a most enjoyable place to stay at. Perhaps you may remember it?”
“Of course I do,” said Jack, who was becoming irritated by the lawyer's manner.
“It ought to have been yours, that place; it should have been yours at the present moment, and it was the knowledge of the wrong done you which weighed upon your father's mind; the knowledge that he had been the means of depriving you of your inheritance. It gradually broke his spirits; he was never the same man after he sold the place.”
“He had been the means!” exclaimed Jack. “Who do you mean—my father?”
“Your father, certainly, though you must not blame him. His great feeling in the matter always was that you might blame him.”
“He need not have feared that,” said Jack, sorrowfully. “I wish he had told me all this himself. I might have told him then that I should never blame him, whatever he might have done.”
The lawyer looked at Jack with surprise in his face. I am afraid that Mr. Denby had not much sentiment left in him now, whatever he might have had when he had been the age of Jack Stanley.
“But—” gasped Jack.
“Be quiet and keep your seat. I know all that you wish to ask. Many people, I believe, myself amongst the
“I must speak!” exclaimed Jack. “You tell it so slowly. How did—what had Maitland to do with it? How could he make my father sell The Beeches?”
“Well, if you will have it in short words—he induced your father—who understood about as much of business as a new-born baby—to enter into some rascally speculation with him.”
“Rascally!” said Jack, firing up.
“Rascally: and Maitland knew it. There, there! I didn't intend to infer your father knew it. I know he didn't. He was blameless in the matter—more than blameless. But the whole thing went smash, involving numbers of dupes like your father; and, rather than through his instrumentality poor men and widows and orphans should suffer, your father—”
“Sold The Beeches and made himself a beggar!” exclaimed Jack.
“Exactly. I thought it was rather Quixotic at the time; but he was always that way. Nothing would serve him but he must sell everything and pay off to the last farthing. He used to say he did not regret it, excepting for you.”
“For me!” said Jack, bursting into a passion of tears. “I would not have it otherwise. He does not regret it now. Dear, noble father!”
Mr. Denby looked at him in some dismay; then presently he said, “Young man, you are really so very—” Then he added, after a pause, “Well, I have told you, I think, all that you may want to know.”
“No, indeed,” said Jack; “I must know several things more. What has become of this man Maitland?”
“That I cannot tell you. He made off to America or to New Zealand, or somewhere—the latter, I believe—carrying with him a large sum of money. He provided for himself well.”
“And ruined my father and broke his heart,” said Jack, between his teeth.
“Well, he assuredly ruined him,” said the lawyer. “As to breaking his heart, I don't believe in that sort of thing.”
“Don't you believe in a man's life being made miserable, sir, by such treachery?”
“Well, yes; your poor father certainly felt it very acutely,” said Mr. Denby.
“It comes to much the same thing by whatever name you call it. —Did you say he went to New Zealand?”
“I believe so; but what can that matter? We are never likely to meet with him again.”
“It matters this, sir: that I will never rest until I find him!” exclaimed Jack Stanley, starting from his seat. “I will search for that man until I meet him, if it takes my whole lifetime.”
“To what end?” asked the lawyer, with unfeigned surprise.
“Do you think I will let the man who made my father miserable continue to live on without exposure? You have given me an object in life, sir, by telling me this history.”
“Really, John Stanley,” said Mr. Denby, “I think the days for such extravagant feeling are past. I see no object in your seeking revenge upon Maitland.”
“Not revenge—justice,” said Jack. And he quite believed that he was speaking the truth.
Mr. Denby said nothing more, but merely shrugged his shoulders, and continued looking through the papers until the evening closed in. Then he said,
“What do you intend doing? Are you coming back with me?”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jack; “if you will excuse me, I will go on reading these. I am very anxious to go through them.”
“What is the good?” asked the lawyer. “I can see that there is nothing of consequence in them. I should advise you to put them all together in a box, and let me take charge of them: you can look them over at your leisure.”
“I would rather do so now,” said Jack, doggedly. “When I have done so, I shall put the greater part of them in the fire. I see no use in keeping old letters. I am quite sure Mrs. Bennett will let me sleep here to-night; she is a good old soul.”
“Very well: as you will. Only don't set the house
I have said that he had, since his father's death, felt his boyishness slipping from him. From the moment he learnt his father's wrongs he became a man in energy and determination.
Left alone, the first feeling upon Jack's part was one of intense relief at being free from the presence of Mr. Denby, who looked at everything with the eye of a lawyer. He was hardly aware of the action, but he positively stretched himself and yawned; then, finding it was getting too dark to read, he was about to ring; but recollecting that he was no longer Mrs. Bennett's lodger, he went downstairs and knocked at the door of her back parlour.
“Bless me!” said the old lady at sight of him. “I thought as you had gone, my dear, with that lawyer chap. Don't you be getting into the hands of them lawyers, Master Stanley, whatever you do.”
“I have no such intention, I can assure you, Mrs. Bennett,” said Jack. “But I want a light, if you will kindly give me one.”
With his light he returned to the room above, and then re-commenced his task. Mr. Denby had hastily looked through the bundles of letters, caring principally it seemed to collect receipted bills, which he had tied together and taken with him. Jack took no interest in such, not having arrived at the time when a paid bill is looked upon as a treasure. He had seen nothing of consequence in the letters
Jack carefully tied all these documents up together, and, putting them into the breast-pocket of his coat, he laughed out loud, and for the moment felt like a demon. I think he must have looked something like one, for poor old Mrs. Bennett, entering at that moment with a cup of tea for him, started back, exclaiming,
“Bless the boy! whatever is the matter? Don'tee scowl so at me.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bennett, how very kind!” said Jack, trying to smile, as he took the tea from her. “May I come back and sleep here to-night?”
“Of course, Master Stanley. But where are you going
But Jack nodded his head, and ran past her. It was to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, to see his friend Bernard, the house surgeon, that he was going.
With the frankness of his disposition, Jack repeated to Mr. Bernard the events he had that day learnt with regard to his father and Mr. Maitland. Bernard had his head turned away at the time Jack was talking, for he was arranging some instruments in a case, and when Jack had come to the end of his rapidly-told tale, it was some minutes before the other spoke. Then he said,
“You have no proof: who would believe you?”
“I have every proof,” said Jack, exultingly.
“I think you are very wrong,” said Bernard. “You will think the same in a little while.” He spoke as if the subject was an unpleasant one.
“Well,” cried Jack, “I thought that you would have felt with me. I thought that you would have understood.”
“But you don't know where—where Mr. Maitland is,” said Bernard, suddenly.
“I know where he was two years ago by a copy of a letter my father wrote to him, and which I found amongst his papers. He was at a place called Wellington, in New Zealand, and he was a shipowner there.”
This fact, which exhilarated Jack so much, did not seem to have a corresponding effect upon Bernard, for he made no remark upon Jack Stanley's information. The latter resumed,
“Now I know what to do. At the very earliest opportunity I will start for New Zealand; I will go out by the next ship that leaves. As soon as I arrive at Wellington I will look up that man, and I will, when once I am sure that he is living, I will publish his conduct in this matter to all the Wellington world. Imagine him: rich, I have no doubt—rascals are generally rich,—secure in what he imagines his respectability: what a fall for him! It shall be in every newspaper in New Zealand.”
Bernard looked so tired, that as Jack caught sight of his face he was struck with it, and exclaimed,
“I am sure you are not well, you look so fagged and pale. I do not believe this doctoring work suits you; I am sure it would not suit me. I will not stop here any longer bothering you about my affairs, at this time of night too. But I felt as if I was obliged to talk to somebody about this, and you are the only one to whom I can speak.”
Now, Bernard was to Jack such a very recent and such a very slight acquaintance that he could not help feeling some surprise at Jack's confidence, and he said,
“Do not be hurt, but why do you give me your confidence? You know nothing of me: if you knew more, perhaps I might be the last man in London to whom you would come in this—this present difficulty. Have you no friends who will advise you how to act?”
“I never had any friend but my father,” said Jack, “and you were kind to my father. I owe you a debt of gratitude for that. I shall never forget it.”
“I am glad you think I was,” said Bernard.
“I shall never forget it. I shall always be grateful to you for that,” reiterated Jack.
Bernard turned his face suddenly upon his companion, laying his hand upon his shoulder.
“Remember you have said that, Jack Stanley.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack.
“Nothing but what I say,” answered Bernard. “Whatever happens, remember if you can that I did my best for your father. And now go home. Good night to you. I am, as you say, tired, and I have a good deal to do tonight.”
Jack did not require a second bidding, but ran back to the lodging of Mrs. Bennett. Thenceforth it seemed to Jack Stanley that he had an object in life. It is easy at seventeen years of age to exalt such a feeling as actuated him into heroism and chivalry. By its real name he did not at the time recognize it.
All home plans were at an end. There was no more need to debate in his own mind what profession or calling he would follow. His calling was to revenge his father.
It may seem strange that Jack Stanley stood so alone in the world—so solitary as to choose Bernard suddenly as a confidant—a man of whom he knew so very little; but it must be taken into consideration that he had with his father lived the life of a recluse, mixing only when away from home with his schoolfellows—a very ordinary
not an ordinary boy.
Jack Sets Sail For New Zealand.
“So you see, sir,” said Jack, àpropos of nothing, “that I cannot accept your kind offer of a clerkship in your office.”
Mr. Denby looked up from his newspaper. (This was the morning following our last chapter.)
“Why not, young man,” he asked.
“I am going to New Zealand, sir.”
“I see now that, if you go to New Zealand, you certainly cannot be a clerk in my office; but, as I did not know you were going till now, and even now am not at all sure you are going, I could hardly be expected to follow you very easily.”
Presently Mr. Denby asked, “What do you purpose doing in New Zealand?”
“I have no fixed idea. I shall find something to do when there.”
“You will probably find the only occupation out there ready to your hands is starving,” said Mr. Denby irritably.
“I could not be a clerk in an office. I would sooner do anything rather than that,” said Jack.
“Very well, take your own way,” said the lawyer: “you will have no one but yourself to blame. I may as well tell you, now we are talking on the subject, that you have a few hundreds invested by your poor father. I suppose you may as well squander them abroad as squander them in England.”
“I see you think me a good-for-nothing fellow, sir,” said Jack.
“Humph!” said Mr. Denby, allowing his hearer to make as much as he liked of the expression.
“I shall, if you please, make arrangements for leaving England as soon as I can. I hope,” said Jack presently, “that you do not think me ungrateful for refusing your offer: you have been very kind to me.”
“I did not expect any gratitude,” said Mr. Denby. “I will make arrangements for withdrawing your money and settling your father's affairs.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jack. “May I ask how much money my father invested?”
“As it stands now, about seven hundred pounds,” said the lawyer.
Seven hundred pounds seemed to Jack Stanley an immense sum to be possessed of, quite sufficient with which to start at the Antipodes. However, shortly afterwards, upon the money being given into his hands, he found that the seven hundred pounds were reduced to about five hundred and fifty, Mr. Denby having found various demands in the way of lawyers' bills requiring to be met.
Jack was not sorry on the whole that the lawyer compensated himself so handsomely for anything he had done for him, as the idea of showing ingratitude to Mr. Denby had rather weighed upon his spirits. He took his passage on board a ship shortly to sail, and then strove to wait with patience until the time should arrive.
Several times during this interval Jack went to St. Bartholomew's Hospital in the hope of seeing Bernard, but he was always so unfortunate as to find him out of the house. He had some difficulty in making himself understood at his first visit, for the porter was, so Jack thought, a very obtuse old man, and declared that no Mr. Bernard lived there. However, after asking for the house surgeon, Jack was shown into a room where several of the students were variously occupied or unoccupied as the case might be; and these young men informed him that Bernard had resigned his appointment at the hospital, as he was thinking of going abroad.
“He did not say anything about going abroad when I saw him,” observed Jack.
“Well,” said one of the students, “I fancy it is rather
“And where is Bernard going?” asked Jack.
“Bernard? oh! ah! yes,” answered the other. “Well, I do not know where he is going; I have not heard him say.”
“Abroad is rather vague, is it not? I know where I should go if I could, and that would be to the Fijis. That is the place for getting on nowadays. You will be made a magistrate the first six months you are out there; Lord Mayor in a twelvemonth; and perhaps king of one of the islands in a little while longer.”
So they rattled on, these light-hearted boys, much to Jack Stanley's amusement, to whom the companionship of those of his own age was so new. Still he wished for fuller tidings of Hope Bernard. The next time he went to the hospital, he walked at once to the students' room. But again Bernard was not there, and he could only get the same information that he was very busy making preparations for leaving England; but Bernard had left a message for Jack to the effect that he would see him before he left, and that he was not to bother himself: at least, that was the message given as from him by young Merton, the fellow who desired to go to the Fiji Islands.
The time came to an end which yet remained to Jack Stanley in England, and the very day arrived upon which
Jack sprang after him and seized him by the arm.
“Found you at last!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were going to let me go away after all without bidding me good bye. What on earth are you about? Leave those fellows to stow away the packages, and talk to me for a few minutes. What is this? I hear of your going abroad. Where are you going? and why do you go?”
“I am going to New Zealand, and I am going out in this ship as surgeon; and I have no time to attend to you now, my dear fellow, for I am awfully busy, and those men do not know where to put anything,” said Bernard, laughing at the expression of Jack's face; “we shall have lots of time to talk.” And he ran down into the hold in pursuit of some case which had been carried there.
Jack sat down upon the top of a package which was lying on deck, and watched the passengers coming on board, and the many little interesting incidents peculiar to a ship leaving for the colonies, many of them very
The ship was then many hundred miles from England, dashing through a densely blue sea, with no object upon any side but the petrels. Jack had been gazing into the rigging or staring at the glittering water until his eyes
“Well, Stanley,” said a voice, and a hand was laid upon his shoulder.
Jack looked into Bernard's face. “You're a nice fellow,” he said: “the only soul I know on board excepting one or two acquaintances I have picked up during the last few hours, and you never came near me once all the while I was sick.”
“You were not sick enough to require it,” answered Bernard. “I have had my hands pretty well full, I can tell you. Why, I haven't had my clothes off since we sailed from England.”
Jack Stanley stared at him in surprise.
“You can have no idea,” resumed Bernard, “how ill some of those poor women in the steerage have been. I thought several times that one of them would have died.”
“People do not die of sea-sickness,” said Jack, in the confident tone which people often use when they know nothing about the matter they are talking of.
“People do, I can tell you, sometimes. You do not know what sea-sickness is. I knew a man who died of that and nothing else, merely on the passage from New York to San Francisco. However, never mind that now. Let us talk of something pleasanter.”
“I think you had much better lie down and get some sleep,” said Jack; “you look fagged and worn out.”
“I shall have plenty of that now, I hope,” said Bernard.
Neither spoke for a few minutes, but the two young men leant over the ship's side, looking at the water.
Presently Jack asked, “What makes you come out to New Zealand? for you never told me you were coming. Do you remember that night I went to the hospital, and told you I was going? You said nothing about it then.”
“I had not made up my mind on the subject,” answered Bernard.
“Had my going anything to do with your making up your mind?” asked Jack, looking pleased.
“It may have had,” said the other, still looking at the sea. “I dare say it had: it set me thinking about it.”
“But how suddenly you managed it all! I was never more surprised in my life than when I found you on board this ship.”
“I found on inquiry that there was a vacancy for a surgeon,” said Bernard, “so I applied for it.”
“Well, for my part,” said Jack, warmly, “I am immensely glad. But what are you going to do? Shall you remain out there, do you think? or are you coming back with the ship?”
“Stop out there,” answered Bernard, abruptly.
“And practise?” asked Jack Stanley.
“I hope so, if I can get any practice.”
“It seems all very sudden,” remarked Jack.
“I have another object,” said his companion, “in going out to New Zealand: my father is there.”
“I thought you told me once,” said Jack slowly, “that you were alone in the world.”
Bernard did not answer for a moment, then he said,
“I have no relations in England. I was educated and brought up by my aunt and godmother, and when she died she left me alone.”
“How alone, if you have your father living?” asked Jack, in surprise.
“I have not seen my father since I can remember,” said Bernard.
“How strange that must be!” mused Jack. “I cannot understand such a state of things.”
Bernard suddenly changed the subject.
“I wish you had some profession, Stanley. What were you meant for?” said he.
“My father was putting by money to send me to college. He wished me to go to the Bar. I would have gone into the navy, but the time passed for that; my father could not afford to send me to sea, through the rascality of that fellow Maitland. I wish I had a profession. Never fear, I will find something to do as soon as I can settle down.”
Both were silent for a few minutes, then Jack Stanley said, as if in his thoughts he had been pursuing the subject they had been so lately speaking of,
“I cannot now even understand your sudden determination.”
“I think,” said Bernard, slowly, “that it is not an unnatural turn for events to take, considering what I have just told you. Would you not, perhaps, have acted in the same way had you been similarly placed?”
“Oh, yes, of course—of course,” answered Jack. “It is not your going to New Zealand at which I am surprised, but that you did not go long ago; that you could ever have contemplated remaining in England.
“But, Bernard,” commenced Jack again, after some more thought, “you are a queer fellow, after all. You never left any word or message at the hospital that you were going to New Zealand. I called several times, and had it not been for Merton, I should not even have heard you were going abroad. That old porter at your place seems a fearful old idiot. Why, if another fellow had come to me and said he was going out, as soon as I had made up my mind to go too, I should have been after him, and have said, ‘Let us go together, and let us get our things together.”’
“I suppose I must be unlike other fellows,” said Bernard. “I am sorry for it.”
He leant against the netting as he spoke, and turned so pale that Jack exclaimed,
“Good gracious, Bernard! what is the matter? Are you ill?”
“I believe I am rather overdone,” said Bernard; “my head swims.”
“No wonder, with all the bother you have gone through.
Bernard made no opposition, and shortly afterwards Jack Stanley returned to the deck alone.
There was an infinite source of amusement to a boy like Jack Stanley, who was out in the world upon his own account for the first time. All his old predilections for a sea life returned. He took an active part in all the economy of the ship, volunteering to help upon all occasions, and becoming in consequence a favourite with all on board. Jack had that most influential and valuable gift—the power of popularity. He was always liked wherever he went, although many of those with whom he was a favourite would have been unable to say why they liked him. The female passengers and the children on board, of which there were a great number, came to him in their little difficulties. Bernard would sometimes watch with surprise the influence which Jack Stanley exercised involuntarily upon those about him; and, perhaps, to Bernard's more serious way of viewing life and its responsibilities, it may have been a subject of some regret that Jack was not more careful that he should influence for good instead of, as was often the case, for harm, those who were weaker than himself. But Jack was himself unconscious of any higher motive of action than the mere interest of the moment; so how could he be expected to care for any more important results in his intercourse with his fellow-passengers?
Only since the death of his father had he begun to think and act for himself, and in so doing he had, unhappily for himself and others, chosen for his guide a spirit of revenge instead of the spirit of love. What might not be in the power of a young man, full of health and life and energy, who starts on his own account with the determined resolve to spend the long glorious time before him in the service of God and of his fellow-creatures—what happiness might not be in prospect for such a young man who seeks it in the favour of his Creator and the happiness of others? What is there in prospect, on the contrary, where such as Jack Stanley throws aside the fear of God and the teachings of his boyhood, and starts in life with a wrong motive of action? Jack had exalted his feelings of hatred against Maitland into a fancied duty, and was so determined in his own mind to make it so that he would not analyse the feeling even to himself, and never stopped to compare it with the precepts of the Bible, or to ask what his father, for whose sake he professed to be acting, would have said to his course of conduct.
Arrival In Wellington—Jack Meets With A Very Agreeable Waiter, Though He Does Not Meet With the Object of His Search.
It was some days after this that Jack Stanley said suddenly to Bernard, who was standing by him, “I wonder if that man has a son?” “What man?” asked Bernard, glancing at a group of men on deck, either of which his companion might have alluded to; but Jack's own mind being full of one subject, he seemed to imagine that other people must understand him instinctively.
“That man Maitland,” said Jack.
“I do not understand exactly what injury you imagine him to have done your father: I fancy you exaggerate the offence, whatever it may have been,” said Bernard, playing with the end of a coil of rope near him.
“It is not imagination on my part, I should think, that instead of living in comfort and luxury, my father ended his days in poverty; it was no fancy that he was changed from the happy-hearted cheerful man I can remember him
“Really, I think,” said Bernard, quietly, “that you can hardly lay your father's death to his charge also.”
“Not to Maitland's charge? I do, then!” exclaimed Jack violently.
“Your father might have died accidentally, had he been still at his place in the country.”
“I don't believe it,” said Jack, still in the same manner. “However,” said he, after a time, more quietly, “all this does not bear upon my remark. I wonder if he has a son?”
“And if you knew that he had,” said Bernard, “what end would it serve you? Would you carry your animosity to the son also?”
“I don't know,” mused Jack. “I think I should very probably. I would rather not be put to the test.”
“Stanley,” said Bernard, “you are much younger than I am, a boy compared to me; but you startle me by the way you speak: you seem to talk more like a heathen than a Christian.”
“If there is any one to blame for that, it is Maitland, then,” said Jack. “I should never have felt so but for him.”
“Well, as you know, I cannot argue,” returned Bernard. “I never could express myself readily; but all this seems to me very wrong. I am older than you, Stanley; but you are much cleverer than I.”
“I don't know that at all. But I wish you would call
“Well, I think I can return the compliment, Jack,” answered Bernard, looking up and smiling; “I only hope you will not some day change your mind, and hate me instead of liking me.”
“Not likely,” Jack laughed. “I love as strongly as I hate.”
“So I should think,” said Bernard, and lapsed into silence.
On several occasions after that, Jack Stanley tried to make his friend speak of his own affairs; but beyond a few generalities Jack could never get him to go. He evidently knew very little of the father he was going out to join. He had been much attached to the aunt who had educated him, a Miss Bernard; but scarcely remembered his mother. There was an uncertainty in the way in which he spoke of his family which struck Jack as strange, and one day he suddenly asked,
“Did not your father speak of these things to you? My father always made a friend of me.”
“You forget that I have not seen my father for eighteen years, Jack.”
“But in his letters?”
“He never wrote to me in my life,” said Bernard, sadly. “My dear fellow,” said Jack Stanley, putting his arm
“Jack, I do not even know where to find my father! When I last heard of him he was in Wellington. I think I ought to find him, and have come out with that intention. And now don't talk any more about it, there's a dear fellow,” said Bernard, with a sigh.
Jack squeezed his hand, and said no more, and the subject was not renewed during the voyage.
Jack Stanley had a keen enjoyment of his life. He was just the boy to make the best of the disagreeables of the voyage, and get all the pleasure he could out of its small adventures. He had not known, during the monotonous years of his life in London, how intense was his love for everything in nature. He had looked back with regret to his life at The Beeches, and had been in the habit of abusing London dust or London smoke, as the case might be; but only now he realized—or began to realize—what the natural world might be. He would spend hours on deck watching the moon and the fleecy clouds, or the glorious constellations, or gazing at the dancing waves, until by some of his fellow-passengers he was voted the idlest creature on board. You would think that this study of nature must have made Jack Stanley a better fellow than he had been; but I am afraid it brought him no nearer God, for between his Maker and himself there was always that barrier of sin, his desire of revenge.
“He that hateth his brother is a murderer, and we know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.”
This was the boy who, at his baptism, had promised and sworn to be the soldier and servant of Christ, and to renounce the sinful lusts of the flesh; but Jack Stanley never thought of these things now.
Once during the voyage they encountered very rough weather. The ropes and the masts creaked, the winds whistled through the cordage, the ship was rocked and tossed about. Most of the passengers were very much alarmed: they would not go below, although the captain advised them to do so; but crowded together, watching the black sky and the black water, and trembling at the flashing of the lightning, and the women shrieking at the rolling of the thunder.
Hope Bernard was amongst them, striving to control the agitation of the frightened women; but Stanley remained aloof. He was too proud to acknowledge that he quailed with fear, and that his heart stood still as he overheard the observations of the captain to the master, which showed that he thought the ship in danger: he passed such two hours as he remembered afterwards with a shudder. He could hear others calling upon God, but he remained silent. He could hear Bernard—who on most occasions was so slow in ability to express himself where he felt most deeply—roused by the imminence of the time almost into eloquence, speaking of faith and trust, and a hope for the Christian beyond this world.
But after a long suspense, the wind fell and the sky cleared, and the ship still held together, although she had sprung a considerable leak, and the horror and fear were changed to rejoicing. The women and children retired to bed, and all the serviceable men were busy at the pumps and in clearing the deck. Jack Stanley volunteered his services, too glad of active employment to turn the current of his thoughts, and very soon all his fears and uncomfortable reflections were forgotten, for the devil was only too pleased to drive them away, with Jack's own help, and get a firmer standing in his heart.
It was not long after this storm that the first cliffs of the Australian world came in sight. Most of those on board gave way to extravagant delight at the near prospect of the end of their voyage, though it was difficult to account for their rejoicings, as many of them were about to enter on an unknown future.
Jack perceived Bernard leaning over the side gazing at the hills of Kangaroo Island, with a face indicative of anything but pleasure, and going to him, he placed his arm within that of his friend.
“What is it, old fellow?” he asked. “You don't seem to anticipate the meeting with your father very gladly. Do you feel nervous about it?”
“I hardly know where to begin, Jack. You see, if he has left Wellington, as he may very probably, I shall feel very awkward.”
“If it were my father I was looking for,” said Jack, “I know how I should act; or indeed if I wanted to find any one very particularly, as I do—as I do, you know well —I shall know where to find him.”
“What should you do?” said Bernard.
“What shall I do, you mean. If I find that my man is nowhere in Wellington, I shall go to the other place, what is it called?—Auckland, and thence all over the island, until I have thoroughly searched it. If he is not there, I shall go to the other islands. I'll find him if he is anywhere.”
Bernard began to speak once or twice ineffectually, then he said,
“And if you do find him, you surely do not still hold to the same purpose you told me of in London?”
“I will expose him and ruin him,” said Jack, savagely. “I have got with me those papers I told you of: they will prove what a villain he is. I have been reading them during the voyage out. I have not had time to do so thoroughly before. I will finish him off, in whatever position he is.”
Bernard gave a great sigh.
“I know what you mean, Hope,” said Jack, “and you are a very good fellow, ten times better than I am; but it
Upon arriving in Wellington, for that was the New Zealand town to which the ship was bound, Jack Stanley was in haste to get ashore. He found that his friend would be unable to leave the ship until after all the passengers were landed, as his professional duties would require his presence on board; but such was his own impatience that he would not wait for Bernard.
The harbour of Wellington is very fine, and the first view of the city is beautiful. At the back of the city are mountains thickly grown with trees. At the time that Jack Stanley went there most of the buildings were of wood; but in the present day I fancy he would find the town very different in appearance.
He could not help noticing that Hope Bernard appeared annoyed that he could not wait for him to come ashore; but Stanley called out as he left the ship's side,
“Follow me to the principal hotel. I suppose there isn't likely to be more than one. I shall be there, I dare say, before long.”
As he came into the bay, he saw a great wooden house placarded “Barratt's Hotel,” and, upon inquiry, found it was the hotel of the place; but he intended taking a little walk first. It seemed strange to him every now and then to meet face to face with a native New Zealander mixing with the English settlers. Some of these Maoris were dressed in their native mat, and looked picturesque though
“Now that I have arrived in Wellington, by dint of asking for the place, I shall have to run about the streets, like Gilbert à Becket's lady-love, shouting, ‘Maitland!’ till I run against him; for, after all, it seems to me that I have not much more ground than she had to go upon. Never mind; she found her lover.”
And so it might have seemed to most people that Jack Stanley had started on a very slight foundation for success.
Bernard was unable to leave the ship until the following day, and Jack, finding, after he had waited for some time, that his friend did not come, ordered some dinner for himself.
While it was being served, he said to the waiter, who was flitting in and out of the room,
“Is there not a gentleman of the name of Maitland, a shipowner, in business in the town?”
“Maitland, sir? Yes, sir; there were, sir; certainly,
“Why ‘more's the pity’?” asked Jack, flushing as if the waiter had intended to insult him personally.
“Mr. Maitland was a gentleman of large property, sir; very much respected in the town, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Jack, looking and feeling disgusted. “I suppose most men of large property are very much respected, whatever they may be.”
“Yes, sir, certainly, sir,” said the waiter, not in the least understanding what Jack Stanley was talking about.
“Do you know where this Mr. Maitland is gone?” asked Jack, after the waiter had flitted in and out of the room again several times.
“They said as he were gone to Auckland, sir,” replied the man. “He has a banking business in Auckland, sir. —Dinner's quite ready, sir.”
“What sort of a place is Auckland?”
“Fine town, sir; but Wellington will be the capital of New Zealand some day, sir.”
“Don't look much like it at present,” grumbled Jack, in a not very complimentary tone to the town of Wellington, and rising in order to take his seat at table.
During dinner Jack Stanley observed to the same waiter, he being the only person he had to whom to talk, and Jack being a young man who would talk to any one sooner than be silent,
“What an enormous number of flies there are in the room! I declare I flicked hundreds out of the window just before you brought in the dinner, and look now at the table-cloth: it is black with them. It is quite disgusting.”
“Always the way in Wellington, sir,” answered the waiter, as if Wellington had reason to be proud of the fact. “Strangers, they mostly complain of 'em.”
“Well, do you mean to say that you like them?” asked Jack.
“Well, they do say, sir,” said the waiter, with a smile, “as use is second natur', sir; for myself, I don't take much notice of 'em.”
“But they get into everything,” returned Jack, indignantly; “look, there are no less than five brutes in my gravy: why, I might have eaten one of them in another moment.”
“I dare say many and many is eat, sir, unbeknown,” replied the waiter, calmly and respectfully; “and it can't make much difference, sir, so long as it are unbeknown, you see.”
“I don't know that,” said Jack, making desperate hits at the flies with his napkin, at the risk of knocking everything off the table. “If I thought I had eaten one of the disgusting beasts, it would make me sick for a week. Why do not you do something to get rid of them? I do detest flies.”
“You see, sir,” observed the waiter, “there ain't no
“No swallows!” exclaimed Jack; “then why on earth do not people bring over swallows?”
“It have been tried, I believe, this several times; but the swallows, they won't live through the passage out; there's the want of proper food and the cold of the South Pole, you see, sir; and swallows, they won't bear confinement, sir, besides,” said the waiter, apologetically.
“Why, a man would be a public benefactor who would introduce them here,” said Jack.
“He would so, sir,” said the waiter.
“And might make his fortune besides.”
“He might, sir,” answered the agreeable waiter.
“Well, I wonder Government does not do something,” observed Jack, with an Englishman's wonted resource when he can blame no one else, and it is not a case of writing to the “Times.” “It ought to be seen to. It is a public nuisance. Something should be done.”
“You see, sir,” said the calm philosophic waiter, as he cleared away Jack's dinner, flies and all, “I suppose even Government can't make the swallows alter their natural habits, sir. Birds won't do that kind of thing, not even for an Act of Parliament, sir.”
Jack And Bernard Leave Wellington For the Bush.
When Hope Bernard joined Jack Stanley on the following day, Jack was full of talk about his want of success.
“The fellow has left the place about six months ago, and gone to Auckland, it seems. I shall go to Auckland.”
“Are you quite sure he has left?” inquired Bernard, eagerly. “How did you find out?”
“Simply by asking,” said Jack.
“But did the people who told you know, do you think?”
“Well, you may ask for yourself,” answered Jack. “It was the waiter here told me; I dare say he knows.”
Bernard spoke to the waiter, and received the same answer which had been given to Jack Stanley; then he sat down, as if content to rest.
“When are you going to make inquiries about your father?” asked Jack, in the midst of dinner.
Bernard looked up with such an odd expression of face that Jack exclaimed,
“You look exactly as if you had forgotten all about it until this moment. You are an odd fellow, I must say.”
“I will go out after dinner,” muttered Bernard.
Jack shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing more; and after dinner Bernard left the hotel, while his friend sauntered about the quay and looked at the shipping in the bay.
If Jack had followed his friend, he would have been surprised to find that he made no inquiries about Mr. Bernard, as if he had really forgotten the quest upon which he had come out to New Zealand. He went to the shipping offices, and satisfied himself that what Jack Stanley had said was true, and that Mr. Maitland had left Wellington six months before. Then he returned to the hotel, and being met by Jack at the entrance, the latter inquired of him,
“Well, have you heard anything of him?”
“He is not in the place,” said Bernard, throwing himself into a chair and his hat upon the table.
“How odd! and that my man should be gone also. Did you learn where he is?”
“No: he may be in one place or in another. There seems nothing certain known of him. In a place like this, you see, a man is forgotten as soon as he is out of sight.”
“What shall you do?” asked Jack.
“Go and look elsewhere. I don't care where I go.”
“Come, it's no use being miserable about it,” said Jack. “Come to Auckland with me. Perhaps your father may be there.”
“As likely there as anywhere else,” said Bernard confusedly.
“It seems rather funny,” observed Jack, “that we should each come out in search of one man, and that neither of our men likes to be found. Yes, you had best come to Auckland with me. I have been thinking over things. I shall leave my money here. I suppose there is a banker or some one of the sort, and I shall go about the country for a time before I settle down to anything. Indeed, I could not settle down so long as my mind is in such a state of excitement about Maitland. I shall go to the principal places in New Zealand in turn to make inquiries, and you had better come with me. You will probably run up against your father, or, at least, hear where he is.”
“I think that is the only thing I can do,” answered Bernard, after a little consideration.
“We must each get a horse before we leave Wellington,” said Jack. “As you know, I brought my father's gun and his pistols with me, and I kept the money which his small possessions sold for for the purpose of getting a horse, that I might not have to touch the money which I wish to invest profitably. I wonder what I had best do with it?”
“I should consult one of the principal men here,” said
So it was settled that the next day was to be devoted to business, and Jack and Bernard retired to bed.
There was no difficulty in banking the money, Jack keeping what he thought would be sufficient for present wants. Next he and Bernard purchased each a horse, and they then consulted together what next they should buy.
“I should like to live entirely upon our guns,” said Jack. “I have all my life longed to live the life one reads of in books: from hand to mouth as it were—not knowing at breakfast what one will get for supper.”
“Which, in all probability, would be nothing,” said matter-of-fact Bernard.
“We might take some flour, and, of course, we must take a pot of some sort, I suppose.”
“You see ‘pot’ is a somewhat comprehensive word,” Bernard answered. “What kind of a pot would you require?”
“Well, a saucepan I suppose it would be called,” said Jack, “or a frying-pan. I am sure I don't know what the thing is.”
“Perhaps we had better buy one of both,” suggested Bernard.
“Of course I shall take my pistols,” said Jack.
“What for?”
“Why, for defending myself against the natives, to be
“I think you had better not, Jack. The natives are not likely to be otherwise than perfectly friendly; besides, they don't eat people now.”
“Oh, come,” said Jack, “I am sure I have read that they do.”
“They used to do so; but they have left off cannibalism since Christianity has been introduced amongst them,” said Bernard.
“Are you quite certain?” asked Jack dubiously. “It will be as well to make sure before we start.”
“Quite sure.”
“Still, they might insist upon tattooing us or something of the kind.”
“On the contrary, my dear boy, they are just leaving off the tattoo themselves; that is, amongst the young men it is no longer considered the fashion.”
“Hallo! why, where did you learn all this about them, Hope?” said Jack. “I must say, though, leaving it off is an improvement. I never saw anything more hideous than one or two old men whom I met in the streets to-day. If I had not been ashamed of doing so, I would have run away at the sight of them.
“But I say,” resumed Jack after awhile, “if the New Zealanders no longer eat their guests, and are leaving off tattooing themselves, they must be growing rather a dull lot, and I am somewhat disappointed.”
Bernard burst into a hearty laugh.
“Really, Jack,” said he, “you are the most absurd fellow. Whatever did you expect from the Maoris?”
“Well, I had not formed any very clear idea of what I did expect,” answered Jack; “but at least I, as I said, thought they would all be tattooed, and dressed up in feathers and war-paint, and whooping and yelling as they danced around their fires; or going out on hunting expeditions or war parties, and bringing home scalps and prisoners, and eating them. I expected some amount of romance, at any rate; not to see a lot of frightful creatures dressed up like bad imitations of ourselves.”
“You seem to have jumbled together all the romance, as you call it, of all the savage nations put together. The Maoris do not scalp their enemies; I never heard of their doing so. Neither do they give war-whoops; and I doubt if they go on hunting expeditions. I do not know if there is anything to hunt.”
“Duller than ever!” said Jack.
“Never mind,” said Bernard. “I dare say we may find some amusement amongst the Maoris, even if they do not propose to eat us. Romance sounds very well in books; but I confess I have not much fancy to experience that sort of romance personally.”
“You have no poetry in your composition,” said Jack.
“At any rate, I would prefer keeping what little I have,” answered Bernard, “to having it eaten by a New
After a good deal of deliberation, Bernard and Jack succeeded in procuring what they considered necessary in the way of cooking utensils, and other things; though I think if Jack had been left to his own devices, he would have fared badly; and early one lovely morning in summer, that is, in the month of March, they started for the bush.
Each had a blanket and a mackintosh strapped in front of his horse, and between them they divided the powder and shot, their guns, a sack of flour, the saucepan and frying-pan, and various other things.
They rode out of Wellington slowly and leisurely, for all around was new to them, and to both of them, above all, was the new feeling of independence—of being responsible to no man for where they went and for how long they stayed away.
The contrast of his present life with what life had been to him in the dull London lodging and the dull secondrate school flashed across the mind of Jack Stanley as he moved through the bright, warm, but invigorating air, and he appeared for the time to have thrown off the feeling which had of late oppressed him in connection with his pursuit of Maitland. He seemed to have forgotten the existence of Maitland for the time, and was as light of heart and as buoyant in spirits as if there was no cherished
They Lose their Way.
But they were not out of hearing of mankind, as Jack found almost immediately the shout had escaped his lips, when a tall, dark figure stood in the middle of the road, dressed in a very dirtylooking blanket.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Stanley, seizing his gun.
“Pray don't, Jack! pray be quiet!” said Bernard. “Really you will make enemies of the people if you behave like that. I dare say this fellow will be civil enough if you speak to him.”
“I? I don't understand their lingo.”
“But I dare say they do yours. I say,” continued he, addressing the Maori, “can you tell us how far we are from the river?”
“Ruamahanga?” said the man. “Not far, very. Which way is Pakea going?”
“What does he mean by Pakea?” asked Jack, aloud.
“There Pakea,” said the man, laughing, and suddenly giving Jack a poke in the side.
Jack could not help laughing also, and the Indian held out his hand, saying,
“Tena-koe?”
“I suppose that means ‘how d’ ye do,' my good fellow,” said Jack, shaking the man's hand.
“Yes, yes; how d'ye do?” said the man, turning to Bernard, that he might go through the same ceremony with him; then all at once he glanced slyly towards the strangers, saying,
“Tumack.”
“That's beyond me,” said Jack Stanley. “What do you mean?”
The Maori took from somewhere under his blanket a short clay pipe, and turning it upside down to show that it was empty, he shook his head at it slowly and sadly.
“Clever rascal!” murmured Jack, “he knows how to beg.” Then taking from his pocket some tobacco, he gave it to the Maori, who was profuse in unintelligible thanks.
“But, now, you have not told us how far it is to Ruamahanga river,” said Bernard.
The man began an explanation, half in his own language and half in very bad English, made up with a great number of signs, so that the travellers were not much wiser for his explanation, and thanking him, and after further handshaking, they rode on.
“I wish I had taken the trouble to learn something of the language,” said Bernard, “before we came out. I had an opportunity once. A fellow who had been out here a good deal offered to teach me; but, like a fool, I would not take the trouble to learn. I don't believe we ever miss an opportunity of learning anything, but we regret it afterwards.”
“Very true, Mentor,” answered Jack. “I wonder if the Maoris generally are as dirty-looking as that fellow. He wasn't my idea of a noble New Zealander.”
“I think travellers are very apt to wash their natives clean before they send them into print. I fancy most uncivilized people are dirty.”
“I rather liked the fellow, though,” said Jack, “he was so much at his ease. I say, I am awfully hungry, and I see nothing that we can shoot and eat; and now I think of it, we have not seen anything shootable since we left Wellington.”
“I hardly expected we should,” said Bernard. “But wait a little: we cannot be far from the river, so we will stop upon its banks and have something to eat.”
“Where's the something? I wish now we had brought some provisions: we may go on all day at this rate, you know, and meet with nothing.”
“No, we won't: everybody is not so enthusiastic as you are, Master Jack. Living on one's guns is all very well, but when it becomes literal, as in this instance, it is hard lines.”
“And would be hard of digestion,” returned Jack. “But what are we to do?”
“Be less romantic, and enjoy ourselves more by eating some dinner I have here.”
“Hurrah! that's first-rate. You are not half a bad fellow, you know, Bernard. And, by Jove! there's the river. Oh, does it not look beautiful? Oh, Bernard, look at those green slopes, look at those trees. Oh, those trees! what magnificent fellows!” exclaimed Jack, urging on his horse.
“There, now; you'll not want any dinner,” said Bernard, laughing. “You'll be living on the look of the country for the next half-hour.”
“No; I am dreadfully hungry. But, Hope, I cannot tell you the effect such scenes as that have upon me.”
“I can imagine it,” said Bernard. “You are wonderfully fond of nature.”
By this time Jack and he had reached the border of the silver river, and throwing themselves off their horses, they took the bridles off the beasts and allowed them to feed. Bernard took a valise from the place where it had been strapped to his saddle, and commenced unpacking it. It was filled with provisions, tea, and sugar.
“Tea!” said Jack; “that was a good thought. It will be jolly to make a cup of tea of an evening.”
Several loaves of bread, some cheese, and a piece of cold salt beef, and a couple of tin mugs for drinking.
It was the pleasantest picnic at which Jack Stanley or
Then re-mounting, after having carefully, and with much respect, packed up the remains of the provisions, they proceeded on their way. As they went farther into the bush forest, Jack answerered his companion's remarks more and more shortly, until he became totally silent; and once, as a scene of more than usual beauty appeared before them, he all at once burst into tears. He felt ashamed the next moment of his emotion: as foolish boys will be ashamed where there is no room for shame; but there was every excuse for his being overcome. The prospect was one of imposing beauty. We who have seen nothing beyond the woods and coverts of home; pretty as they are with their graceful tall fir-trees and noble oaks and lovely undergrowth of ferns and brambles, and sweet carpet of many-coloured flowers, lovely and pretty and sweet as they are; yet they do not enable us to form any conception of the magnificence of a New Zealand forest, where the ferns are trees, and the trees are giants, and the creeping plants run up to the lower branches and hang from them in luxuriant festoons of verdure, covered with blossoms of scarlet and purple and gold.
Of course there are drawbacks to all this loveliness, for Eden is no longer to be met with in this world; but there are no pests of venomous reptiles or of savage beasts, which would in an Indian or West Indian scene give us a
Bernard said nothing, and the two rode on for a time, until Jack Stanley exclaimed,
“Hullo! there's a pigeon, and there's another: let us tie up our horses and see if we can shoot some.”
“All right,” said Bernard; “but we must be careful that we do not lose our way. I have heard it is no joke in the bush.”
“Why, I could find my way out again easy enough if we did,” said Jack. “But there is small chance of that now, for the pigeons have settled quite near. Come on.”
They now walked up to where the pigeons were. There was a number of them flying backwards and forwards, and Bernard and Jack soon brought down half a dozen.
“There,” said Jack, as he to his astonishment killed
“Well, you must take to it by nature, as some of us do to swimming, I suppose. I have occasionally had a little shooting; but it is a very different thing at home, where the birds are so shy, while here the poor things do not seem to know the meaning of a gun.”
“Won't we have a supper?” said Jack, picking up the birds.
They were not pigeons after all, but a sort of parrot, which lives about there in large flocks. Thereupon Bernard laughed at Jack, and called him “cockney sportsman” and “Mr. Winkle,” but I do not think that one knew much more than the other about shooting. So, with a great deal of laughter and fun, they turned to go back to the river-side, where they had left their horses.;
“This way,” exclaimed Jack, after they had walked a short distance. “This is the big fern we passed before: I know it by its stem.”
“I don't remember that fern,” said Bernard, “and I fancy that is not the path we came by.”
But Jack was positive, and Bernard gave in. Shortly afterwards they stopped again.
“I am sure,” said Jack, “we did not walk so far from the river before we saw the birds.”
“We paid no attention to the direction in our excitement,” answered Bernard; “but here's the little open space we found before. We are all right.”
But they were all wrong. When they had made their way beyond the little open space, by dint of separating the thick vegetation and forcing themselves through it, they came to a huge tree, clustered over with scarlet convolvulus.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Jack; “I say, Hope, is not that lovely?”
“Yes, very lovely, but certainly not our way back to the river,” said Hope, ruefully.
They both stopped, and looked blankly one at the other.
“Do you think we have lost our way?” asked Jack Stanley.
“It seems very like it,” answered Bernard; “I don't see what else we can have done.”
“Let us sit down and think about it,” observed Jack.
They both sat down. After a pause Bernard said,
“I don't know that we are doing much good by thinking, and I am inclined to try again.”
“We shall probably go farther astray if we do,” said Jack. “Let us consider. What have other distinguished people done under similar circumstances? Many people have lost their way before.”
“Yes, and never found it again,” answered Bernard.
“Hope, it is no good taking a gloomy view of things,” said Jack. “Here have I been pretending throughout that our present position is all a joke. It will be time enough to give in when we cannot do anything else.”
“Well, then, with regard to your distinguished people,” said Bernard, endeavouring to rouse himself: “what did they do?”
“I can think of no one but Tom Thumb: he climbed into a tree,” said Stanley.
“So did Charles the Second,” observed Hope.
“Nonsense. Bernard, your knowledge of history is defective: Charles the Second did not climb because he had lost his way, but because he was afraid of losing his head. I prefer my historical illustration,” added Jack, “and I shall follow the example of Tom Thumb, and climb a tree.”
“Which?” asked Bernard, looking from one enormous stem to another; “which of these giants will you climb?”
“In proportion, these are nothing to what Tom Thumb's giant was to him,” answered Jack, at the same time attempting to embrace with his arms the trunk of one of the trees. But it would not do, and some time was spent in ineffectual attempts to climb. At length, with the aid of his companion, he succeeded in getting up one of the smaller trees, and from thence he clambered into the boughs of a neighbouring one, until he could see over the heads of those in front of him.
Bernard shouted from below, inquiring of his success, and Jack shouted in answer that he could see the gleam of the river in one direction. “But,” he added, “it is such a way off, I fancy it cannot be the same.”
“Come down, at any rate, and we will make our way towards it,” said Bernard.
Jack complied; but it was very slow way that they made, and, almost every few yards, one or the other of them had to search for a tree to climb, that they might be sure they were keeping in the right way.
It was so long drawn out, this progress of theirs, that night came on, and they did not know how far they might be still from the spot whence they had started, and they were too tired to continue any longer fighting their way through the supple-jacks and the undergrowth of the forest. Even Jack's spirits had subsided, and both he and Bernard had for some time continued their way in silence. At length, by mutual consent, they gave up their search for the night, and threw themselves upon the ground.
“We may as well determine to sleep here,” said Bernard; “we shall do no good by wandering any farther.”
So there they rested until daybreak. Of course they were very hungry; but there was no help for it. They were, in reality, reduced to practise literally what Jack had thought so delightful in prospect—live upon their guns. However, being tired and sleepy as well as hungry, before long they forgot it all, excepting in their dreams.
They Meet With A New Friend.
Jack Stanley was awakened very early on the following morning by the breath of some animal upon his face. He opened his eyes in some consternation, not remembering, in his vague ideas of New Zealand natural history, whether it might not be a lion or a bear, or some other savage beast, who was paying him this attention. To his astonishment, he found the head of his horse close to his arm: the animal was sniffing him all over, with a look of puzzled concern in his eyes, as if he was doubtful whether Jack was alive or no.
“Why, you dear old fellow,” said Jack, taking the horse's head in his two hands, “how did you find me out? Where did you come from?”
Bernard roused up on hearing Jack's voice, and exclaimed, at sight of the horse,
“Perhaps after all we are not so very far from the river. I wonder if the horse knows his way back again.”
“You may be sure he does,” said Jack. “Horses are much cleverer than we are: they don't need to climb trees.”
“But how shall we make him understand we want him to return to the river?”
“I'll get on his back,” said Stanley.
He did so, and the horse seemed to understand at once what was wanted of him. He scrambled through the adjoining thicket, and trotted through a clump of trees on to the bank of the river.
“Only think, we were as near as that, and did not know it, last night. How very odd that the horse should have come in search of us! I wonder what made him do so?” said Jack Stanley.
“We might this morning have turned away in the wrong direction,” remarked Bernard.
“But the horse did not know that,” said Jack.
“But God did,” answered Bernard, simply.
“Why, Hope, you don't mean to say you think that God had anything to do with that horse finding us out this morning?”
“Why not?” asked Bernard. “Why should not God make use of that horse in order to save our lives? It was all very well, Jack, to make light of it, while doing the reverse might make us lose heart; but there is no doubt that, had we not recovered the river, we must have died but for some interposition of this sort.”
Jack Stanley gave no answer; but, sliding off the back
Jack and Bernard's Picnic
They were like two schoolboys playing at “Robinson Crusoe.” Now that their anxiety was removed, they were once more in the highest glee. They collected piles of dry wood—of which there was abundance strewn about —and set it alight. The conduct of the tea-kettle was received with shouts of laughter, for this kettle, entering into the fun of the occasion, would not consent to sit upon the fire for more than a few seconds in an orthodox position: sometimes it fell on one side, at others it tumbled over into the middle of the fire; then it hissed in such a venomous manner, and its lid wobbled about so, that Bernard was quite afraid of touching it, and held it at arm's length, as if it had been a poisonous reptile. Some tea was put in the kettle, and itself placed on one side to keep hot without boiling, while Jack proceeded to mix some flour and water into cakes. Of course he put twice too much water—for people are born cooks, not made: like poets—and the paste stuck to his fingers in sticky smears. However, it was all right in time; and in the meanwhile, Hope Bernard had skinned the poor ka-kas, or parrots, and had stuck them upon sticks round the fire. I dare say they tasted very smoky when done; but he and Jack did not find it out, and they complimented themselves and each other the whole of breakfast-time upon being such first-rate cooks. The dampers
The breakfast come to an end, somehow our friends felt very sleepy, for their night's sleep had not been very comfortable or very lengthy, and they had gone through a great deal of fatigue and excitement the previous day, so they agreed to lie down and rest for a couple of hours.
The rest became a continuous snore, and the couple of hours prolonged themselves indefinitely, until when, on waking with a start, Jack found that the sun was quite low in the heavens, he roused Bernard from his “little nap.”
It had been so comfortable, wrapped up in their blankets, with their saddles for pillows; so different to the night before. They turned at times, they groaned, they muttered, as the sand-flies attacked them in their defenceless state; they even stretched themselves in their sleep; but they remembered little of it afterwards, but for the marks of the sand-flies about their faces and hands, which had been exposed to the enemy. Jack Stanley thought that the river and the grassy slopes and the dense forest behind them, which henceforth had to be looked upon as a thing to be avoided singlehanded, looked yet more lovely in the sunset than it had done before; but Bernard declared that Jack must keep his rhapsodizing until later, for he was too hungry to wait for sentiment before he had something to eat.
“Hungry again!” said Jack. “Why, it is but now that you ate an enormous breakfast.”
“And now it is evening again. Come, will you saddle your horse and start yourself without anything to eat?”
“Why, no,” said Jack; “not exactly. I will have just a little snack before we mount.”
But Jack's “little snack” became a standing joke thenceforth to his friend; for as soon as Stanley began to eat, he found that he was just as hungry as Bernard.
“But really,” said the latter, “I think we had better move forward when we have dined, or, at this rate, we shall not reach Auckland in a twelvemonth, if ever.”
After a time the forest became so thick that Bernard and Stanley were afraid of leaving the bank of the river, lest they should lose their way, as on the day before. They agreed that discretion was the better part of the spirit of adventure as well as of valour.
As night advanced, and they were beginning to think of bivouacking, they came all at once upon an opening in the forest. Trees were cut down and placed in piles by the river-side. After a time they reached a shed built of wood, and thatched, surrounded by palisades, within which was a straw-yard with grunting pigs, and shortly afterwards they encountered several cows feeding on the river bank. Then a violent but always familiar barking saluted their ears, and immediately afterwards they saw a large dot tied to a tree.
“I hope we are not trespassing,” said Jack. “I don't
“Dada! dada!” screamed a little voice, “peoples is coming—not Maoris,” and the horsemen caught sight of the figure of a little child of four years or thereabouts, dressed in an ordinary print frock.
The child turned and ran towards a building which now came into view—a pleasant-looking farm house apparently, the walls being made of the trunks of trees closely placed together, and the roof covered with thatch. The front door stood wide open, as if there was no fear on the part of the inmates of any unfriendly intrusion. Bernard and Jack pulled up close by the river facing the house, and looked at it. Flocks of fowls and turkeys ran about, and numbers of ducks upon the banks. A pretty little flower garden was close to the house, gay with every coloured flower, while the native creepers ran up the sides and hung in festoons from the roof. As the strangers looked in silent admiration, a gentleman issued from the house. He was dressed in a coloured flannel shirt and cotton trousers, and on his head was a broad-brimmed straw hat; but I say a gentleman, for any one could see he was that at a glance. He and the young men raised their hats to each other as he approached, and then the stranger held out his hand.
“Are you from Wellington?” he asked; and finding that they answered in the affirmative, he continued, “You must get off and come in and rest: my wife will be delighted
It was in vain that Bernard and Jack apologized for intrusion: the gentleman would take no refusal; and everything about the place looked so particularly pleasant, that they by no means felt inclined to insist upon pursuing their way; so when they had accompanied their new host to the stables, and had seen the horses committed to the care of a native groom, Bernard and Jack Stanley obeyed the invitation of their friend, and followed him as he led the way to the house.
They were not unannounced, for the same little child who had proclaimed their coming, now preceded them, exclaiming, with great glee,
“Mamma! mamma! two mans is come! Dada has found two mans!”
They Start Afresh Under More Promising Circumstances.
Bernard and Stanley, thus preceded and accompanied, were conducted to the house, where they were met at the entrance by a graceful English lady—Mrs. Bradshaw, the wife of their new friend.
Everything inside the house was as comfortable as things could possibly be, and reminded one out here, in the midst of the bush, of all the elegance and refinement of an English home; with the one exception, that all the servants in the house and all the workmen about the premises were Maoris.
Mrs. Bradshaw seemed very pleased at receiving her visitors, as in fact she was. It is a real pleasure to see new, and above all English, faces, in the bush; and she lost no time in spreading the table with every sort of food which was procurable.
During supper—a meal which was not hurried over—
“I am,” said he, “or perhaps I should rather say I was, a colonel in the English army; and my present life may seem to you rather a contrast to the days when I lived in town quarters with one of the gayest of regiments.”
“It must be,” observed Jack. “Do you never regret it, sir?”
“I prefer the present state of things on the whole,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “I like this life.”
“But you must be dull occasionally, sir?” said Bernard.
“When I want a change, I go to Wellington or to Auckland; but I have too much to do to be dull. It is want of occupation makes dulness. I was often dull, I admit, during my early idle days, when I had nothing to do but to amuse myself after the day's parade was over; or, as some people express it, to kill the time.”
“But how do you manage about books?” asked Bernard.
“Ah! books is the one drawback: we have, of course, as you see, a number of books of our own, and whenever I go to town I bring home new ones; but I did at first terribly miss the daily papers and the magazines. I can assure you, sir, a week-old newspaper is a treat to us: we do not estimate the luxury of these things until we have to do without them. In years past I could not have imagined myself reading so many times over the same books as I do now.”
“In the olden days, when libraries were limited to about half a dozen volumes, one must have read them over more frequently still,” observed Bernard.
“After all,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, “it comes to much the same thing. People who read every book they come across, read it and forget it usually as soon as read. It is only a few books that we really remember, and those few we go back to again and again.”
“It is wonderful how much a man finds he can do without when he is obliged to forego it,” resumed Colonel Bradshaw, “or rather how little he can do with. This sort of life, at least, ought to teach us one lesson: that having food and raiment, we should therewith be content.”
“But I suppose, sir,” said Bernard, “that you contemplate some day returning to the old life.”
“Not the old life!” said Colonel Bradshaw, “if by that you mean the idleness and uselessness of former days; but the old country, yes. I suppose we both,” and he glanced at his wife, “look forward to ending our days at home.
“And now, young men,” resumed the Colonel after a pause, “may I ask where you are going?”
“We are going to Auckland,” answered Bernard.
“To Auckland! on horseback? and by yourselves?” he asked again.
“I suppose so,” said Bernard: “why not, sir?”
“I should certainly advise you not to do so,” returned Colonel Bradshaw. “Do you know anything of the way? Have you ever been over the road before?”
“We have only been in the country a few days,” answered Jack: “we know positively nothing. Cannot we ride to Auckland?”
“You will find your horses very much in the way, I am afraid,” answered the Colonel. “The bush is in some places so thick that it is difficult to get through it: even if you managed to get with your horses to Auckland, you could hardly take them beyond—if you intend going beyond; and I suppose you have come out in order to see the country?”
“Partly,” said Jack, blushing, “but I have an object beyond in going to Auckland. I may not go any farther, though,” he added, “I should certainly like to do so.”
“You must provide against contingencies,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “Do you know the language?”
“Not a word,” answered Bernard.
The Colonel. laughed aloud, then said, “Excuse me, but that is so like a couple of Englishmen, to attempt a perfectly unknown country, knowing nothing of the route and nothing of the language. How do you expect to find your way?”
“We have got a chart of the country,” said Bernard.
“That is of no use. And suppose you got into difficulty—suppose you got amongst the Maoris who can speak no English? What two very unthinking or very sanguine young men you must be!”
“But,” said Jack, “we have hitherto got on very well:
“You have been two or three days, I suppose, travelling from Wellington, and, during that time, you confess you have managed to lose your way once already; and when you did not get astray, it was because you kept by the bank of the river. By that means you will see the river, certainly, but you will not learn much of the country.”
Bernard and Stanley looked somewhat blank. Colonel Bradshaw had put things in quite a different light from that in which they had hitherto looked upon them.
“What would you advise us to do, sir?” said Jack, presently.
“Well,” said Colonel Bradshaw, good-naturedly, “I can help you, I think, as far as Auckland, for I am going there myself. I shall start to-morrow. Would you like to go with me? I understand the Maori language, and I shall take a couple of my native servants with me, for I wish to go through the bush. Shall we go together?”
“Yes! oh, yes!” exclaimed Jack Stanley; “but what shall we do about the horses?”
“Leave them here. I will give orders that they shall be cared for, unless you would prefer sending them back to Wellington.”
“If they are not in your way, sir.”
“Not in the least: and, if you do not return this way, you can send for them when you are back in Wellington. It is but a two days' journey.”
With many thanks, Stanley and Bernard bade good night to their newly-made friends, who seemed to them in so short a time to have become acquaintances of long standing; for, in the bush, there is not much time wasted in preliminary courtesies and bows.
Before starting, upon the following morning, Colonel Bradshaw said to his guests,
“If you will follow my advice, you will alter your costumes in some degree. Your dress might do for riding; but I am afraid you will find it inconvenient in walking through the bush. You ought each of you to have a pair of stout leather gaiters to come up as high as your knees, and I should advise you to leave your coats and any superfluous clothes you may have behind you. Your flannel shirts will be quite sufficient for you at this time of year; and we are not likely to be invited to any very gay entertainment: if we are we will go in fancy dress.”
“The young men again looked rather at a loss, until Colonel Bradshaw added,
“I can provide you with gaiters: I have several pairs lying about: you are perfectly welcome to them.”
“I am sure I do not know how we can ever thank you sufficiently,” said Bernard.
“There is nothing to thank for that I can see,” returned the host. “If you think there is, you can pay me off some day, if I ever return to England, when you are a rich man with a fine estate.” And he slapped Jack Stanley upon the shoulder.
Jack flushed and bit his lip, and said,
“Very little chance of that, sir, so far as I am concerned. Bernard may some day be a rich man with a fine estate, but such things are not for me.”
He spoke with a touch of bitterness in his tone, which surprised the Colonel; but the latter only observed,
“Riches and fine estates do not always bring comfort. Perhaps you have less care without them.”
So off they started on foot, the Maori attendants carrying the blankets and mackintoshes, and leading the way through the thick masses of undergrowth. At every few steps there was something near to call forth their admiration. Jack Stanley was incessantly exclaiming at the beauty and luxuriance of the flowering plants, and the waving feathery ferns, and the brilliant furze and lichens which ornamented the huge trunks of the trees. The variety of insects also, especially the butterflies, filled him with delight.
“I detest flies and gnats and such torments,” said he; “but I have an idea that I must be fond of insects generally. I have wished I was something of an entomologist since I have been in this country.”
“My dear boy,” said the Colonel, “it seems to me that the lives of most men are made up of wishing that they had taken more advantage of opportunities past; but the opportunity is not past with you: you are so young that you cannot have wasted so many opportunities as most. If you have a taste for entomology, by all means cultivate
“Yes.”
“So I supposed from your admiration of nature: you will have plenty of opportunities of sketching here. Ah! don't touch that.”
“Why not?” asked Jack, putting down again a small lizard which he had caught the moment before. “Is it venomous? it looks innocent enough.”
“I hope none of those fellows saw you,” said the Colonel, glancing towards the Maoris, who were a few steps in advance. “You should not let them see you touch a lizard: they are what they call atuas or demons, and any insult offered to an atua will, in their opinion, be sure to be revenged before long. If you had killed that little beast, and any misfortune had subsequently happened to a member of our party, you would have been looked upon as the author of it.”
“But I had no intention of killing the poor little thing.”
“I did not know what you might do: some people are very thoughtless; but without killing it, you may have been supposed to have insulted it by catching it. Two of those men are heathens, I am sorry to say, and, like
At this moment there was a shout from the Maoris, followed immediately afterwards by the outburst from the thick mass of ferns, of an animal, which, for the first moment, neither Bernard nor Stanley recognized. Perhaps, knowing themselves to be in the New Zealand bush, they would have been less startled by meeting with some much more out-of-the-way animal than a common pig; but we are not used to seeing pigs at home rushing frantically through wild underwood, with all their bristles on end, and their white tusks exposed. Colonel Bradshaw was by no means surprised; but as the creature passed him, he fired and hit him in the head. By that time, Bernard was sufficiently recovered from his surprise to follow suit. He fired, and piggy rolled over with a prolonged squeal.
“I knew we should probably meet with one of those gentry about here,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “He will keep us in provisions for a couple of days.”
“How did he come here?” asked Stanley, contemplating the dead pig gravely, and feeling very much as if they had been poaching upon some neighbour's farm-yard.
“Oh, the place is full of them,” answered the Colone. “I believe they were first brought into the island by Captain Cook. I am sure hundreds of people here have to thank him for doing so—for pigs and for potatoes. But it must be getting on towards feeding-time, I should imagine by my personal sensations. When we have cut
“Queer sort of game,” observed Bernard.
“Uncommonly good sort, as you will acknowledge when you taste him, young man,” said the Colonel.
It was necessary to find something like an open space, and then to clear it further before venturing to light a fire; but when the pig, or part of him, was roasted and set before the party, Jack and Bernard thought they had never tasted any pork so delicious. There was one of the Maori men who served as guides, who attracted the attention of Jack Stanley by his constantly being discovered looking at him attentively. Jack could not stoop to examine a moss, or to gather a flower, but this man seemed to be watching him. He spoke of it to Colonel Bradshaw; but the latter treated it as a fancy on the part of Jack, and thought no more of it. This Maori's name was Karee; he was very dark complexioned for a Maori, and by no means well formed; but Colonel Bradshaw said he was a sharp clever fellow, and he had always found him a good servant, and that it was not fair to go by appearances.
A Night In A Native Pah.
A Few days after this the travellers arrived at a native village or pah. They were aware of its vicinity for some little time previously by the variety of sounds and smells coming from it, and the smoke arising from the fires, for it was cooking-time. As they neared the pah the Maori attendants ran forward, announcing the coming of the Pakeas or Europeans, with long flattering titles attached to their names—titles of their own invention. Colonel Bradshaw seemed well known by the Maoris of the neighbourhood, and no sooner did he step into the radius of the village than the chief came forward to meet him. First he violently shook hands with him; then turning to Bernard and Jack, he went through the same ceremony with them. Neither of the guests objected to this mode of greeting; but when the chief, not content with shaking hands, proceeded to rub his nose against that of Colonel Bradshaw, Jack exclaimed,
“By George! I hope he is not going to do the same to all of us;” and Colonel Bradshaw burst into uncontrolable laughter at the expression of Jack's face, as he found that his fears were not unfounded, and that he was obliged to submit to the process. Bernard was the next victim, and he, with a much better grace, allowed himself to be saluted.
“Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Jack, when he had partially recovered from the effects of the affectionate greeting of the chief. “How often shall we have to be rubbed? If frequently, I vote we go on our way.”
“I expect that will do for the present,” said Colonel Bradshaw, who was shaking hands violently with many others who came up, and then passed on to Bernard and Jack. “You are not expected to rub noses with the subordinates, and we must take it as it is intended—as a mark of great respect and friendship.”
The Maoris laughed aloud as they shook hands with the Europeans. All the men were frightfully tattooed, their faces being seamed and scarred all over, so as to disfigure completely whatever of good looks they may originally have had: though beauty is very unusual amongst the Maories even without tattoo.
They were mostly dressed in flax mats, which, as we see them, are nice, clean, fresh-looking things, but upon the person of a Maori are dirty and frowsy, and anything but fresh; but some of them were adorned with blankets, which were a degree more dirty than the mats. Their
There was an old man decorated with a pair of trousers, made in the European fashion, though I think no London or Paris tailor would have disputed the making of them. They were of a very large size check pattern, and, being also much too big for their wearer, were confined round the waist with a belt of flax. He was a very vicious-looking old person, and his dignity, or, perhaps it was his unpleasant temper, did not allow him to come forward in the genial manner that had been evinced by the rest of the men, but induced him to stand on one side, looking at the proceedings, and scowling in a malevolent manner.
“Look, sir!” exclaimed Jack Stanley, impulsively and unthinkingly. “Look at that horrible old object! I dare say he thinks himself very attractive. What an old toad!”
“Hush! hush!” said Colonel Bradshaw, hastily. “My good fellow, do not speak so loud.”
“Why, the old gentleman cannot understand me, can he?” asked Jack, in a more subdued tone. “I did not intend to hurt his feelings; but really he is too much. Look at the expression of his tattooed old face!”
“He may not understand your words; but any one can understand the expression of your face,” said Colonel
“Is he a preist?”
“He is the tohunga, as the heathen priests are called. I can assure you he is a person of great importance; not in his own opinion only. Even the chief stands very much in awe of him, because of his supposed power to work evil upon those who offend him.”
“Well, he looks as if he could work any amount, if it depended upon himself; I think I never saw a worse countenance. You must agree with me, sir, that he is a hideous old toad,” said Jack.
“Oh, I am quite of your way of thinking,” answered the Colonel; “but one must not always say what one thinks.”
“I do not much care if he did understand; at any rate, I am not afraid of him. He may curse me as much as he likes, if it amuses him to do so; but I think he ought to be told occasionally what an old wretch he looks,” said Jack, laughing immoderately, as he observed the eyes of the tohunga fixed upon himself.
“It is always better not to offend people, if it can be avoided,” said Colonel Bradshaw, gently. “He is, in reality, the principal man in the settlement, so I hope he did not understand what you said.”
“I thought the other fellow who came forward first was the chief. By-the-bye,” exclaimed Jack, suddenly, with
“No, no, Jack,” the Colonel answered; “never fear: the tohunga will not lower his dignity by offering such an honour to so insignificant a person as yourself. Yes, you are right: the other one, with the parrot's feathers in his hair, is the chief; but the chief, even, has to submit to the power of the tohunga. It is the old story of the Dark Ages over again: kingly power must give way to ecclesiastical authority, however arbitrary it may be.”
Shortly after the arrival of the travellers, a dreadful noise arose throughout the pah, more like the howling of some wild beasts than anything else.
To the astonishment of Bernard and Jack, they found it proceeded from some women, who were seated upon the ground by a large fire. These women shrieked and yelled, sometimes in a high pitch enough to split one's ears, then, descending the scale, they would mutter and wail, the tears all the while streaming down their cheeks, while they wrung their hands as if in despair.
“What is the matter? Poor things! what can have happened?” said Bernard, as once more the howls and squeals became louder and fiercer. But to his surprise, Colonel Bradshaw took no notice of their grief, but looked on with a smile. “I am afraid we have arrived at an inopportune moment: they would, I dare say, rather be alone,” said Bernard, again.
“Why, all this yelling is in honour of our arrival,” said Colonel Bradshaw, laughing.
One of the women, who proved to be the wife, or one of the wives, of the chief, and who was nursing a small pig in her arms as a European would nurse a little dog, stopped howling for a moment, laughed heartily, and said something about the strangers, for the words “te pakea” were audible; then, resuming her duties, she yelled and squalled worse than ever.
“Are they vexed, then, at our coming?” asked Bernard, “or why do they weep and lament in that distressing way?”
“That is all rejoicing,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “I confess I shall be glad when it comes to an end, for it is by no means musical. It is what they call tangi in their language.”
During the time that the women tangied, the men stood silent, looking perfectly wretched, as if they were going to be hanged on the spot. When at length it was come to an end, to the intense satisfaction of Jack Stanley and Bernard, the chief asked them to partake of some food, and to remain in the pah for the night, which was fast coming on. They therefore withdrew, which they had not thought respectful to do during the ceremony of welcome, feeling very glad of rest after their long day's march.
There was plenty to interest them in watching the various inmates of the pah. The men came and stood near to gaze at the strangers, while the women less openly did the same. Merry little children were up to all sorts
al fresco, at the same time saying that he would prefer some of their own provisions to anything prepared by the natives.
“Oh, you may safely eat the potatoes: they are all right,” said Colonel Bradshaw; “but, whatever you think of the Maori arrangements, don't make remarks aloud within hearing: some of them will understand you; and avoid turning up your nose, my boy.”
“I did not know my nose turned up so easily, sir,” said Jack, laughing. “I feel disposed to wish that I had no nose at all under present circumstances. What is that abominable stench?”
“That is the favourite delicacy of the Maoris—putrid maize. They soak it in water until it is in a state of decay, and then they thoroughly enjoy it, as you will see presently.”
“There is no accounting for taste. I hope their potatoes are not putrid also.”
“Not on this occasion, but I have met with them. Under the putrescent form they are very much esteemed, and are made into small cakes, and eaten hot. I confess that they are really enough to turn any man's stomach, the smell is so fearful.”
“I think this will be enough for me for the present,” answered Jack, glancing towards the hut's entrance, where a woman was pouring out of a large iron pot, a thick stuff like gruel, made of the rotten maize corn, the effluvium of which was wafted in steamy clouds to where he and the Colonel stood.
“Well, we must shut our nostrils, and go and dine. This is nothing to what you will meet with in some places, where they give you a repast of decayed shark's flesh. Travellers must not be too particular.”
“I remember once hearing a gentleman—he was a captain in the navy—say,” observed Bernard, who had joined them unseen, “that he made a point of tasting
“No doubt he would: if there were not some such bold spirits in the world, how should we ever discover any new food? how would all the various articles of food have been discovered? He must have been a courageous man who first swallowed a raw oyster. But the Maoris are no worse than their neighbours, the Australians,” added Colonel Bradshaw, “for they hang up the kangaroo meat until the maggots drop from it.”
“That may be from motives of economy,” said Jack, “for I have heard that the Australian natives eat maggots also.”
“And not they only, perhaps; for I have heard of an old Irishwoman or Scotchwoman who was in the habit of salting down a barrel full of slugs, upon which she and her children lived during the winter.”
“Oh, come, sir!” exclaimed Jack.
“I'll tell you what I once saw myself, and then you may call out, ‘oh, come!’ if you will, Master Jack. Now, this is a fact. I was once walking in the country with a Scotchman, a bailiff, and as we walked and talked, every now and then the man stooped and picked something from the grass by the side of the hedge, and ate it. It
“No!” said Jack, with a look of most intense disgust. “What did you say to him, sir?”
“I said nothing; but it made me feel rather sick. But when, somewhat later, this same man began scratching out the nest of a field-mouse, and deliberately eating the young ones, fur and all, I could stand it no longer, but wished him good morning. But after all, as the ship's steward said, ‘it is only prejudice:’ they may be ‘uncommon good.”’
Colonel Bradshaw ceased speaking, as some of the Maoris came to them to intimate that dinner was ready; and when the friends sat down to the meal, notwithstanding Jack's fears, they found that the potatoes were first-rate.
Maori Ways And Habits.
The Maoris did not seem at all affronted at the Pakeas not appearing to relish their peculiar national delicacies. Perhaps they were the better pleased at having it all for themselves.
During dinner, at which the men sat down, and the women sometimes waited on the strangers, sometimes retired giggling together into the huts, Jack Stanley had leisure to examine more particularly the dresses of their hosts. Most of them were attired in what are called mats, made of the New Zealand flax, which grows in abundance about the island. This is, when new, of a pale cream colour, and very fresh and cool in appearance. The chief's dress had a rather ornamental border of black and red squares worked round his garment, and in his head were stuck some of the feathers of the black and white parrot. His hair looked something like two or three large handfuls of the stuffing from a mattress, placed upon his head rather than as if growing out of it. Some few of the
“Why is it that most, if not all, barbarous people love dirt?” said Bernard to Colonel Bradshaw as the two stood outside the hut after dinner.
“Cleanliness is next to godliness, they say, you know,” answered he. “I think the Christian Maoris are cleaner, though they might wash their blankets oftener. I suppose as they become more civilized they will get cleaner.”
“But it cannot be natural to be dirty,” returned Jack, “for animals are always clean.”
“That is true, but it is not an argument. Animals follow their instinct in this as in everything else: they know it is unhealthy to be dirty. Men seem to be without instinct, excepting on rare occasions.”
“Well, my instinct induces me to feel very sick,” said Jack.
“My dear boy,” said Colonel Bradshaw, “it is a very unfortunate thing to be too sensitive. You must forget your sense of smell, and often other senses also, when you are travelling.”
“Do you think these people will be affronted if I sketch some of them?”
“On the contrary, they will take it as a compliment. I will go and tell the chief: you must draw him first.”
“Oh, no!” said Jack; “he is such a horrid old object, with his tattoo and his wide mouth. I would sooner draw that young man who is sitting by the palings.”
“You must not: he is a slave. You must draw the chief first, I can assure you; so come along.”
“Perhaps my dear old friend in the plaid breeches would permit me to put his angelic countenance upon paper.”
“I doubt if he would to oblige you,” answered the Colonel. “He does not look as if he bore you much love or goodwill.”
“Oh,” said Jack, laughing, and glancing at the old priest, “I fancy he thinks that style of expression becomes him.”
So Jack Stanley had to sketch the ugly old chief and his shrivelled wife first as a sort of powder, and take the good-looking young man afterwards as jam.
His drawing excited an immense amount of interest and the artist felt at times considerably oppressed by his company, or rather admirers, who pressed round him so closely as occasionally to interfere with his occupation, and who shouted with laughter at everything that pleased them.
When the sketches were finished, Jack Stanley turned to Colonel Bradshaw and said,
“Cannot we move on at once? The dirt and the smell of these people turn me quite sick. I am sure I have endured them with great philosophy until now. I would so much rather camp out to-night as usual, instead of remaining in this place. I am sure I shall dream of that old plaid gentleman, whatever you call him.”
“No,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “After the reception we have met with, I don't think we can, Jack. They expect us to remain here to-night, and it will hurt their feelings if we move on.”
“Feelings!” Jack Stanley exclaimed; “I did not suppose they had any. It does not look much like it, by all we have but lately seen. I fancy they have about as much feeling as they have sense of smell.”
“You must not judge of them as you would of ourselves,” said the Colonel. “I think as good an indication as any of the Maoris possessing acute feeling, is their keen sense of the ludicrous. You must remember that the people of this village are heathens: we Britons were no better before the days of the blessed Gospel. In the missionary villages you will not be annoyed by such horrible sights as you may here. Generally, although not altogether, they have done away with such things, although even there they cannot be expected to throw away all their superstitions at once. Come on, Jack! come on, Bernard! those signs mean that it is sleepingtime, and that we are expected to go to bed.”
“Oh, dear,” groaned Jack, “cannot they let us remain
“Come on!” was all the answer the Colonel gave, and Jack had to submit.
There was a choice given the travellers of sleeping in the open air of the pah, to be devoured by sand-flies, or sleeping in a large hut prepared for strangers. Jack was for the former alternative, decidedly; but the Colonel whispered to him,
“They will be better pleased if you avail yourselves of their hospitality. They mean to be friendly, and they have been at the trouble of preparing this sleeping-place for us: it is better to try and please them.”
Bernard and Jack nodded, and entered the hut.
Besides their three selves, there were the four Maori guides who had come with them. These men had already lighted a fire of enormous size, and, as soon as their master and his companions entered the hut, they proceeded to close the door, and block it up in such a way as not to permit a breath of air to enter. As it was a very warm summer night, the Europeans began from the first few moments to gasp for breath. The Colonel spoke to the natives; but it was in vain: if they opened the door, no sooner was he laid down again, and apparently quiet, than the Maoris shut it again. It was useless to attempt to sleep: if they could have done so in such heat, the fleas gave them not a moment's respite.
But neither heat nor fleas seemed to disturb the Maoris.
“Have these people any religion?” asked Hope Bernard, as he looked up at the stars.
“I can scarcely answer you,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “Some sort of religion they have; but it is not a worship of God. They pay reverence to certain demons, or atuas, as they call them.”
“Lizards, for example?”
“I don't think they look upon lizards as atuas themselves, but as in a way sacred to them: as the Egyptians of old paid reverence to cats and dogs and other animals, and did not permit them to be destroyed.”
“But what do you think they believe? They must have some mythology, as is shown by what you have just said about their superstitions.”
“The people themselves believe that their islands were fished out of the sea with a hook by their ancestor, Mani. I suppose he is to be looked upon as a god; but, so far as I can gather, they have no gods. They are full of superstitions, and they believe in witchcraft, and evil eye, and such things; but their worship is a propitiation of wicked spirits—a keeping off of evil, more than any hope of good.”
“How wretched!” said Bernard.
“Wretched indeed,” the Colonel answered.
“Naturally, in consequence, they indulge in anger and revenge and all the worst passions.”
“You say that old man is a priest of their religion. He just looks like an old ruffian to encourage such sentiments,” said Bernard.
“He is, no doubt, a very fit representative of such a religion,” answered Colonel Bradshaw.
Jack Stanley Gets Into Trouble.
You may be sure that the travellers were up early on the following morning. There was not much inducement to prolong their sleep under the very unpleasant circumtances in which they were placed, and Colonel Bradshaw and his companions strolled round the settlement whilst waiting the preparation of breakfast.
The old to hunga still kept his evil eye upon them; and they had not walked many yards from the cooking-place, when they perceived him squatted among some trees near, evidently observing their movements.
“I wonder which of us it is he has fallen in love with?” said Jack carelessly.
“Not you, my fine fellow,” answered the Colonel, laughing. “There is no love lost between him and you, I am sure. I believe it is you he is looking at, Jack.”
“If he looks much longer, I will make a face at him,”
They all laughed and moved on, and the next moment forgot all about the old priest.
In one corner of the pah there was an erection, made of sticks and surrounded with a wooden palisade. This place seemed filled with the most dreadful rubbish—old rotten garments or mats made of flax, feathers of warriors, and, amongst other things, an old broken canoe and spears and arrows.
“Why,” said Jack, “here seems to be the public dusthole.” As he spoke, he leant his arms upon the top of the palisade, and said to Bernard, “What is that round thing, Hope? There, close to those old feathers! Good gracious, how horrid! I do believe it is a skull.”
“No doubt of it,” answered Bernard, “and there is another. Why, Jack, the place is full of human bones. Look there again; there is a head with the flesh still partly on it. No wonder there is such a stench.”
“Really, the whole village smells so insufferably that, until you mentioned it, I had not observed that the stench had increased,” said Jack. “What an opportunity for the Sanitary Commissioners! I wonder now if typhoid fever is frequent in such a place as this?”
All this while Jack had been leaning his arms upon the palisade until the discovery of the human remains, when he started back in horror, and in so doing a piece of the wood, which was very rotten, gave way, and fell inward
tohunga stepped forward, talking loudly and gesticulating furiously, and Colonel Bradshaw also joined Bernard and Jack.
“What are you about? What have you been doing?” he asked. “I hope you have not touched anything?”
Then turning to the native priest, he spoke to him. Then again to Jack, “You have not touched anything, have you?”
“I knocked something down, that is all. I threw down a piece of the palisade and that affair there,” said Jack, pointing to the spear.
“It is my fault,” said the Colonel. “I should not have left you; but I forgot we were so near the place. I am very sorry it should have happened so.”
“Why? what is the matter?” asked Bernard, who was surprised that the old priest still continued muttering and grumbling.
“This is their sacred place,” explained Colonel Bradshaw. “You ought not to have touched it. I promised for you that you should not desecrate any of their consecrated or tapu properties.”
“But we did not do any harm,” said Bernard. “It was not Jack's fault that the palings gave way.”
“It is all my fault,” said the Colonel, in a vexed tone. “I ought to have told you. It is very unfortunate, and we will leave this with as little delay as possible.”
“The sooner the better,” said Jack, “if we do not give ourselves up victims to cholera or something as bad. But, sir, do tell me what can induce these people to throw human heads and bones into a general dust-heap. What do you mean by a sacred place?”
“Stoop down and look at that row of heads at that side,” said Colonel Bradshaw.
Bernard and Jack examined more closely the objects which had previously given them such disgust. At the farther palisade there was ranged a row of heads, with their mouths so stretched that they were made to look as if grinning from ear to ear. There were chests and muskets and different articles of civilized production, which, it was to be presumed, had once belonged to, and been valued by, the dead. At one corner were pans of water and food.
“What can those be for?” asked Jack Stanley, upon whom the sight appeared to have a greater effect than upon Bernard. He spoke in a low voice, for to him there was something solemn as well as terrible in the scene.
“They are meant as food and refreshment for the dead chief,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “The Maoris maintain, and, I presume, believe, that at night the spirit of the departed returns to eat the food left for him.”
“What a very material idea!” said Jack.
“Perhaps the old tohunga could throw a little light on the way in which the food disappears if he chose,” observed Bernard.
“Heathenish ideas are generally very material; it is not to be supposed that mere natural intellect can ascend to anything higher. Remember what very human gods in all their weaknesses and their passions they of the classical mythology were.”
“And what is that for?” asked Jack, indicating a small canoe, with its sail and its paddles in it.
“That is for the spirit of the dead man to find its way to the New Zealand heaven or Paradise.”
“How strange!” said Bernard. “It sounds like an idea from the Greek mythology.”
“Of that ‘grim ferryman’ the poet speaks of. Yes; it is the same story of Charon and the river Styx,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “But, if you will observe, all mythologies are very similar in their leading incidents, and I believe myself that they all have their foundation in truth.”
“How, sir?” asked Bernard.
“Almost if not all mythologies speak of a Deluge in consequence of the wickedness of the world at the time of its destruction. Every one has its strong man, whether called Khasind, or Hercules, or the Eastern fellow (whose name I forget): they are but different legends of the real Samson. Each has—which is the most remarkable feature in all mythology—a great regenerator of the world, who once lived a blameless life upon the earth, was misunderstood, treated with contempt, his doctrines rejected; and who was removed from a world which was unworthy of
“It never occurred to me before,” observed Bernard, “but it makes mythologies very much more interesting.”
“The more you look into them, the greater the likeness will appear. The character and the whole story of Arthur has always seemed too pure to be a merely human legend: his long-suffering patience with his twelve knights; their want of appreciation of his superiority; his betrayal by his dearest and closest friend, Lancelot; his continual warring with evil, which, according to the human tradition, takes the form of his earthly enemies—the heathen; his being left alone at the last to die, forsaken by all his folowers but one; and his dying promise of returning when the world would be more fitted to understand him. You may remember the incident of his sword being thrown into the water and refusing to sink, as if intended to imply the imperishable nature of the warfare which he had carried on of Truth against Error; and also, that when Bevis returned to where he had left his master dying, Arthur's body was not to be found: he had been carried away, or had ascended with his body, and will
“But,” observed Jack, “I can never understand at what time Arthur is supposed to have lived. We usually think of him as dressed in plate-armour.”
“The legend of Arthur was told or sung centuries before plate-armour was worn, Jack. But even then, cannot you see the poetry of the idea? The Bible speaks of the ‘armour of God’—meaning by the expression all the panoply of the Christian virtues; and Arthur, as the perfect man, was fully armed.”
“Then you look upon it all as no more than a joke. I half thought that Arthur really lived,” said Jack.
“I do not look upon it at all as a joke, but as a heathen version of the truth. No doubt the facts told us in Scripture reached even to heathen countries, if, indeed, the Gospel was not actually preached in them.”
“No one seems to take any care of this dreadful-looking place, notwithstanding they esteem it sacred,” said Jack Stanley, glancing round still at the tapu yard with a sort of fascination for the horrible scene, in spite of the smell of which he had so much complained. “Look here! the clothes are worn to rags, and fluttering in the wind. The whole thing is the picture of desolation.”
“None of the natives would dream of coming within reach of this tapu place by yards, with the exception of the priests,” said the Colonel.
“What does ‘tapu’ mean?” Bernard asked.
“‘Sacred,’ I presume.
“They have a somewhat different idea of what is sacred to what we have,” said Bernard. “We make our memorials to the dead as imperishable as possible; they appear to go into the other extreme, and submit them to everything that is likely to induce decay.”
“Oh, dear,” said Jack Stanley, “the sight of these things brings back to my mind all sorts of remembrances about baked New Zealanders' heads, and horrors that I used to hear of. I have a vague recollection of having, as a child, been taken to some show at a fair, where a man, covered with tattoo, performed a fancy dance with an accompaniment of yells; and baked heads were handed round for examination. I had forgotten about it until now. Tell us more about this horrid custom, sir.”
“Not now, Jack,” answered Colonel Bradshaw; “we will talk it over after we have left these horrid objects behind us; not in their presence.”
“It makes me sick to look at those grinning heads,” said Jack. “Cannot we move on at once? I quite long to be again out in the fresh wholesome air. I feel as if I could not breathe in this place. I am sure I shall dream of that charnel-house.”
“No, I do not think we can, Jack,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “They expect us to stay and eat with them, and it will not do to offend them; but we will go as soon as we can, depend upon it.”
Without intending to hurt the feelings of the Maoris,
tapu enclosure and its ghastly contents; and he hastily rose from the ground and walked away. Such a thing as turning sick at a bad smell was incomprehensible to the Maoris, and they received Colonel Bradshaw's excuses for his friend with evident incredulity and amusement.
After many delays the Colonel and Bernard joined Jack, and they started on their way once more, bidding farewell with very small regret to the pah. Their hands were wrung heartily by the chief and the rangatiras or gentlemen of the place, who walked with the travellers some distance out of the village. Then as, having parted with them, they watched their retreat, as a last mark of respect and affection they gave a most hideous and prolonged squeal as a sort of benison upon the departing guests.
Jack Stanley's spirits rose in preportion to his previous depression as soon as they were out of sight of the settlement, and he talked and laughed incessantly. Through the greater part of that day they pushed on, and, as evening closed in sat down in a most exhilarated state to rest and cook some food, which during their march they had procured with their guns.
“Where is Karee?” demanded Colonel Bradshaw of one of the guides, as, looking round, he noticed that one of their number was missing.
“Gone the other way, round by river to fetch water,” answered the man quietly; only he did not speak near such good English as I have put in his mouth.
Karee was some time before he returned, and, when he did, seemed unduly warm and hurried. But no one asked him any questions as he brought the water with him; and, before another hour had passed, all the party were apparently asleep for the night.
How long he had been unconscious Jack did not know. He was roused from the deep slumber into which he had fallen by a large bony hand being pressed upon his mouth; he endeavoured to start to his feet, but the effort was of no avail; both they and his hands were already securely tied with ropes of flax. He very soon found that struggling was perfectly useless. By the light of the moon he could see three or four dark native faces bending over him, and a figure standing in front, in whose hands rested a huge war-club, which Jack instinctively guessed would, without much hesitation on the part of its owner, descend upon his head if he made any resistance.
One glance was sufficient to show him all these details —he had not time for much more than a glance—for almost simultaneously with his awakening a large and filthy blanket was thrown over his head, and bound so tightly across his face as almost to stifle him; and he felt himself raised from the ground upon the shoulders of some men, who set off, carrying him he knew not whither, at a brisk trot.
The Tohunga.
Naturally Jack Stanley's first idea was to make a noise so as to rouse Colonel Bradshaw or Bernard from slumber, but he found such a proceeding was quickly put a stop to; for although when the bony hand I have alluded to was removed from his mouth, he attempted a shout, half smothered in the blanket, any further noise was prevented by some thick bandage being placed over the lower part of his face above the blanket, so that he felt as if he were veritably going to be smothered. The heat was intense; the suddenness of the attack and capture very confusing to his brain; the smell of the blanket overpowering; and he could obtain no air excepting through his nostrils, so that he was painfully conscious of the stench until he fell into a dreamy half-sensible state; only sufficiently alive to his situation to know that some one was jogging forward with him in a monotonous way.
How long he thus travelled Jack did not know: it was
Upon finding his mouth unencumbered, his first effort was to breathe two or three deep inspirations; then he attempted to sit up, but was unable to do so from having his arms as well as his legs tied. He made various ineffectual efforts, and at length gave it up in despair, and looked round him.
He was lying in a mud hut of larger dimensions than the generality of those used by the Maoris. The hut was lighted from the doorway, which was low but wide, and from the top where there was a hole to let out the smoke of the fire, of which there was a large fierce one burning, although the day was as warm as with us in July. Jack found that he was entirely alone; and the vague wonder which had possessed him from the moment of his capture, as to who could be the author of the outrage, returned now with greater strength as he looked round to see if he could, by the objects about him, gain any clue to the mystery.
But the hut gave no hint to Jack Stanley of who was its owner. He had, when in the pah, entered several of the huts of the Maoris, and this one seemed almost similar in construction to the rest, with the exception of being rather larger. There was a heap of potatoes in one corner of the floor, and some blankets thrown down carelessly on one side; no attempt at anything like furniture
It seemed as if he lay like that, neglected, for hours. I dare say it was not really nearly so long. He could, at times, hear footsteps passing close to the hut, and voices within hearing distance, as he thought; and then he would shout aloud for some one to come to him, but without success.
“Perhaps they have brought me here only to leave me to die,” thought Jack desparingly. “But why should they take me and not the Colonel or Hope? But how do I know? They may have secured them also, and carried them to some other hut. If I could only free my arms, I should not be so helpless.” And poor Jack vainly struggled with his bonds, by that means tightening them instead of gaining his wish, and putting himself to a great deal of unnecessary pain.
After a time he lay exhausted, with his eyes closed; nor did he open them again when he once more heard voices close, as it seemed, to the entrance of the hut. He was tired of shouting, and felt convinced that the indifference of those who came within hearing was of purpose.
It was not until he felt that some one had entered the hut that Jack opened his eyes, and looked blankly in the face of his visitor. It was a woman—young, and not
Clianthus, which is common in the country; but her face was too much of the Maori type to excite any feeling of admiration in a European; still, amongst her own people, when Jack perceived the scarlet flowers and the ornamented flax mat, he felt convinced that the girl ranked as a beauty. She looked rather good-natured, and Jack ventured to say,
“Fetch me some water; pray do. I am half dead with thirst.”
The girl shook her head, for she did not understand one word he said. Then Jack motioned to his mouth as well as he could, by turning his head towards her and opening and shutting his lips, to show how parched they were.
The girl nodded, and then glanced furtively from side to side, as if afraid of being seen; then she left the hut. In a few minutes she returned with an iron pot filled with water, still as she entered looking to the right and left. Then she placed the pot upon her knee, and endeavoured to raise Jack's head. But that would not do; so she put down the pot again, and, lifting Jack by the shoulders with as much readiness as if she had been a man and he a child, she placed him against her knee, and then raised the pot to his lips. Of course, a great deal of the water
“Now, my good girl,” said Jack once more, speaking in the vain hope of making her understand him,—“my dear good girl, if you will only help me to get my arms loose, I would thank you to the rest of my days.”
But the girl shook her head hopelessly: she could not make out his meaning; or if she guessed it, she dared not help him. At the same moment another person made his appearance at the entrance of the tent. It was not a dignified way of coming in, for he was on all fours, because of the lowness of the doorway: first appeared a grey and very rough head of hair and two huge hands, followed by a mass of dirty blanket, which again was succeeded by a pair of long brown legs. All this together, when put into an erect position, assumed the likeness of the old tohunga, or Maori priest.
The truth of his position flashed across Jack Stanley's mind in a moment, when the old man stared at him and chuckled, looking supernaturally hideous. But the tohunga's first words were not addressed to Jack. He spoke sharply and rapidly to the girl, who appeared frightened, and hastily crawled out of the hut.
When she was gone, the old man came and stood by Jack, and chuckled again. Jack fixed his eyes full upon the face of the tohunga, returning his stare defiantly, until the old Maori said,
“Well, you no afraid?”
“Afraid!” said Jack. “Not afraid of you, if that is what you mean. What is there to be afraid of?”
“Pakea hungry, eh?” retorted the old man, viciously. “Pakea thirsty, eh?” And at the second question he put his dirty old face closer to Jack's. “No laugh now, Pakea, eh?”
Jack made no answer, and the tohunga, after looking at him a little longer, gave him a sharp kick in the ribs, and grunting to himself, left the hut, giving Jack this time a back view of himself.
“So it is that vicious old fellow who has got hold of me,” mused Jack. “I might have suspected as much before. I wonder what they have done with the Colonel and Bernard? or whether they have brought them here, or let them go on their way? I wonder what they will think of my disappearance? What does that horrid old man intend to do with me? Starve me, perhaps. Fancy his speaking English all the while! He must have understood all I said when I was here—the old hypocrite!” Then Jack lay still for a while, half exhausted, and hardly caring even to think, excepting in a dreamy way.
But as the evening came on, and it became less oppressively hot, he revived somewhat, and the vague wandering which had occupied his mind returned. He was also by this time so hungry that the feeling amounted to actual pain. Yet no one came near him; and he was fast lapsing into insensibility when he felt something held against his
tohunga, but was agreeably surprised to find that it was the young girl who had waited upon him before. She had a basket of cooked potatoes in her lap, and it was with one of these that she had aroused his attention. Jack ate greedily, for he was half starved; but anything like conversation was out of the question: the girl evidently could not understand a word that her companion said to her, and he gave up the attempt in despair.
Jack Finds Himself A Slave.
“Evidently I am not to be starved,” thought Jack, after the Maori girl had left him. “But what can be that old Maori's object in keeping me here?”
It was odd that Jack Stanley, of all people, should not have ascribed the tohunga's conduct to revenge. He once more looked carefully round the hut, and after a time recognized, amongst the dirty heap I have mentioned before, his own blanket, the one he had been wrapped in at the time of his capture; after a few minutes, also, he perceived his gun.
“Ah,” thought he, “if I can only escape with my gun, I could live in the woods, perhaps, until I find Bernard and the Colonel, or till I make my way back to the Colonel's place. But I must first get free.”
That was the thing: first to get free; and at the mere thought of it Jack writhed about, striving to break the cords which bound him, and in so doing tightened them all the more. First to get free—to get off these flaxen
Friends in need.pah, with the tohunga and his followers at his heels; and he shook himself into confused wakefulness again of the closeness, and the smell, and the noises of the hut; for there were noises around him now—loud snores, intermingled with grunts and snorts; and as day was once more breaking, he became aware that the tohunga and two others were in the room besides himself. These two others were the young girl who had ministered to Stanley's wants, and a young man. His features seemed familiar to Jack, but it was not until a few minutes had passed that he identified him with the young man whose portrait he had himself taken, and whom Colonel Bradshaw had mentioned as a slave. This man was unlike the generality of the Maoris that Jack had seen, being of much lighter complexion, with light hair and blue eyes, such as many of the New Zealanders of the tribes farther in the interior of the island have; he had also a more intelligent and pleasanter cast of countenance than most of those around him.
Stanley gazed intently on this young man; but he took no notice of his gaze. Probably the presence of the priest prevented him from doing so. He kept his eyes fixedly upon the heap of potatoes, which he and the Maori girl were occupied in sorting into two heaps.
The old tohunga stood looking on, helping in nothing: probably he thought it was beneath his dignity to do anything; but every now and then he spoke to one or the other of his companions, in a voice the reverse of amiable.
“I wish the old wretch would leave the hut,” mused Jack. “Perhaps, if he finds I am awake, he will remain here for the pleasure of bullying me.” And Jack closed his eyes again.
Presently he heard the old man say the word “pakea” more than once, and next he felt the wretch's foot administer a kick again in his defenceless ribs. Jack, however, only groaned, and kept his eyes closed; and a moment afterwards, he had the satisfaction of hearing the priest move towards the doorway.
As soon as he was gone, the young man and the girl began chattering together as if, as was the case, the departure of their late companion was a great relief to them. Then Jack Stanley opened his eyes, and looked at the two; and in another moment the young man perceived that he was awake, and walked to his side.
“Pakea, wake!” said he.
“Do you speak English?” exclaimed Jack. “Oh, you are not a heathen priest; you are young! you must have some feelings. Do help me! untie these cords.” And Jack once more struggled with his bands.
He had spoken so rapidly, that it was no wonder the Maori hardly understood his words; but no one could
The young man knelt down by his side, and laid his hand upon Jack's bound arms, and said in a low voice,
“Struggle make ropes tight, Pakea. See—look—ah! ah!” and he pointed to Jack's wrists, which were raw and bleeding from the pressure of the cords.
“You will help me?” asked Jack, eagerly.
The young man glanced anxiously towards the entrance, as if he feared the old tohunga might return unexpectedly, and then said,
“Yes, yes, Pakea; I Christian too. Pakea Christian?”
“Of course I am,” answered Jack, without thinking of how much was meant by his answer. “I am an Englishman, you know.” The young man said no more; and Jack presently asked, “Couldn't you take off these ropes?”
“Not yet—tohunga seeing,” said the man.
He tried, however, to loosen them, so that they should give less pain to the prisoner.
“Give me, at least, something to eat,” said Jack. “The tohunga does not intend to starve me, I suppose?”
The Maori shook his head doubtfully; but he answered after a few minutes' consideration,
“Yuata bringing food in a little,” and he turned to the girl and spoke to her in their own language; whereupon she left the tent.
Jack was so famished for hunger, that he kept his eyes
The girl was not gone long; and when she returned, she carried in her arms a dish of something hot. It was more than potatoes by the smell, and Jack thought it must be delicious, whatever it might be. How little he imagined then, or as he swallowed eagerly the pieces the girl held to his mouth, that it was nothing more nor less than putrid shark; the very thought of eating which had made Jack's nose, in brighter days, “turn up visibly,” as Colonel Bradshaw said.
But if travelling brings us, as they say, acquainted with strange bedfellows, it also certainly introduces us to most eccentric kinds of food.
Being refreshed considerably by the food, Jack attempted to renew his conversation with the young Maori; and as the other seemed nothing loth, they were getting on pretty well together, considering the drawback of the man's very imperfect knowledge of English, when everything was put a stop to by the entrance of the old priest, who, after storming in Maori language for a few minutes, hit the slave across the face with a basket he held in his hand, and then proceeded to kick Jack Stanley in the ribs.
Jack Turns Upon His Persecutor.
Two days after this—days during which Jack alternately raved at the vindictiveness of the tohunga and sank into a state of despair of freeing himself from his power—the old priest himself came and stood by him, with a knife in his hand.
Jack felt uncertain whether he was to be put to death there and then: he might have augured the worst from the expression of his companion's face; but he said nothing as he gazed up into the old man's frightful countenance. But the tohunga had no intention of killing him: with the knife he cut the cords which tied Jack's feet and arms, then said, abruptly,
“Sit up, you.”
Jack was so cramped from having lain in the same position for so many hours that it was not a very easy thing for him to do as the tohunga bade him; but he fancied he saw the foot of the priest ready to enforce his order if it was not obeyed at once, and he struggled into a sitting
tohunga ordered him to remove the flannel shirt with which he was dressed, and having taken possession of that, he proceeded to demand his trousers. Jack hesitated; but remembering that after all by going without them he would do no more than conform to the ways of the country, and thinking that it might be just as well to be fashionably dressed, he handed his trousers also to the old man.
“Pakea my slave,” said the tohunga, grinning horribly, and indicating himself by patting his breast. “Pakea do work; come on, you.” He hesitated in order to think of an appropriate word in English to address to his prisoner: “Come on, Dirt.”
“Jack had no choice but to follow him, although naturally feeling very uncomfortable at going abroad without any clothes. The tohunga led the way, every now and then glancing back to see that he was followed, to a small patch of ground, a short way from the settlement. Here he stopped, and of course Jack stopped also.
“Here, you, work,” said he, handing to Jack a spade; “work, Dirt.”
He seemed so pleased with himself for having fixed upon so suitable and opprobrious a name for Stanley that he repeated it a great many times, and thenceforth always addressed Jack by that elegant nickname.
Jack took the spade, with which he saw he was intended to dig up the patch of ground, and began working as vigorously as he could, notwithstanding the stiffness of his
tohunga would leave him to himself; but the old priest was a great deal too sharp to do that. He sat down under the shade of a large tree, within reach, and, lighting his pipe, smoked vigorously while he watched his slave, ever and anon picking from the ground a stone, a piece of wood, or any missile near at hand, and throwing it, for mere wanton cruelty, at the naked body of his victim, repeating again and again,
“Work, Dirt; dig, Dirt.”
It was no light labour to be digging the hard soil of a potato patch in a broiling sun, without a rag of clothing by way of protection, especially as Jack Stanley was considerably weakened by the pain and semi-starvation he had recently undergone. But the old tohunga was a merciless taskmaster, and Jack had to work on, streaming with perspiration, fainting from the heat, until he all at once ceased digging, and leaning upon the top of his spade, looked full at the tohunga.
“Why should I dig your potato-ground, you horrid old man?” said he. “Who are you, that you should assume to be master over me? What hinders me now from cracking you over the head with this spade, and knocking your wicked old brains out? And I'll do it,” Jack added, “if you give me any more of your bullying!”
The tohunga did not understand half of what Jack Stanley had said, for he spoke rapidly and passionately; but he could not misunderstand the fact that he had
“You work, Dirt: you go on work,” he said, shaking his fist at him.
But Jack was too quick for him. He threw down his spade, and catching the old priest by the shoulders, he shook him as if he would shake the life out of his body. The tohunga howled and chattered and rolled his eyes, and Jack set him down again upon the ground.
“There!” said he: “you may thank your old age, you wretch, that I don't strangle you. If you were younger, I would give you a thorough good thrashing; but you are such a miserable old animal, that I should be ashamed to do you any serious injury. But don't you imagine I am going to be your slave, or work in your potato-ground. Take up your spade and carry it home! Take it up, Dirt!” added Jack; then laughed aloud at having turned the tables upon the old man.
So far, Jack had got the upper hand of his would-be master, and, as he stood now looking at the tohunga— who still sat sulkily upon the ground where he had placed him—it passed rapidly through his mind, what was he to do next? He had no present intention of returning to the old priest's hut; but he was in no position to leave the pah—naked and unarmed, and ignorant of the way which his companions had taken. At last he concluded he must go back for his clothes, and his blanket and gun; then he might, he believed, find his way back to Colonel
As these thoughts passed through his mind, he looked at the old priest with regret that he had nothing wherewith he could tie or bind him. He would have tied him up to a tree whilst he went in search of his own property; but there was no means of doing so. The tohunga had on nothing but a very old flax mat: I suppose the plaid breeches were kept for festive occasions. Of this Jack quickly divested him, and wound it as many times as he could round the old man's arms, thus controlling his movements; he then grasped the flax where the mat ended, and thus holding his companions, bade him “Come on!”
To his surprise, the tohunga mildly submitted to be thus led home, only muttering and grunting as he went, with his eyes upon the ground.
Jack's anger was disarmed by his submission, and by the time they had arrived at the hut, he had cooled down in more senses than one. The entrance to the hut being so small and narrow, was a difficulty: Jack dared not go in first, for he felt sure the old man would be too wise to follow him, and if he ran for assistance to the pah, Jack would be overpowered by numbers. They could not both enter at once, for there was not sufficient room; so the only method left was for Jack to let go his hold of the priest, and help to shove him into the doorway as quickly as he could.
They had met no one on their way home, and as the tohunga's hut was the first in the pah, they had reached it unobserved. But the tohunga was a great deal too deep and too cunning for Jack's unsophisticated nature. He was a long time crawling into the hut; and when at length his companion in turn introduced his head through the opening, he was saluted by a sudden feeling of strangulation, caused by the flax rope which had been left lying upon the ground being thrown lasso-wise over his head.
The tohunga was quite merry over the change of circumstances, as he dragged Jack into the middle of the hut; almost throttling him with the tightening of the rope. But his intention was not to kill him. In a few moments he had fastened him once more securely; this time by a rope attached to one ankle, the other end of which was fastened to one of the wooden uprights of the hut; and having made all things safe to his own satisfaction, the old man first administered a beating to Jack's shoulders; then having, with much gentlemanly feeling, spit in his face, he sat down opposite to him, and went on repeating for the space of half an hour,
“You no work, eh, Dirt? You no dig, eh, Dirt? You dig morrow, Dirt. You work, work, Work, morrow, Dirt. I see! oh, I see!” and he shouted with laughter at the force of his own joke.
It was of very little use for Jack to abuse himself for his folly, in having for a moment trusted the tohunga. The thing was done. Uncivilized cunning had overreached
A Friend In Need.
So Jack Stanley was not much better off than before, excepting that he knew the tohunga had no intention of letting him die of starvation, at least; and the next time he was taken out to work, he made no resistance, thinking wisely that the more quietly he submitted, the more he would disarm suspicion on the part of his master.
So hour after hour he worked in the hot sun—happily it was not the height of summer—revolving continually in his mind these same thoughts again and again: to get free of the cord which bound him, to make his way to the hut, to secure his blanket, gun, and shot-belt, and to escape from the pah. These ideas were always in his brain, by night as well as by day, until he would wake out of his troubled sleep, scarcely knowing whether they were things which had been done, or whether he had still all this to attempt and do; but the rope which yet tied his arms and
The tohunga, in order to guard against any recurrence of revolutionary ideas on the part of his prisoner, had fastened him by means of a long rope, attached by one end to his ankle, to a neighbouring tree, still sitting himself in full view of him, prepared for any emergency. Still, the old man might go to sleep, might have a sunstroke, or even might die. It never entered into Jack Stanley's calculations that he could possibly remain for always a slave to the heathen priest.
Things had gone on in this way for several weeks, when Jack was made aware of a commotion in the pah. He was not led out to his work so early in the day as usual, and when the tohunga entered the hut he was accompanied by another man. This other man was by no means unlike the old priest in appearance, being also extremely ugly and very much tattooed. In fact, he was, what he looked like, the tohunga of a neighbouring village. In his hand this man held several sharp-pointed instruments and two or three small earthernware pots, all of which he carefully laid upon the ground.
At their first entrance Jack Stanley, who was seated with his back supported by the wall of the hut, looked at them with some interest as a new element in the monotony of his daily life; but when the tohunga, with his usual brief though not courteous style of address, turned to him, saying, “Now, then, Dirt! you ready?” Jack found that
“I will never submit to it willingly—never so long as I have the sense or power to struggle and resist, if they kill me for it,” thought he.
The tohunga, perhaps, partly divined what was passing in his mind; for he said, attempting to imitate Jack's manner,
“‘Look, sir! horrible ol’ objeck!' Ah! ha! Pakea be horrible ol' objeck too.”
It was what Jack had remarked to the Colonel on the first sight of the tohunga.
The two men then proceeded to tie Jack's ankles and knees, and to bind his arms to his sides, in spite of all his struggles; for they were two against one, and he was already a prisoner. Jack argued in his own mind the advisability of screaming, but he felt sure that the tohungas had provided against such a movement on his part, as he could hear no sound anywhere near the hut. They thought their victim lay very still and unresisting after they had laid his head in a good position, and the stranger priest stooped to select from his instruments the proper knife, when Jack, by a sudden muscular action, flung himself over upon his face.
“They may tattoo my back, if they will,” he said to himself; “but they shall not get at my face without trouble.”
The two old men rushed to either side of him to turn
The tohungas succeeded in getting him once more upon his back, and their first action upon doing so was to place in his mouth a short piece of wood, which effectually served as a gag; the next, for his old friend—or, rather, enemy—to seat himself upon Jack's chest, thus effecting the double object of keeping him still and nearly stifling him at the same time.
Jack Stanley felt as if there was nothing left for him but submission—submission to be branded and disfigured for the rest of his life. His head reeled with the thought of what unknown horrible torture these two old men might subject him to—torture which, he felt sure, in the vindictiveness of their nature, they would not spare; and he watched the other tohunga once more advance with the sharp knife in his hand. He seemed to have the grin of a demon upon his face, to the eyes of Jack, as with slow deliberate manner he prolonged the suspense of the victim, by addressing remarks to his brother demon, as he waved the knife about above the features he was about to spoil.
It seemed as if the crucial moment had arrived, and the knife descended to Jack's face. He felt the old man
Jack could see nothing from where he lay; but he was thankful that at least here was an interruption. Evidently something had happened, for there was a strange voice, in whose speech Jack recognized the word “pakeas” several times. But for him—what could he do? He was powerless either to move or speak.
Shortly the old tohunga rose from his seat upon Jack's stomach, and talked volubly, as if something had once more occurred to upset his temper. Then he and his friend and the new-comer—whoever he might have been —left the hut, and Jack lay alone, with the blood trickling down from his nose, and running into the corners of his open mouth.
The voice which had spoken to the tohungas, and had caused their timely departure, so as to save Jack Stanley's personal beauty, seemed familiar to him. He could not recall where and when he had heard it, nor could he understand why it brought to his mind the thought of Hope Bernard and Colonel Bradshaw; but that it had done so, at the moment he had heard it, was certain. Yet, had the sudden interruption made by this man, whoever he might be, saved Jack from the horrible process of tattooing? The prospect of being so disfigured appeared
Whilst thus waiting and watching, he became aware that once more some one beside himself was in the hut, and he resigned himself to his fate. But it was neither of the old priests who entered, and came and stood by the side of Jack; but the young Maori slave, who had, on a former occasion, promised to be his friend. He looked very much excited, and spoke rapidly, and his English was not made more intelligible by his doing so.
“Time—time—coming—come,” said he, kneeling down beside Stanley, and hurriedly unfastening the ropes which bound him. “Pakeas here—no going without this Pakea—Pakea go out quick—now time come.” But finding that Jack gave him no answer, he glanced at his face, and for the first time perceived that he was gagged, and quickly removed the piece of wood which prevented him from speaking.
“Where are the two old men?” asked Jack, as soon as he could articulate.
“Tohungas talk with Pakeas,” answered the Maori, nodding vigorously. “Tohungas talk and tell big big lies: saying, no see this Pakea.”
The truth flashed upon Jack.
“Do you mean to say, my good fellow,” exclaimed he, seizing the Maori with his disengaged hand, “that the Colonel and Bernard are here? that my friends are here?”
“Yes, yes, Pakea's friends, asking for Pakea. Tohungas telling plenty lies.”
“Oh, untie me! untie me quick. Have you no knife to cut these cords?” said Jack; but he had perforce to resign himself patiently to the cords being united.
But at length he was free, and standing up, he turned to seize some clothes, in which to dress himself.
“Where are my clothes?” he asked; for the things had disappeared.
“Pakea not wait for clothes: Pakea come,” said the Maori; each time he mentioned Jack as “Pakea,” indicating him by touching him upon the chest. Then going down upon all fours, he crawled from the hut.
Jack quickly followed.
At some distance from the hut, he saw a crowd of people. Evidently there was a consultation going on: speeches were being made.
“Go go,” said the Maori. “Pakea's friends there.”
But how could Jack present himself before the assembled multitude as he stood, without a vestige of clothing? He turned to his friend:
“If I had only a blanket or a mat.”
Then man quickly stripped himself, and held the dirty mat he had been wearing to Jack. It was dirty, but there was no choice but to gratefully accept it; and a moment afterwards, Jack was hastening in the direction of the crowd.
So engrossed was he by the excitement of the moment,
The Deliverance.
When Colonel Bradshaw and Bernard rose on the morning after Jack's capture by the Maoris, they naturally expressed surprise at his absence. At first they shouted his name, thinking he might have wandered away a short distance, having waked earlier than his companions. Then, finding that their shouting was without any reply, Colonel Bradshaw addressed himself to the guides. Three of the men professed to know nothing of Jack Stanley's movements; but the fourth, who was very busy in making preparations for breakfast, and who was the same man who had been so long a time in getting the water on the previous night, and whom the others addressed as “Karee,” answered readily to the Colonel's questions.
“He says,” interpreted Colonel Bradshaw, turning to Bernard—for, of course, the Maori had spoken in his own language—“he says that Jack rose about half an hour
“Yes, his gun is gone,” answered Bernard. “I wish he would make haste. I vote we don't wait breakfast long for him, sir.”
“Oh, of course not! I am not going to stand upon ceremony, I can assure you!” laughed the Colonel; and, as Jack did not make his appearance when breakfast was ready, his friends were as good as their word.
And still the day went on, and it was time to think of moving forward; and, as Jack was yet absent, Colonel Bradshaw became first annoyed at his thoughtlessness—then alarmed.
“Can he possibly have lost his way?” said he.
“Surely, then, he would have fired his gun, in order to let us know where he is,” said Bernard. “And, by-the-way, it is strange that we have not heard his gun during the morning. He might have met with something to shoot.”
“Much more likely he is painting,” said Colonel Bradshaw, “and has, after the manner of artists, become so engrossed with his own performance, that he has forgotten such a vulgar thing as breakfast.”
But shortly afterwards Hope Bernard perceived Jack's painting-box and block amongst the baggage; and then he and the Colonel became alarmed. Colonel Bradshaw questioned afresh Karee. “What had the Pakea said? At what time had he left?”
But Karee had the very plausible objection that, as he himself could speak no English, and the Pakea Jack could speak no Maori, anything that the Pakea Jack had said had been unintelligible to him. In one thing he was unwavering: that the Pakea had gone off with his gun, and that he had taken the direction along the banks of the river away from the pah, which they had lately quitted.
“Our best course, I should think, then, would be to go forward. Probably Stanley will expect us to overtake him.”
So without any further delay the Colonel and Bernard started, in the hope of overtaking Jack Stanley, by so doing placing each hour between themselves and the object of their search a greater distance.
At the close of that first day, when no trace of Jack Stanley was to be found, Colonel Bradshaw, in real alarm, sat down to consult with Bernard as to what was to be done; and the result of the consultation was a return to the Maori pah, which they had so recently left. There every one likely to know anything on the subject was questioned. The chief, or principal man, really knew nothing about Jack Stanley, and candidly said so, expressing at the same time a wish to help the Pakeas in their search for their friend. Even the old tohunga was questioned, but he was a great deal too cunning to betray himself. And all this while Jack was kept closely shut up in the hut, lest he should be seen by his friends. I need not say that the young Maori slave who had shown an interest in Jack was kept out of the Colonel's way.
So a day more passed, and came to an end in quite an unsatisfactory manner; and Colonel Bradshaw said to Bernard,
“We can do no good that I can see by remaining here; and yet I hardly know what to do next, and I do not feel half satisfied with regard to that old heathen priest. His tongue seems a great deal too glib. I should not be surprised, after all, if he knew something about Stanley.”
“But what object could he have? What advantage would it be to him to conceal it, if he does know poor Jack's fate?” asked Bernard.
“That I cannot tell,” Colonel Bradshaw replied. “These heathens are sometimes very difficult to deal with, with their prejudices, and their likes and dislikes. Still, I hope he may know nothing of Jack which has to be concealed. I think the next thing for us to do is to return to my place. Jack may have made his way back there, as it is so easy to find by following the bank of the river.”
So, agreeably to the Colonel's suggestion, the party went back to his residence. Of course Jack Stanley was not there, and they seemed to have come to the end of their tether. It appeared as if nothing could be done but make incursions in different directions into the bush in search of him.
Colonel Bradshaw and Bernard were weary of talking over the subject, for suggestions seemed in vain. Bernard no longer cared to proceed on his way to Auckland, at least, for the present; and the interest which Colonel
Colonel Bradshaw spoke to him in his own language, and during the reply of the New Zealander he evinced considerable emotion; then, at its conclusion, he turned to Bernard and said,
“News of Jack, Bernard, at last. That wretched old sinner, the tohunga, has him prisoner at this moment. We must go at once, without any delay: let us start on the instant.”
You may be sure Bernard was ready enough, and in a very few minutes he and the Colonel, accompanied by the Maori who had brought the welcome news, were on their way, upon this occasion on horseback, in order to lose no time.
So it was that the Pakeas arrived with further inquiries about their friend; and all the inhabitants of the pah were assembled round them, declaring that they knew nothing whatever of Jack Stanley.
“But where is the old tohunga?” asked several times the Colonel. “I am willing to take your word for it that you are innocent of any treachery to my friend the Pakea. Send for the tohunga, and bid him come here.”
At this moment a succession of the most vehement and frantic screams resounded through the pah.
“What is that?” exclaimed Bernard, starting forward. “I am certain that is Stanley's voice; and they are murdering him.”
The chief of the settlement appeared also startled by the screams, and himself directed one of those standing near to call thither the tohunga. But Karee was beforehand with the chief's messenger, and in a moment after was at the tohunga's hut.
Whether the tohunga thought to persuade the Pakeas of his innocence, as he had imagined he did on the previous occasion, or whether he saw the impossibility of hiding Jack anywhere but in his hut, he made no attempt to avoid the interview with Colonel Bradshaw, but repaired to the publick place to make one of the assembly already there. Perhaps he and his friend guessed pretty clearly that their little game was nearly up, and they may have thought to arrest the end for a time, trusting that, the tohunga's hut being some little way out of the pah, the strangers might not find it, so as to visit it. He could pretty well trust the Maoris under his control to keep any secret which he wished to be kept, even if any of them suspected that he knew more about the Pakea than he chose to
There, as the young Maori stated, they were occupied in telling “plenty lies,” asseverating again and again that they knew nothing whatever of Jack Stanley, and had not set eyes upon him since his departure from the pah, when suddenly, to their extreme surprise and consternation, Jack Stanley himself, whom they had left in the hut bound hand and foot and gagged, stood before them and Colonel Bradshaw and Bernard.
For the first moment the Pakeas did not recognize in this strange-looking figure in the dirty blanket, and with the blood running down his nose, their friend and fellow-traveller; but, as Jack stood looking from one to the other, Bernard called him by his name, and held out his hands towards him.
Then Jack to whom the whole scene seemed unreal and insecure, for he had hardly understood or believed what the Maori slave had said to him—threw himself upon Bernard's neck, and, losing all self-control, burst into tears.
He was weak from the hardships and privations he had lately undergone; but had he not been, I think there is no apology needed for his emotion.
The two tohungas stood aghast at Jack's sudden apparition; and Colonel Bradshaw turning quickly and catching sight of the original priest of the pah, seized him roughly by the shoulder, exclaiming,
“So you did know, after all, what had become of him, you old villain! I suspected all along that you were at the bottom of this. You may rest assured of one thing: I will report you to Government as soon as ever I arrive in Wellington.”
The tohunga made no answer, excepting by a scowl at Colonel Bradshaw, in which Jack had a share, and submitted quietly to the shaking which the Colonel gave him before loosing his hold.
Then the chief of the village spoke rapidly and earnestly, looking, as he did so, half in anger—half in fear—towards the tohunga every now and then. Bernard turned to the Colonel, asking what the man said.
“He is telling me that it is quite without his knowledge that Jack has been in the pah; he has been quite as much misled as we have been; and I believe he speaks the truth. But it is a difficult position for him: he is afraid of the spiritual power of that old ruffian, and dare not punish him personally, lest the tohunga should invoke the devil to punish him for his sacrilege.”
“I vote we take the punishment of him into our own hands,” said Bernard. “Let us tie him up to a tree, and give him a good flogging.”
“Well, I should very much enjoy assisting at the ceremony
“I am quite sure of it, sir,” Jack answered: “he has said as much; and, for my own part, my chief desire is to get away from this place as soon as possible. I will forego the pleasure of seeing the tohunga flogged for the present; but I should like to make him give up my clothes and gun. I do not care to leave him the pleasure of making an object of himself in my apparel, while he compels me to be another in this old mat.”
The Colonel, who with the others had been talking in a low voice hitherto, now raised it, and said, in the Maori language, that he insisted upon all the Pakea's property being restored to him. He appealed to the justice of the chief. Thereupon ensued a long talk between various of the Maoris, which resulted at length in the tohunga producing Jack's things—which, no doubt, he had hoped to be able to appropriate to his own use.
Then the Colonel shook hands with the chief, who looked rather crestfallen and annoyed at the state of things, and several others of the Maoris; and he and his friends and followers left the pah.
No sooner were they clear of the houses and huts, than Jack said,
“Let me have my clothes, and get rid of this dirty mat.” But when he had rid himself of the mat, he said, “I wish I knew how to return it to the good fellow who lent it me, or how to repay him for letting me free. I do not know his name: he is that young fellow whom I sketched, who, you said, was a slave.”
Colonel Bradshaw spoke to one of his servants, and then answered Jack:
“Marāra is his name.”
“Cannot I send back this rug to him?” asked Jack; “it may be of value in his eyes.”
Colonel Bradshaw debated by whom to send back the mat. Then presently he said,
“I fear we might get the man into trouble, perhaps, if the old priest discovers that he has helped you.”
“I cannot see how he can avoid being discovered,” Jack said, “for he is servant to the priest; and he and a girl who was about there were almost the only people who saw me. The tohunga's hut is away from the others amongst the trees.”
“Better hang the mat upon a tree, and trust to Marāra's finding it,” said the Colonel.
Jack did not half like this plan, nor leaving the neighbourhood without in any way acknowledging Marāra's services; but there seemed no alternative, and the mat was suspended to the bough of a tree and left.
The following morning, as the travellers were about
“You dear, good fellow!” exclaimed Jack, starting forward at sight of him, and grasping his hand. He would have said more, but we cannot generally speak when we are feeling strongly, and he stood holding the man's hand and looking at him in silence.
Colonel Bradshaw suspected that the new-comer had something to say, and he advanced, asking, “What is it, Marāra?”
Marāra told him, in his own language, that, after what had taken place, he could no longer remain in the pah, nor in the neighbourhood of the tohunga, and that he requested to be allowed to join the Pakeas, at least for a time.
Upon hearing this, Jack declared that Marāra should be his companion for as long as he liked—for the rest of his life if he liked; and Marāra, half understanding what was said, answered that he would be servant to the Pakea, and, upon the strength of the new bond between them, at once proposed carrying Jack Stanley's baggage.
Jack had a great deal to tell to his friends of the incidents of his captivity, and a great many questions to ask of Marāra relative to events which he did not understand. It seemed that Karee, the heathen guide who travelled with Colonel Bradshaw, and who was entirely under the influence of the tohunga through the means of his superstitious fears, had been the traitor. It was he who had
Pakeas had taken a wrong direction, away from the pah; it was he who had warned the tohunga upon the return of Colonel Bradshaw in search of Jack, in time for Jack's escape, but not in time for the seizing of Marāra, as Karee had advised, for the latter's acute intelligence had discovered the part Marāra had taken in striving to regain Stanley's freedom.
“What would the tohunga have done to you, had he caught you?” asked Jack.
“He kill me I not think,” answered Marāra, “he finding me much use, perhaps; but tohunga cruel old man: he not Christian.”
“You mean he would have put you to some torture or other, I suppose?” said Jack.
Marāra nodded.
“What makes that fellow so unlike the other Maoris?” asked Jack of Colonel Bradshaw: “he has positively blue eyes, and is not at all dark.”
“He comes from the interior of the island,” answered the Colonel; “you will see men and women there who are as fair as Europeans. This man has been taken prisoner by the tribe we have just left in one of their fights. I dare say the poor fellow is glad of the chance which enables him to get away.”
“I wonder, though,” said Bernard, after a pause, “that
tohunga was not afraid of discovery, and of the punishment likely to come upon him for capturing and maltreating an Englishman.”
“The heathen Maoris are very ignorant of the power of the English; and the New Zealanders have a great feeling of hatred towards ourselves: although the feeling is very usually concealed, you may be sure it will burst out sooner or later. I was walking not long ago with a friend who knew the natives well; and he argues that, before many years, the natives will revolt against the English in the island. This feeling does not show itself in the interior of the island; it is amongst those Maoris who live nearest to the English settlements that it is felt.”
“Which is not very complimentary to us,” said Jack Stanley, laughing, “for it seems as if the nearer view they have of us, and the more they know of us, the less they like us.”
“The old proverb,” returned the Colonel: “too much familiarity breeds contempt.”
The next thing which occupied the attention of the travellers was the future treatment of Karee, and what course to pursue with regard to him, formed the matter of a long talk; but Colonel Bradshaw and his friends might have saved themselves the trouble of debating what to do with the traitor; for a few hours later, when the party halted to rest, Karee was nowhere to be found. He had evidently seen that his game was played out with regard to the Pakeas, and that it would be safer and more
pah, and attached himself to his friend, the tohunga.
I may as well mention here, before discussing the subject, that some years later than this time of my story, when the Maoris revolted in the neighbourhood of Wellington, the old tohunga took part in an attack of the natives upon an English gentleman's country house, and that the cruel old man was killed, and his body left dead in the plantation by his friends.
A Talk About Baked Human Heads And Other Matters.
“Now then, sir,” said Jack Stanley, on the following evening, as they sat by the riverside, after, as he expressed it, a wholesome supper without any horrible smells to season it, with their blankets drawn around them, their mackintoshes spread upon the ground as beds, watching the Maori guides as they piled up the fire for the night. “Now then, you promised once upon a time to tell us all about baked New Zealanders' heads.”
“I should have thought you had had enough of horrors for a time, Jack. But what do you want to know, young man?”
“I am all in a puzzle, sir,” Jack answered. “My original idea of the New Zealanders was that they were a set of wretches, murdering and eating one another, cutting off their enemies' heads, executing horrible dances with an accompaniment of yells. I come here, and found
tohunga behaves as much like a savage as he well can; so that all my original ideas have come back to me.”
“I suppose,” answered Colonel Bradshaw, “that these people, like the rest of mankind, have two sides of their character. They may, by some narrators, have been represented in exaggerated colours as sanguinary and cruel; by others, in the present day, they are spoken of as everything that is naturally noble. Either extreme is equally false. Had you stopped in your experience of Maori character at the time we first left the pah together, you might have said nothing of them but what was in their favour; were you now to represent all the New Zealanders like the old tohunga who treated you so badly, you would very much mislead those who listened to you. And you must always bear in mind that the greater part of those whom we have hitherto had to do with are pagans. Nature left to itself is always wicked; and even civilization alone will not make men virtuous, as witness the Greeks of old, with attainments almost beyond what we can arrive at now, who were the most treacherous, cruel, and lying of men.”
“The Greeks did not eat their enemies, at least,” observed Jack.
“And the New Zealanders have, I believe, almost, if not altogether, left it off: only within a short time, it is true: even now many will speak of the days when they used to practise cannibalism; but always ending with, ‘we have given that up now.”’
“But that fellow, Bernard, told me that the Maoris had given up tattooing,” returned Jack; “and yet that old wretch was going to tattoo me. Oh, dear!” Jack added, “what a comfort it is to think he was interrupted: imagine going through life with filagree patterns all over one's face!”
“Oh, you would have become quite the rage,” laughed Bernard: “every one would have asked you to dinner.”
“I would have gone about in a caravan and shown myself as a sight: that would be at least a profitable investment,” said Jack. “But joking apart: what made them wish to tattoo me, I wonder?”
“What was it the tohunga said to you before he began his operations?” said Colonel Bradshaw. “You had called him a horrible old object when first you saw him. This saying had evidently rankled in his mind, and tattooing you was simply an act of revenge. He knew well it would be to a European about the most heavy return he could inflict. But Bernard was right: the tattoo is out of fashion with the Maoris; you can see yourself that the people admire everything European. They are anxious
tohungas tried to tattoo you.”
“But tell me about the heads; what do they keep them for? how do they preserve them?”
“Oh, I see,” said the Colonel, laughing, “that you are, after all, as fond of horrors, after your kind, as your neighbours. Well, I will tell you all I know about the baked heads. But hand me that leather bag first, that I may fill my pipe, for I cleared out all the stock of tobacco that I had about me at the pah. I believe you might travel all over the islands, free of expense, so long as you carry some tobacco with you. It is the current coin about here.”
Jack did as he was desired; and the Colonel having filled his pipe, resumed:
“Formerly, in the days when, to use the Maoris' own expression, they knew no better, the people were in the habit of baking the heads of their enemies taken in battle. They used to impale them upon stakes, in rows in front of their dwelling-houses. I have formerly seen such exhibitions myself. I admit they are very revolting. Their friends they indulged by closing the mouth, and sewing the lips together; with the heads of enemies, the lips were stretched into a grin, and kept apart, as some that you saw. I have been told by a Maori, who has assisted at such a ceremony, the way in which the heads
“Let us have it, sir, all the same,” said Jack. “It may be useful to Bernard in a surgical point of view.”
“Oh, then, Bernard shall hear it when he and I are alone,” said the Colonel, laughingly.
“Perhaps you may not find such an opportunity for a long time,” said Jack; “and I know the poor fellow is burning to hear it in the cause of science.”
“And the other poor fellow is burning to hear it for sheer curiosity,” said the Colonel. “Well, here it is: a fire of hot stones is made in a hole in the earth, after the fashion of the natives; then, having scooped out the brains of the dead man, the nose, eyes, and mouth are sewn up, and the head placed over the fire so as to be thoroughly steamed. This has to be done until all the flesh is dried up.”
“What a disgusting process!” said Jack. “I wonder what could have suggested it to the people?”
“How did so many of these baked heads come to England?” asked Bernard. “I should hardly have thought the New Zealanders would like to part with them.”
“The New Zealanders are like the rest of the world, they will barter almost anything. I have no doubt most of those heads which went to England were given in exchange for muskets and gunpowder and blankets.”
“I think it is a great pity that the people do not keep to their mats—they are at least picturesque; but those
tohunga in his old pair of trousers, how absurd he looked?”
“I agree with you; but I suppose nothing will prevent the Maoris from following the European dress like everything else. They are already leaving off the manufacture of their flax dresses, which used to be the principal occupation of the women formerly.”
“Then it is really true also that they used to be cannibals?” asked Jack.
“Quite true. I have myself seen a building which still goes by the name of ‘Eat-man House,’ which used to be the scene of their feasts. Some day I will tell you a story relative to that place.”
“Now, sir, please,” said Jack.
“No, no, I won't do anything of the sort: you are a regular baby about stories. Another day—I want to go to sleep now.”
“One more question first,” said Jack. “Then you think that these people are really cured of all their barbarous customs and propensities?”
“No, I do not. So long as they remain heathen or merely nominal Christians, as too many of them are, the cruelty and the desire of revenge which is in all savage natures, Jack, is merely latent: any cause might bring it to the surface again. It is not so long ago that a dreadful massacre took place at a place called Wairau; it is still remembered by Europeans and by Maoris who took part in it. However, we must always speak of people as we
The next morning, when they were all three bathing in the river, the Colonel and Bernard swimming backwards and forwards, they observed that Jack Stanley did not join them, and when called upon to do so, he made floundering and unsuccessful attempts to do so, thus proclaiming that he could not swim; and, upon Colonel Bradshaw expressing surprise at the fact, young Stanley said,
“I have never had an opportunity of learning. Why, you don't know the kind of life I have always led—tied to a London lodging, with no variety beyond a horrid school.”
“Why horrid?”
“I don't know,” answered Jack, laughingly. “Only you speak to me as if I had had the advantages you have. People can't swim without water, and I have not had the sight of any, generally, but the pump-water and the jug in my bed-room; but I am determined I will swim.”
And so saying, he made an amateur attempt at striking out, and went down head foremost, and came up sputtering.
“You are quite right, Jack: learn to swim by all means. Every man and woman is bound to swim; but
“So do I,” Jack answered; “only I thought it ought to be pleasure first and duty afterwards. —What have those fellows been about?” asked he, alluding to two of the Maoris who were hurrying from the river-banks some way higher up.
“Catching some fish for our breakfast, I hope. Yes: I see some. Come, dress yourselves quickly, and help me to fry them: I particularly like frying fish.”
I do not know what sort of fish it was the Maoris had caught; but it smelt very nice when frying in the open air, and tasted extremely good when eaten.
“Well, what are you thinking of?” asked the Colonel of Jack, who was contemplating his own hands, which were all bitten into bumps by the sand-flies.
“I was thinking what a nuisance flies of all kinds are,” said Jack. “I never saw anything like the flies in Wellington: they made me sick.”
“It is the want of swallows,” said Colonel Bradshaw.
“That is just what the hotel waiter said to me, sir,” Jack answered. “But I have been thinking lately how swallows could be brought over.”
“If you could think it out, Jack, you would deserve a statue to be erected to your memory,” said Colonel Bradshaw.
“A statue with a garland of bluebottles on your brow,” interposed Bernard. “But what is your plan?”
“I cannot call it a plan, for I doubt if it could be carried out. I know swallows cannot live in confinement, but they can live in a limited space. Could not some part of the deck be netted in as a sort of large aviary? They must be young swallows, of course, which must be brought over: the hatchings of the second broods, I should think. I know—at least, I have read—that some swallows are hatched too late in the year to leave England in September, though no one seems to be sure what becomes of those which are not strong enough to attempt the flight abroad.”
Jack stopped, and the Colonel said, “Well?”
“You will think me impertinent, perhaps, in my suggestions, but don't you imagine that these young birds might, if allowed sufficient flight upon deck within the aviary, survive the voyage, if by any means they could be protected from the cold at one time? I should think such a means of protection might be found.”
“But about their food Jack? Swallows live upon flies, and the birds could not wait till they got to New Zealand to find them in abundance. Would you bottle your flies?”
“Swallows eat bees, sir, also,” answered Jack, gravely. “Any number of hives of bees could be brought with them, and stationed within the nettings. The bees could be fed artificially upon honey or sugar, as they are at home in the winter.”
“But bees retire to their hives in the cold weather,” said Colonel Bradshaw.
“Only because of the cold; they will come out again
“I don't know that Jack,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “If every one argued in that way, we should have very little public spirit amongst us; and I suppose most ideas are crude at first. If you could do anything towards abating such a nuisance as the flies are in this country, you would be a blessing to society. But how about your swallows in the winter?”
“I thought of that; but I have been told that some parts of this country are temperate the whole year round, so perhaps the swallows might remain here altogether. I think they would hardly attempt to go to Spain from here —if Spain is their natural destination.”
“I don't know if a yearly change of air is necessary to the constitution of a swallow,” said Colonel Bradshaw, “and whether a bird would change his natural habits so far; but if they must change the climate, they might find places sufficiently near to fly to. Of course we know that the young birds are conducted abroad by the older ones. In such a circumstance as you suggest there would be no old birds to conduct the young ones away from here, as the young ones would never have been to Spain or elsewhere. But there is always that difficult property, instinct, to deal with.”
“You know,” resumed Jack, “that it is a disputed point whether all swallows leave England for the winter, or not. Some people (and those who have watched the habits of the birds most closely) are inclined to believe that the later hatched swallows remain at home, sleeping during the cold months. Mr. White, of Selborne, has found swallows in a state of sleep during the winter.”
“You think, then, that the swallows might remain here through the winter?”
“I mean to say, sir,” answered Jack, “that I do not see that the birds need necessarily die by being unable to emigrate.”
“I see,” returned Colonel Bradshaw, “that you have at least thought the matter well over. You say that you have had no advantages, like others, of living in the country, Jack. How have you managed to know such facts as these?”
“Only from books, sir. I was always fond of natural history.”
“Ah!” said the Colonel, “we who live in the age of books estimate in a very small degree the magnitude of the advantage and the blessing they are to us: it is incalculable; and there is no excuse for, and nothing but contempt deserved by those young fools, whether boys or girls, who are content to be ignorant.”
“I am sure,” said Jack, simply, “I am awfully ignorant. I feel it every day.”
“So we must all of us, my dear boy, and that feeling
“Do you mean such accomplishments as music and painting, sir?”
“Yes, and many others, such as riding and swimming, and all the elegant little arts of the present day.”
“Do you think God takes account of such things?” added Jack Stanley, in some surprise.
“I think God takes account of everything connected with us,” answered the Colonel, gravely.
A Christian Pah.
A Few days after this, they arrived in sight of another native pah. This time it was a Christian settlement of what the Maoris call “missionary people,” although there was no missionary resident in the immediate neighbourhood; but the people were under the guidance of a native teacher.
In the middle of the village was a building of much better appearance than ordinary—a square wooden house, which was the church. As the party approached the village, a number of people, both men and women, ran out to meet them, with hands outstretched, followed by half a dozen dogs and several pigs. The entire pah testified great pleasure at the arrival of the Pakeas, and were profuse in their offers of hospitality. These people, from intercourse with the missionaries and their families, had learnt to speak a little English. Their huts were of rather a superior description to those in the other pah we have spoken of, being some of them of very good size, and
tohunga; but now that the people were Christians, his occupation and his influence were gone. The tangi, or native greeting of howls and tears, began after awhile, the women rocking themselves backwards and forwards, and bowing their bodies to the ground until their foreheads touched the earth.
After the stranger had been conducted into the pah, a large fire was lighted in the church, for the Maoris seem to think that fires are a requisite ingredient in a warm welcome, and the guests were invited to enter.
“What an odd idea!” said Bernard, hesitating before he entered. “I wonder at the people making such a use of their church.”
“I have noticed that they invariably do so everywhere. I don't think they mean any disrespect.”
“I do not half like it,” said Bernard. “In the other pah the people appeared to be so scrupulous about the sacredness of their tapu things, even to not allowing them to be touched. I think these men should be taught to look upon their church building as sacred from secular employments being carried on within its walls.”
“I think so too. I quite agree with you, Bernard,”
“Pray do, sir,” said Jack; “and we may have a chance of breathing at the same time as we eat.”
Colonel Bradshaw went to the chief, and explained to him that, in England, everybody would be shocked at a church being put to such a use as he contemplated. The Maori, who was extremely good-natured and willing to adopt any European idea or custom, at once agreed, and said that the Colonel and the two Pakeas should be accommodated in the “cook-house.”
This cook-house was a large wooden building, kept for such emergencies as the sudden arrival of strangers; and the church having been at the first allotted to them was evidently meant as a special honour to the guests.
The cook-house was but a little way off. The fire was transferred to the cook-house, and the travellers stripped off their things and hung them up to dry, for it had been raining sharply most of the afternoon. But the Maori servants, not being endowed with much courtesy, which they leave to the rangatira, or Maori gentlemen, had been
After a time, however, the native teacher made his way through the throng. He was a fine, intelligent-looking man; and as soon as he discovered that the Pakeas were annoyed by the familiarity of the villagers, he spoke a few words to them, and they at once dispersed to a greater distance. Colonel Bradshaw invited the native teacher to dine with them, which he readily agreed to do.
Of course the Maori teacher spoke very little English; and we know that Bernard and Jack knew no more of Maori than the two or three words they had learnt during the last week or two, so that the conversation could scarcely be called general; still, it was interesting for all that, as Colonel Bradshaw repeated the teacher's remarks in English to his companions.
“I was asking him,” observed the Colonel, “about the conduct of the people. He says he finds them most anxious to learn. The young men are, some of them, it would
“Ask him,” said Jack, “if any of these men in this place have been cannibals?”
“Yes,” said Colonel Bradshaw, after he had received the teacher's answer, “most of them have; some—for instance, the chief himself—within the last five years.”
Jack shuddered, and the Maori continued speaking.
“Children have been taken away from the schools,” resumed the Colonel, “by their parents, in order that they might take part in feasts of human flesh. Not many years ago, women were in the constant habit of murdering their infants, being apparently possessed of no natural affection. In the island of Mana, not so very far from here, there is still a celebrated house, which I think I mentioned to you before, called ‘Eat-man House,’ in connection with which there is a queer story.”
“Which I am to have some day,” said Jack.
“Which you are to have some day. This man here tells me that they are overrun with wild pigs in the neighbourhood, which break into their crops of potatoes, and do all sorts of damage. I have offered the services of all of us for a grand pig-hunt to-morrow. Do you agree?”
“Oh, by all means,” said Jack and Bernard.
“Do look at that fellow!” exclaimed Jack, presently afterwards, alluding to a man who had returned within the hut, and was seated on the ground picking vermin off his blanket and eating them. “Is it possible they can be nice?”
“I would rather not try, I must say,” said Bernard. “I wonder if we did such things when we were Ancient Britons?”
Presently the Maori teacher rose to go, and they entered the hut with Colonel Bradshaw's native servants, who proceeded, as a first move, to pile up the fire. It was quite vain to speak to these men: they would laugh and take their own way, and the only thing left was to submit. When the fire was large enough to cook a dinner for twenty-four people, they carefully closed the windows and door and every aperture. It was still raining, so that Colonel Bradshaw and the others could not seek the open air, as they had on the previous occasion, but had to endure the heat as best they could, which, added to the myriads of fleas and mosquitos, made sleep impossible to any one but Maoris; and in the early morning they left the hut, in a miserable state of discomfort and want of rest, while the Maoris, streaming with perspiration, sought the open air to cool themselves after their suffocating night. The natives of this part of the world always sleep in a bath of perspiration, which one would think must be very exhausting.
Early in the morning, a great number of the inhabitants of the pah assembled in the church for morning prayers. The congregation were very attentive, but of course the Pakeas understood but little of what was going on.
Looking at Jack Stanley, who, perhaps as much from habit as from any other motive, bent his knee when others did so, and looked impressed with the solemnity which
Jack's thoughts and plans of revenge were put aside for the time, because other things were occupying his mind, and there was no opportunity of carrying them out; but the idea of pursuing Maitland had taken fast hold of his mind, and the packet of letters and papers, which, as he imagined, would convict Maitland of treachery and fraud, had never left his bosom, where he had placed them on his first starting. Even during his captivity with the tohunga, the knowledge that the old man had taken possession of his clothes was productive chiefly of anxiety in the breast of Jack that this packet, which was in his eyes so precious, should be lost or destroyed; and after the restoration of his property upon the interference of Colonel Bradshaw, one of Jack's first acts was to feel in the breast pocket of his shirt that his letters were safe. The tohunga had considered Jack's clothes too valuable to be worn, excepting upon some very special occasions, so that he had not interfered in any way with them.
Hope Bernard little understood Jack Stanley when he thought that he would easily relinquish a determination he
A Wild Pig-Hunt In the Bush.
Next morning was bright and clear, and Colonel Bradshaw and his friends, with a large party of the natives, prepared for a pig-hunt. Jack Stanley laughed at the idea of a pig-hunt: his-only idea of pigs was having seen them in his childhood, grunting in styes, or on occasions making irruptions into places where they had no business; there was also a legend of himself in his childhood having tried to ride a pig, but of having been very summarily kicked off into the dirt. Before the hunt, however, it was necessary to have a talk. There is nothing in the world the Maoris are so fond of as speechifying. Formerly, in the times of their wars, they would invariably hold a council previous to an attack; and now that the spirit of peace, as we trust, has taken the place of war, they still take every occasion of holding forth. They are really very eloquent, and under exciting circumstances, or under deep feelings, they rise to poetry. But this talking party was principally
pah were collected together, and spears were carried by the natives, the dogs also were called together; but these animals were very little under control, and Colonel Bradshaw seemed to think that they would be more in the way than anything else. At length they started, Europeans, Maoris, dogs and all. Then began for Bernard and Stanley their first real experience of the New Zealand bush. It was of no use getting impatient or out of temper: in that respect the Maoris set them a first-rate example—they were always ready with a laugh, whenever they were looked at, and were constantly joking together. Several times one of the party was suddenly thrown down, either by coming in contact with some stubborn underwood or by tripping over a fallen tree, or again they would be stopped short, caught by a supplejack, which would insist upon their staying, and take no refusal. Still, everything was so wildly beautiful that it was difficult to quarrel with it: on all sides grew most luxuriantly flowering plants and creepers of every description, masses of wild fuchsias, and clouds of sweet-scented white clematis made the Englishmen think of home; but the next moment thoughts of England were sent flying by the un-English growth of the trees and gigantic ferns.
After many and various escapes from being taken prisoner, or of losing his gun in the embraces of the supplejack, and many overthrows and stumbles from the
In the middle of their laughter they were arrested by the barking of the dogs, and, forgetting all their bruises and twists of the limbs, they hurried in the direction of the noise. Already the Maoris were shouting, and flinging their spears into the thicket near by; and shortly afterwards there was a tremendous burst, and a drove of wild pigs rushed pell-mell from their covert. The dogs and men gave chase—at first after the whole pack; but one after the other the pigs bolted—some in one direction, some in another—until the chase consisted of one enormous boar. Even back view he looked a very formidable animal, with his long gaunt legs and his indignant bristles —with the foam dripping from his tusks as he ran.
“Take care! take care!” shouted Colonel Bradshaw, as he saw Jack Stanley, with the recklessness of youth, rush ahead of the Maoris, close up with the dogs in pursuit of the pig; but he might as well have shouted to the pig itself. Jack Stanley heard nothing. Screaming with laughter, he kept on his way, flying over the fallen trees, forcing a passage through the boughs, not even knowing that he scratched his hands and face, and never
The Pig-huntPakea runs!” All at once the wild pig came to a full stop, turned, and faced the dogs. All his fangs were showing, and he did not look by any means pleasant; but it was too late for Jack to pull up. The dogs fell back upon him, and the boar was upon the dogs almost at the same moment. It was a fortunate thing that the dogs did fall back, for they were the first objects that the pig saw. With a savage grunt, he rushed upon the foremost, and ripped up his side, while at the same instant Colonel Bradshaw came up, and, firing his musket, shot the pig in the shoulder. The pig, finding himself wounded, bounded clean over the body of Jack Stanley, who had not regained his feet since falling pellmell amongst the dogs, and a few seconds afterwards the boar lay dead, killed by another shot and several of the native spears.
“I tell you what, young man,” said Colonel Bradshaw of Jack, as they stood contemplating their dead game, “you must be a little more careful in your hunting ventures. You are much too reckless of danger.”
“It was grand fun, sir,” said Jack.
“It would have been small fun for the rest of us to save carried you home with a hole in your side like that poor dog there,” answered the Colonel.
Jack had the pleasure that evening of seeing the whole scene enacted in caricature by the Maoris who had witnessed it for the amusement of those who had not. Some of the men took the part of the dogs, another of the boar, going upon all fours, while he himself—the part being taken by the son of the chief—cut a very laughable figure sprawling in the midst of the suppositious dogs after a wild and most eccentric run through the length of the pah. That evening there was a dance in the village, a performance which very much amused the strangers in their turn. The dance was merely a peaceable one for their own pleasure, until, at the entreaty of the Pakeas, they turned it into a war-dance, such as formerly they used to perform before a battle. They previously explained that they had left off all this sort of thing now, and only did it to entertain their guests. The men first stripped themselves naked, and ornamented their heads with birds' feathers; then the dance commenced. It was originally intended as something solemn and inflaming to the anger and revenge of the warriors—by no means to arouse the laughter of the beholders; but when these men began leaping about, flinging their limbs into the most grotesque attitudes, their eyes thrown up so as to show nothing but the whites, their tongues stuck forward from their mouths, making every hideous face they could in turn devise, Jack Stanley, who was one of those who had not the least control over his risible muscles, and always laughed at the wrong times, had the greatest
“The young Pakea does not like it,” observed the chief, when it was at an end, and he had inserted himself once more in his mat.
“On the contrary, I think it is very fine,” said Jack, hardly able to speak under the remembrance of it. “I am sure I could not dance so finely as that.”
The chief laughed and nodded; then, stripping himself once more as far as the waist, he joined some others who were arranged in a circle on the ground, and prepared for the haka, or song. Considering the horrible faces that had been made during the dance, one might have supposed that they were pretty well tired of distorting their features; but it was nothing of the sort apparently, for they outdid themselves in this fresh effort. They squinted, they twisted their mouths, they screwed up the whole face, they protruded their tongues, as an accompaniment to the song, not one word of which the guests could understand, but which they had to take for granted was very amusing. With the violent exercise of the day, coupled with his repeated falls in the bush, combined with this very exciting evening to wind up with, Jack Stanley was so tired that not even the combined action
But before they left the settlement, Jack became more used to such excitement as he had gone through that day. As the Maori teacher had told them, the neighbourhood was overrun by pigs; and pigs, however useful they may be in a domestic point of view, might, we can well imagine, become a dreadful nuisance when in large numbers.
Pig-hunts became the daily occupation whilst the Englishmen remained at the pah, and many and various were the eccentric incidents of these chases; for there is nothing grand or sublime or sentimental about a pig, and the character of the chase was gathered from the quarry. Still, for all that, they were very enjoyable, and not the less so, that there was a good amount of risk and danger mixed up with the amusement.
As it was really essential to the comfort of the settlement that a number of pigs should be destroyed, the hunting party made it their business as well as their amusement, and they usually proceeded with greater caution than they had the first day of Jack's wild spirits and reckless exposure of himself. The hunters would come cautiously and gradually upon a herd of pigs feeding in some open space in the forest, and would sometimes succeed in killing eight or nine animals in one day. The Maoris were delighted at carrying off such a stock of provision, and would march home with
Colonel Bradshaw Has A Serious Talk With Jack.
The next day Jack was up betimes, sitting just outside the pah upon an enormous fungus, which was quite substantial enough to bear his weight, and which formed a capital stool, sketching a piece of the bush which had captivated him on the preceding day.
As he sat drawing, Colonel Bradshaw came up behind him and looked over his shoulder.
“Have you ever thought of taking up painting as a profession?” he asked.
“Never, sir,” answered Jack.
“What are your intentions with regard to the future?”
Jack Stanley hesitated for a moment, then he said,
“Since my father's death, things have come to my knowledge which have driven away all idea of settling to work until I have done one thing: I cannot explain to you what. My ultimate intention is, I believe, to remain out here, and seek for some employment.”
“Why should you do that, when the employment is ready to your hand? Every man should do what his Maker has fitted him for. You are intended for an artist, or I am much mistaken.”
“I have had but few opportunities of trying what I can do,” Jack answered. “During the time we have been in the bush, I have at times felt as if I could be and do something.”
“How old are you, Jack?” asked the Colonel.
“A little over seventeen, sir.”
“I should have taken you for two or three years older.”
“I wish I were,” said Jack.
“Never wish that, my boy,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “At your age you have missed fewer opportunities than most of us; your life is all before you, to make it a glorious life in the service of the Master to whom you are sworn.”
“I shall never do that, sir,” said Jack, sadly.
“Why not?” answered his friend. “God has made you clever, upright, and honourable: do not dare to spoil by your folly what He has intended for His own service.”
Jack had never heard Colonel Bradshaw speak so seriously before; and for a few minutes he made no reply. Then, as the remembrance of the strong feeling of his life returned, he said,
“I might have been born for all that you say, sir; but my father's death and subsequent events, of which I cannot
“That is a wrong way for a young fellow like you to talk,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “You ought to have, and must have, the ambition to be of some use in your generation—to leave footprints behind you. Remember, Jack, that if you do not serve God and benefit the world, you serve the devil and injure the world. There is no such thing as a blameless life when it is a life of idleness. People seem to think that it is quite optional to them whether they are good or wicked; but it seems to me that we men, who pride ourselves upon our honour, have no choice left us but to serve the Master to whom we have been sworn in our infancy: we are the greatest scoundrels if we do not; and that is a name which men do not like to acquire.”
“I never thought of it so seriously before, sir,” said Jack, who had laid down his brush, and was gazing into the forest.
“Then think of it seriously now, my boy,” said the Colonel, kindly: “the world is all before you. Don't throw away the opportunity of a good life and a happy one; for there is no such thing as happiness apart from God. But,” continued he, after a pause, “I should warn you, if you take to painting as a profession, against idleness. There is no employment in which people are more tempted to join with those who make no account of life. I suppose every calling has its peculiar temptation.”
“And you really think I might succeed as an artist, sir?” asked Jack of Colonel Bradshaw.
“I am quite sure of it,” he answered. “No boy ought to have arrived at the age of seventeen without making up his mind as to what he intends to be. As you have passed over so much necessary time, I think you ought to decide at once as to your future.”
Henceforth Jack Stanley worked more assiduously than before at painting. Colonel Bradshaw's words had a great effect upon him, as far as painting went. For the rest he tried to forget what had been said, because it made him feel uncomfortable and did not suit him.
They were intending to move on the following day—much to the apparent regret of the Maoris. Jack Stanley was by this time great friends with everybody in the pah, with the exception of the old tohunga, or priest, who seemed to look upon him with suspicion. Now, Jack had done nothing to his knowledge to give offence to this individual; but, as he said, he seemed naturally antagonistic to the whole race of tohungas. He had had too forcible a lesson of late voluntarily again to offend the prejudices of the Maori religionists; and, with the recollection of the unfounded dislike the tohunga of the heathen pah had taken to him, and the direful consequences it had produced for himself, he had been very careful to conciliate the present old gentleman. With this view he offered to take the old man's likeness; but the tohunga started away at the bare proposal—evidently
tohunga thought he was perhaps bewitched, and he kept aloof from the Pakeas, and sulked with them, and looked supremely hideous, as sulky people do in general. The little children of the settlement, who had been so ready to make friends with Jack Stanley, saw that the tohunga was angry, and were half afraid of showing that they liked the young Englishman, and thus incurring the anger of the priest, and perhaps his revenge; and they stood aloof, and looked askance at Jack when the old man was in sight, and whispered together.
“Why do they let him remain in the village at all?” asked Jack. “I wonder the native teacher does not get rid of him. I am sure he can exercise no good influence upon the people.”
“That is the very question I asked of the teacher,” replied Colonel Bradshaw, “and he answered that the tohunga had once been so awful and powerful a man in the pah that the Maoris even now could not divest themselves of their feeling towards him. They were not sure that he could not do them a mischief, if he chose.”
It was strange, as showing how superstition still held the people, notwithstanding that they were professed Christians, that most of the women still wore round their
Although the days were full of excitement and novelty, yet the evenings were always most enjoyable, when together the Europeans sat, comparing notes of the events of the day, and laughing over all the amusing little incidents they had met with. On the evening after the conversation I have spoken of, as Jack Stanley lay upon the floor of the cook-house, close by Colonel Bradshaw, he said,
“Do you know, I am wonderfully ignorant of the past history of New Zealand? Everything here is so entirely new to me that I cannot help wishing that I knew a little more about the country. You are not very sleepy, I am sure, sir, to-night. Would you mind telling me about it?”
“Telling you all I know I certainly have no objection to,” said Colonel Bradshaw, “and I cannot afford to be sleepy to-night, for I am keeping myself awake for a special purpose.”
“For what, sir?” asked Hope Bernard.
“Well, the chief has told me that he can guide us tonight to where we may perhaps catch an apteryx.”
“What is that?” asked Jack.
“You will see when we catch him,” said the Colonel, laughing. “I have never been able to meet with one yet, though I have been a great many years in the country, and they are becoming more scarce every year; so I am rather anxious to get hold of this one that the chief speaks of.”
“Very well, sir; we will keep awake, and it will be a capital opportunity for you to tell us a story,” answered Jack.
“All right, Jack. I suppose you know how, to begin with, that New Zealand was discovered, or is supposed to have been discovered, by a Dutchman, named Abel Jansen Tasman? You know that a part of the New World is called Tasmania, named after this man?”
“I know there is a Tasmania, but I did not know why it was so called. I am wofully ignorant,” said Jack again.
“Well, Tasman merely saw the land whilst on an exploring expedition,” answered the Colonel; “that was in the year 1642, during the reign of our Charles the First. He can hardly be said to have really discovered New Zealand. It was on the 6th of October, in the year 1769, that Captain Cook re-discovered it effectually, for until then it was but a name.”
“And left his usual marks of pigs and potatoes,” observed Jack.
“Exactly, Master Impudence, and very good marks for a man to leave behind him. Potatoes have been of the greatest service to the Maoris. They are as much their staple means of living as they are that of the Irish. Captain Cook was a downright practical man, and a man of common sense, which is much better than a man of mere sentiment. You know the story of the two Scotchmen?”
“No; I do not know to what you refer.”
“A Scotchman was the first to bring over to Australia a hive of bees. They have taken so kindly to the country that they have become a very profitable source of gain, as bees do generally. He was the common sense man. Another of his countrymen, from the sentimental wish to gaze upon something which would remind him of his own country, brought over the seed of the thistle, which, taking to the soil as kindly as the bees did to the climate, has become a positive nuisance, and spreads over acres of land, which might otherwise have been profitable.”
“What a fool he must have been!” said Bernard.
“Perhaps, on the contrary, he thought himself a poet,” replied Colonel Bradshaw. “But, happily for posterity, Captain Cook was of the common sense class, and acted with forethought. At the same time that one island was discovered by an Englishman, the other was seen by a Frenchman; then, as usual, the two nations running neck-and-neck together. However, the unhappy Frenchman, after making friends with the natives, was all at once eaten up by them. I suppose they got too fond of him.”
“I shall certainly keep them at arm's length, if that is the way they testify their affection to their friends,” said Jack. “I sometimes think that chief yonder licks his lips when he looks at me.”
“Some of the Englishmen were also eaten at this time; but this state of things did not continue for long. By frequent intercourse with the Europeans, the Maoris got to seeing them without attempting to eat them.”
“Perhaps they did not like the taste of them, sir,” interrupted Jack. “Englishmen may not agree with everybody.”
“Anyhow, they left off eating them, Master Jack, and in 1814 Christianity was introduced into the country by the missionaries; and I trust that cannibalism was put an end to for ever. Shortly after this, people came to settle here, and a Government was instituted. There is rather a significant story told of this time. The native chiefs asked the British Government for a national flag. It was granted, and, upon being hoisted, was saluted with twenty-one guns by one of the English ships; whereupon, unable to support the honour of its independence, it disappeared, and has never been heard of or seen since. From that time New Zealand has had a British Government, and has been acknowledged as an English Dependancy.”
“But do you think the Maoris liked being taken possession of?” asked Jack.
“Perhaps they were not asked,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “They have been treated as ignorant children, who must be taught to behave themselves; but I think now they begin to appreciate the advantages of civilization.”
Just then the chief entered the cook-house, and asked the Europeans if they were ready to go with him. Jack and Bernard did not know whether they were going in search of a beast, or a bird, or a fish; but they were
“We shall not want these; no need of guns,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “We are not going to attack an offensive creature. I expect our prey will be innocent enough.”
The young men looked at him for explanation, but he did not give any: only laughed; and Jack Stanley said,
“I believe it is some disgusting ourang-utang that we are going after.”
“I think a disgusting ourang-utang would hardly consent to be taken quietly; but come along,” said the Colonel, “let us go in pursuit of our quarry.”
“You must tell us when we see it, sir,” said Bernard, “or we shall not know it.”
But, unfortunately for my story, the quarry was not to be found that night. I think the Maori chief had reckoned without his host, and the apteryx was not to be found in the place where he was expected to be; and Bernard and Stanley went once more to rest as ignorant with respect to the apteryx as they had risen in the morning.
Our Party Meet With Something Entirely New.
It is impossible to those who admire Nature to go rapidly through such vegetation as that displayed by the New Zealand bush, even if its intricacies would allow them to do so; and, being bound to no time, the Englishmen generally, after a pighunt, returned very leisurely to the pah. There was so much to attract their attention and admiration: on all sides the trees and the flowers were so gloriously beautiful and so new, and the vegetation so luxuriant and wild and picturesque, that no one but such a fox-hunter as made himself famous to posterity by abusing “them stinking violets,” could be blind to the beauty surrounding them.
On the evening before, they had looked carefully for the apteryx, thinking to find him on his nightly excursions, but had done so unsuccessfully; but now, when they thought no more of him, they came upon him unexpectedly.
Hope Bernard was a little in advance of the rest of
By this time the others had joined him, and Colonel Bradshaw said, upon seeing the object of Bernard's excitement,
“How curious, that we looked for him everywhere last night and could not find him, and now, without any searching for, here he is.”
“Do you mean to say that this is the what-do-you-call-him?” asked Stanley.
“This is the ‘what-do-you-call-him,’ Jack. But don't make such a noise, or you will wake him.”
“Why, is he asleep? Which is his head? He is a funny beast: he has only three legs. I never heard of a three-legged animal before.”
“Hold your nonsense, Jack,” answered the Colonel, laughing in spite of himself. “That leg, as you call it, is his neck. He has his bill in the ground. Here, I have got him,” added the Colonel, lifting the creature from the ground as he spoke, and tucking him under his arm.
“Why, it is a bird, I do believe,” said Jack, as a head with a very long bill and two small sleepy eyes showed itself.
“Of course it is: whatever did you take it for, Master Jack?”
“Well, sir, I thought it was—in fact, I could not tell what to make of it when first I saw it. It seems very tame.”
“It is half asleep. This is a night bird,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “We will carry it home and have a good look at it, for they are very rarely met with now. This is the first I ever came across.”
“And then, I suppose, you will let it fly,” said Jack. “It would be a pity to kill it if they are so rare.”
“I will let it go; but it will not be by flying, Jack; for the poor thing has no wings, and that is the reason that the species are becoming extinct; for, being a ground bird, the natives can so easily kill them.”
“Are they good to eat, then?”
“I suppose they are; though I have never tasted one, not being like your friend the Captain, Bernard, who tastes everything he comes across.”
“But have they really no wings, Colonel Bradshaw?” asked Bernard.
“Positively. As the men are gone on, we will sit down here and examine the creature. It will be better, perhaps, not to take him to the pah, as the Maoris will be pretty sure to follow him, and kill him if they see him. —Look,” resumed the Colonel, presently, after he had placed the bird upon the ground without loosing his hold of it. “Look!” and he pulled up from the apteryx's
“What can be the use of that?” asked Bernard.
“That I cannot tell you: it must have some use, of course.”
“Perhaps he fishes with it on moonlight nights,” suggested Jack.
“Or perhaps he walks out arm-in-arm with a friend,” said Bernard.
“Or maybe he waves it in the air when he wants to enforce an argument, like Captain Cuttle,” said Jack Stanley, again.
“Perhaps you will leave off talking nonsense, and examine the bird further,” said Colonel Bradshaw, laughing.
Jack Stanley sat down by his side.
“Tell us all about him, sir, please,” he said.
“I don't know all about him; in fact, I fancy very few people do, excepting Professor Owen. The bird lives upon insects.”
“That is the reason of his long bill, I suppose.”
“No doubt. If we had met this fellow by night we should not have easily caught him. Look what strong legs and feet he has. He runs very rapidly. —Keep still, will you?” This latter was to the apteryx, who was shaking off his drowsiness.
“But,” said Jack, attempting again to touch the bird, “this brown stuff does not look much like feathers—it is so hairy looking.” As he approached his hand towards
He was not only beginning, but going on. He was violently struggling and kicking, so that the Colonel, after receiving two or three good scratches and digs from his claws, found himself unable to hold him any longer, and the apteryx escaped from his hands, running at full speed with his head in the air.
“I am afraid we have spoilt his sleep,” said the Colonel. “He had better have remained still without exciting himself until we had finished our examination; but I suppose he does not care for the advancement of science.”
“I am very glad we have seen him,” said Bernard. “Is he the only bird of the kind?”
“The only bird still living; I believe—or almost. I fancy that there has been another of the same sort discovered; but not in New Zealand. That, I think, was brought from the South Sea Islands. Formerly in this country there were several birds of this kind. You have heard of the dinornis?”
“No; I know so little about natural history,” answered Jack.
“The dinornis was an immense fellow—sometimes upwards of fourteen feet high. He, as well as the apteryx, are of the ostrich tribe.”
“I should like to meet with a dinornis,” observed Jack Stanley as they walked on.
“Not likely: it has long been extinct.”
“Then who has seen it?”
“Its bones in a fossil state have been sent to England. I believe that at home there are several specimens. The New Zealanders themselves speak of it as ‘moa.”'
“And what do they call the apteryx?” asked Bernard.
“The ‘kiwi.’ I have seen dresses made of the skin of the apteryx, with the feathers on, of course.”
“Well, it would not make a bad sort of dress, and very warm,” said Jack, “but dirty. But I suppose the Maoris would not make that an objection.”
“There is a small kind of wingless bird, besides, in this island, called the wood-hen; but it is not remarkable for anything else but the uselessness, apparently, of its wings.”
“There do not seem to be many large birds in New Zealand, or large creatures of any sort,” said Bernard.
“Certainly, the Fauna, as it is called, of the place is very limited indeed. You will see a greater variety when you get near the sea: there are numbers of gulls, wild duck of different kinds in abundance, and, besides, the beautiful cormorant.”
“Is he beautiful?” asked Jack.
“The New Zealand cormorant is,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “Its head and throat are black; back, beautiful bright green, with a white stripe down each side of it from the neck; and its breast is shaded grey. It is a remarkably fine bird, with a sort of crest or hood of soft white feathers. It is called the ‘crested cormorant.”’
“I suppose it lives on fish?”
“I suppose all the cormorants do. I agree with you, though, Jack, that New Zealand is very poor, compared to other countries, in its variety of birds and beasts. I suppose, if pigs and dogs had not been introduced, that the largest quadruped would be the rat; but that also is fast dying out.”
“A good thing, too, I should think,” said Jack. “I think rats are odious beasts.”
“I suppose even rats have their use in nature, Master Jack,” said Colonel Bradshaw, “though we seem to see the most unpleasant side of them. You have, of course, noticed repeatedly the parson-bird?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jack: “I have often seen that little chap holding forth to nobody in particular, with his black coat and white bands; and I have several times meant to ask you about him. The men call him ‘tui:’ he certainly looks like a little parson.”
“He is a mocking-bird. Every country seems to have a mocking-bird.”
“But there are no bright-coloured birds about here,” said Bernard.
“Ah, you should go to Australia for the parrots. There you will find a great variety, some of them very beautiful,” answered Colonel Bradshaw; “but there is a parrot in New Zealand also, though not a gaudy one—that is, it is of the parrot species, but more like an owl in appearance; and, besides, it is a night bird.”
“Then I suppose it must be an owl,” said Jack.
“Those who are our betters in knowledge,” replied Colonel Bradshaw, “say it is a parrot; so we must not differ from them. The Maoris call it ‘kaka,’ and the chiefs ornament their heads with its feathers.”
“I have seen brown feathers in their heads.”
“Of course you have,” said the Colonel. “But this, like other native curiosities of animal life, is getting very rare.”
“I expect those were the parrots you spoke of, sir, which Hope and I saw shortly after we left Wellington. We took them for pigeons at first.”
“I am not surprised at your doing so. But to return to our subject of animals. I wish some one, whose business it is, would introduce animals of other kinds into the islands. It seems a pity that such magnificent forests should be almost untenanted. One expects to meet deer or some such beasts at every open glade.”
“Whose business would it be?” asked Bernard.
“There it is: being no one's business in particular, it is not likely to be done, unless it is undertaken by some purely public-spirited man. However, we have had plenty of such men, and no doubt shall have many more,” said Colonel Bradshaw.
“I think the proverb, ‘Mind your own business,’ has been very often made an excuse for neglect of duty,” observed Bernard.
“No doubt of it; and there is a much better maxim than the proverb you have quoted,” answered the Colonel.
“To be a public-spirited man involves such a large amount of self-confidence,” said Bernard. “An ordinary modest-minded individual would be afraid of starting in such a character.”
“There I do not agree with you, Bernard,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “The greatest men are usually the most modest, and quite unconsciously great. I have no doubt that some of the finest actions on record in the history of the world have been done with no motive of self-importance. I remember when quite a child reading a story in French of a little girl who never ate an apple without planting some of the pips, that, as she said, future generations might benefit by her having lived.”
“But,” said Bernard—”
“Wait and hear the end of my story. Some of her friends suggested to this child that she would not live to see future generations profit by her kindness, and she answered that it mattered not. Then the friends objected that future generations would never know who their benefactress was, and that she would derive no thanks; and she replied still that it mattered not, for although the apples were planted by an unknown hand, still, future generations would reap the benefit of them. That is, to my thinking, the true principle of public spirit. And now, Bernard, I know what objection you were going to make when you interrupted me just now. Of course the
Colonel Bradshaw Tells the Story of Taonui, King of Mokau.
One evening after the work, or perhaps more properly speaking, the pleasure, of the day was over, Colonel Bradshaw kept his promise of telling his companions a story about “Eat-man House.” He began by saying:
“It is some time since I heard the story, and my memory may not serve me faithfully in some respects, but I will tell it to you as well as I can remember it. To begin with I will describe the house: I can do that, for I have seen it. The house belongs to a man named Rangihaeata, who made himself very unpleasantly prominent in the massacre of the English at Wairau, which I think I once mentioned to you. This man Rangihaeata was a fighting chief, a captain under the chief Rauparaha, who by dint of cunning and treachery conquered the lands on all sides of him, until he became a person of most unenviable importance. The island of Mana is the residence of this man, and it is on this island that the
pahs. There is a deep verandah outside, beautifully painted with black and red and white. Between the woodwork, the interstices are filled with variegated reeds, tied with flax dyed red. Above the doorway is a large head carved out of wood and tattooed all over, with dogs' tails for hair upon its head and face. There are door-posts to this entrance, carved as human figures, with their tongues stuck out as far as they can be protruded.”
“Do you remember the way in which the Maoris stuck their tongues out while dancing and in singing?” said Jack.
“Yes: it is intended as an insult; as I fancy it is all the world over. The dance they performed was a dance of defiance, and I have no doubt the songs were of the same character. These figures upon Rangihaeata's house are very cleverly done, the eyes are inlaid by means of pieces of bright shell, and the tattooing is as carefully done as if upon real faces.”
“Do the Maoris tattoo themselves?” asked Jack.
“Oh, no; the tohunga does that.”
“It must be very painful.”
“It is, I believe, extremely so. I remember once reading a biography by a man named Rutherford. He
“Well, it says a good deal for English pluck,” said Stanley. “How did he get away, sir?”
“Really that I forget,” replied the Colonel; “but I know he returned to England. I have seen a portrait of him: I do not think there was a part of him which was not thickly tattooed. His face was like an arabesque pattern.”
“My dear sir, we have gone a long way from Eat-man House,” observed Hope Bernard.
“It is that fellow's fault,” said the Colonel, laughing, and alluding to Jack: “he is so unwearied in his questions. But we will go back to our story. The reason I began by describing the house is because I have seen it; so that it is the only personal foundation I can give you for the story. I believe the hero of it is still living; at least, I know nothing to the contrary. He was a gentleman named Taonui, and was a chief of Mokau, a very considerable district on the western coast. He was the most powerful of the Maori chiefs, and, from all accounts, a shocking old villain before his reformation. The people of Mokau were at variance with a neighbouring tribe, called Waikatoto, the King of which was named Pomare.”
“How strange! Pomare. Is not that the name of the Kings of the Sandwich Islands?” asked Bernard.
“Of the Kings and Queens both,” replied the Colonel. “But that is not the only point of resemblance between the Maoris and the Sandwich Islanders. In many respects their language is very similar.”
“Please, sir, go on with the story,” said Jack.
“Well, King Pomare killed, or his people killed, a neighbouring chief, who was feudal lord to Taonui, and thus provoked Taonui's hatred and incited his revenge. You will generally find that uncivilized nations follow
Hope Bernard glanced at Stanley; but the latter was picking to pieces the scarlet lichens which thickly covered the trunk of a tree against which he was sitting.
“The dead King,” resumed Colonel Bradshaw, “was claimed after his death by some Roman Catholic missionaries, who were about to bury him according to the rites of their faith, when Taonui came down upon them, knocked over the bearers, dragged the body out of the coffin, and drove away the missionaries; for which decorous and gentlemanly conduct he was so much admired by his countrymen, that he was on the spot declared King of Mokau.
“Immediately upon ascending the throne, figuratively speaking, Taonui declared war against Pomare and the Waikatotos. Pomare seems to have behaved very well throughout, for he, on more than one occasion, offered to make peace with Taonui. To one of his conciliatory messages, Taonui is reported to have sent this answer:
“‘Taonui will rub the heads of the Pomare warriors with cold potatoes and fish.”’
“Well, I don't see that would do them much harm,” said Bernard, laughing.
“The Maoris look upon it as a great insult to have any allusion made to their heads in connection with anything eatable. The message was intended as the most refined insolence. Pomare took it as such; for he made no more
“That was an awful shame,” exclaimed Jack Stanley, “for Pomare was worth a dozen of the other fellow.”
“Moreover, Taonui took prisoner the daughter of Pomare, a very beautiful girl, named Tedra. This girl was a Christian, having been brought under the influence of the missionaries; and, besides, Taonui threw the body of the dead King upon a heap of old rubbish and broken pots and pans. He took for himself, however, the legbone of Pomare, and manufactured it into a flute. This flute he carved over, in commemoration of his victory.”
“Horrid old brute!” said Jack.
“What could you expect from a cannibal? I dare say it did not seem very horrid to a man used to look at the heads of his enemies baked and stuck upon poles. It was a savage revenge; but no worse than revenge in any country. Just as horrible things, though perhaps less barbarous and disgusting, have been done by civilized men when actuated by revenge.”
Again Bernard looked at Jack Stanley; but he could not catch his eye.
“What became of the girl, sir—Pomare's daughter?” asked Bernard, after a pause.
“She was given as a slave to one of the wives of the King who was remarkable for her ugliness and the badness of her temper. This woman's name was Kaitemata.”
“Poor girl!” said Jack. “I don't envy her life.”
“The wonderful part of it is, that Tedra's influence seems to have mollified the old shrew; and, to the surprise of Taonui, she neither beat nor scolded the girl, so that his design of making her wretched was frustrated.”
“Why did he carry his revenge on towards her?” asked Bernard. “How could she have offended him?”
“I believe that it was through her influence that the Mokauris consented to give up the body of the old King, Taonui's predecessor, to the missionaries. Besides, Taonui pretended to be a very religious man, and zealous for the honour of the idols, or gods, or demons, or whatever they may have been, of his fathers.”
“What did he do next, sir?”
“Well, he occupied all his leisure moments in playing upon his flute. He knew in his heart that his friends and neighbours admired the dead Pomare; and he would sit and play the most horrible noises on the leg-bone of his enemy, in order to insult the memory and outrage the feelings of those who respected him.”
“What an agreeable person!” said Bernard.
“Taonui had a son, named Waipata: a handsome young man. Finding that his wife, Kaitemata, did not beat Tedra, he ordered his son to give her a thrashing every day with a lash. The result was that Tedra got no thrashing, that Waipata fell in love with her, and that through her conversations with him during the time that he was supposed to be beating her he became a Christian.”
“Bravo!” said Bernard; “so the old wretch was cheated.”
“He found out that he was cheated in a very short time, so he banished Waipata to some distance from home, with orders not to speak for three months and three days, and he began to plan some punishment for Tedra. At length he summoned her to his presence, and made her dance to a tune played by himself upon the flute made from the leg-bone of her father.”
“Refined cruelty, certainly,” said Bernard. “And what did he do to his wife, Katie something?”
“Nothing: he dared not punish her: his superstition stood her in stead; for it was believed that, if a woman was old and ugly, very ugly, she frequently became a witch. One advantage of being ugly, Master Jack.”
“What an unfortunate thing, if, in all countries, such an idea prevailed!” said Jack; “but, at any rate, it did not extend to our sex. It is very strange that the people should still believe here in witchcraft. Even amongst the Maoris who are supposed to be Christians, I noticed all sorts of silly superstitions.”
“I do not think it strange,” the Colonel answered, “that people so very little enlightened as the Maoris, even if Christians, should cling to their old superstitions, when we meet with numbers in civilized England who hold beliefs quite as absurd. Even witchcraft, also, is believed in country districts at home. I have met with it myself; and I doubt if any one of us, you yourself, Jack, or Bernard,
“But there was no reason why Taonui should not hold such ideas in full; for he had been educated in them, and had every excuse; and he was afraid that the old woman might bewitch his cattle or himself if he offended her. It seems that Kaitemata brought the suspicion of witchcraft upon herself by being always accompanied by a black pig with one eye. That was certainly reprehensible on her part.”
“It showed bad taste, perhaps; but I think the old woman was clever to encourage the belief,” said Bernard.
The Colonel resumed: “Taonui, having succeeded in making the girl unhappy for the time, retired for meditation, and for planning a fresh war against the people of Pomare. He sat in solitude until darkness came on, when, being like all his people, afraid of the dark, he rose to return to his hut; but, before going, he raised the flute of bone, which he always wore hung round his neck, and played a requiem of insult to Pomare. To his horror and astonishment the echoes of the forest took up the music, and, gradually altering it from the horrible discordant noise that Taonui had made, executed a musical and warlike march.
“This was so strange, so unearthly, that it was more than the King of Mokau could bear. He turned and
The Story of Taonui Continued.
“Now, sir,” said Jack Stanley, next time they found themselves at leisure for talking, “please let us have some more of the history of that old scoundrel. Was he frightened into reformation by the ghostly music he heard?”
“Not he,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “He seems to be a regular Pharaoh, King of Egypt. Instead of making him better, the ghostly music drove him to desperation. He continued his sentence of banishment and silence against his son; and he shut up Tedra in a hut where she was compelled to see the unburied body of her father.
“For a time he was afraid to blow the flute, but, looking upon his repugnance as cowardice, he determined to try it again. He did so with the same result. This time he was so frightened that, every time his own dismal squeakings were changed into the war-march, he flung the flute away, and with difficulty could pick it up again.
tapu; and Taonui was so terrified that he rushed shrieking from the spot. After this Taonui turned morose for the time, and never told a word to any one of what had happened.
“About this time there arose a report that the body of King Pomare had come to life again. There was no one in the pah who had the courage to investigate the matter but Taonui. Not a soul dared approach the place where his bones lay exposed upon the heap of rubbish; but Taonui went alone to the place, close to which Tedra was confined. The first person who met the King at the door was old Kaitemata, his former wife, who had followed Tedra in her solitude. Upon sight of her, Taonui thought that he had arrived at the explanation of everything. The whole thing was witchcraft. Kaitemata, helped by Tedra, was at the bottom of it all, and he resolved to put them both to death. To confirm him in this belief, he at the same time received the news that his son Waipata had become a Christian, and, moreover, had gone mad, conclusive evidence of which was given by the fact that he had taken to wearing trousers.”
“I only wonder the old wretch had not put the woman to death long before this,” said Hope.
“He was afraid, you see, because of his superstitions;
‘But did he think to take in the spirits or demons as well as his neighbours?”
“I suppose he did. These heathens are sometimes wonderfully obtuse, and seem to think their deities are equally so. This old rascal Taonui determined to send his victims to a cavern he knew of, under which was one of these boiling springs; he himself having previously scraped the surface upon which they were to tread so thin that the least pressure would make it give way.”
“But, if the women were witches, such means would not kill them, I suppose,” said Bernard; “at least, according to the education of my childhood, witches would fly away on broomsticks from such childish dodges.”
“That does not seem to have entered into Taonui's calculations,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “He set out upon his expedition at once; but he had not arrived at the cave when he was met by an apparition—”
“More ghosts!”
“—The apparition of the leg of Pomare, magnified to a gigantic size, looming through the mist. After a few minutes he recovered himself, and ascribed this also to witchcraft, and he proceeded on his way.”
“I must say Taonui is a plucky fellow, at any rate,” said Jack Stanley.
“Yes, no one can deny him that,” answered the Colonel. “Of course, the mind of the King of Mokau being possessed with the idea of witchcraft, everything that occurred served to strengthen it. So, on entering the cavern for which he was bound, he fancied shadows into spectres and imagined movements in reflections.
“Notwithstanding all these things, which his superstitious mind might have taken as warnings of evil, no sooner was he arrived at his destination than he began his wicked work. After he had, for some time, scraped away with a sharp stone at the surface of the cavern, he heard the hot spring bubbling beneath. He was so pleased at this that he raised his flute to his lips to give upon it a flourish of triumph.
“As he did so, he saw a lizard wriggle out of one end of the flute, while from the other a black thorn projected. This he chose to interpret into an omen of good, because, as you know, the lizard is atua or sacred to the gods with the Maoris. He did not choose to see that the lizard had run away, and that the thorn had run into his mouth; but there are wiser than the King of Mokau who choose to prophesy for events according to their own views.
“After some time of waiting he became conscious that he had a companion: whenever he raised his arm, the arm of the figure was raised also, but when he looked round at the figure, it was still. Taonui was so vexed at
“A good thing too,” exclaimed Bernard. “I suppose the old scoundrel was killed?”
“By no means: it does not, from all accounts, appear to have done him much harm. He remained for some little while in the midst of this steaming cauldron, and was not even cooked in the process.”
“How did he get out?”
“Well, it was a reward of iniquity. Such a tremendous steam issued from the cave that a young hunter who was out in the neighbourhood was attracted to it, thinking that something unusual must be going on. Upon arrival, the young man, who was none other than Waipata, recognized his papa gradually being boiled tender. Waipata had with him Tedra and Kaitemata, and the black pig with one eye. How they all came together I cannot undertake to say.”
“Surely the King was brought to his senses after this?” said Hope Bernard.
“No sooner had Tedra and Waipata by their tender care brought him to himself, than he turned upon them and bade them get out of his sight—which was his gratitude.”
“They had best have put him back into the spring,” suggested Jack.
“They did nothing of the sort: they obeyed the old sinner and left him to himself. He then returned home, defiantly blowing his flute as he went. As he entered the village he heard the war-trumpet sounded, an instrument which is blown only upon the eve of a battle; startled at this, and indignant at what had happened, he blew his flute again, defying the trumpet to answer him. This time the solemn music of the death-march commenced, and continued playing for some time after Taonui had ceased squeaking upon his flute. About this time, the ghost of Pomare, or whatever it was, began a more ingenious attack upon the King; in fact, it took to kicking him on the shins. This measure, as was natural, increased the rage of Taonui, and his perplexity at the same time. He kicked and ill treated his wife in return for the kicks that he received; he again banished his son Waipata, and he ordered that Tedra should be shut up in the house of which I have told you—Eat-man House, in the lonely island of Mana. He supplied her with bread and water for a few days only.”
“And the old woman?”
“He seems to have taken no steps against her: certainly her witch's reputation was a great thing for her. After these measures, Taonui determined upon calling a council of the chiefs and telling the whole story.”
“The wonder was he had not told it long before,” said Bernard.
“It was his pride which kept him back. This man,
“One moment, sir,” said Jack Stanley. “About these boiling springs? Please tell us something more of them.”
“There are large tracts of land in the valleys where boiling springs are very frequent. Indeed, it is very dangerous at times to pass over them, for the upper crust is by no means thick, and will readily break when there is nothing between you and the boiling water. The steam rises from them in clouds, and you can hear the water boiling.”
“Very convenient for cooking purposes,” said Jack, “if people could live sufficiently near to them.”
“People live actually at the very top of them,” answered Colonel Bradshaw, “liable through any extra movement to be swallowed up in the cauldron.”
“What infatuation!” said Bernard.
“Not more so than the infatuation of the Italians, who again and again build at the foot of Vesuvius,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “Why, I have heard of native dancing parties being entirely swallowed up in the midst of their festivities.”
“What can induce them to run such terrible risks?”
“The advantages of the heat. I dare say it is very
“Do they indeed? They must be cooked to perfection, then, I should imagine,” observed Bernard. “I suppose the springs are very small.”
“Some of them are,” said the Colonel, “others, I have been told, are ninety feet round. These send up huge columns of steam.”
“What a grand steam factory might be established there!” said Jack.
“Yes, perhaps so, and without any expense of coal. Perhaps it may be so some day,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “But good night, Jack, my boy: good night, Bernard. I cannot speak another word to please anybody.”
“Good night, sir, and thank you. I think I hear the war-march of King Pomare in the music of those glorious trees. I do not wonder at the Maoris being superstitious. One might imagine anything in such forests as these.” And Jack Stanley lay for a time awake, thinking over the story of Taonui—recalling the romantic incidents which had taken hold of his imagination, but never laying to heart the lesson which he might have learnt.
The Story of Taonui Concluded.
“You know,” began the Colonel, “that the Maoris are very fond of making speeches: ‘orating,’ as the Americans call it. —And, by-the-way, our American friends have sometimes been very happy in the coinage of new words. —This council was a fine opportunity for Taonui, who, I have no doubt, is, like many of his countrymen, an eloquent man. All were dressed in their best mats and feathers for the occasion, for it was looked upon as an important one. Sitting is, with the Maoris, the attitude of respect; and so all the chiefs sat in a circle upon the ground, in a quiet spot in the forest, and smoked their pipes in silence, waiting for the King to speak. Taonui related his tale, beginning from the first performances of the flute, when he first heard the war-march of Pomare in the solitudes of the forest, going on until he told what had taken place at the tomb of the dead King. The chiefs looked at each other in a significant way, which caused Taonui to stop.
pah.”
“I wish I had heard his speech,” said Jack.
“Yes, I dare say it was worth hearing,” the Colonel answered.
“I remember you mentioned the trumpet in the pah,” said Bernard. “I wish you would tell us more about it, sir.”
“In the fortified villages of New Zealand,” answered Colonel Bradshaw, “there is a fence surrounding the whole area; to this fence is hung a war-trumpet: it is a very large wooden tube, and the natives carve it appropriately so as to make it ornamental. This is, of course, only blown in time of danger, as a sort of signal to arms; so that when Taonui heard it he was naturally startled, thinking that some attack was meditated, or that some news of war had been heard.”
“Thank you, sir. And now to the story,” said Jack.
“Just as the King of Mokau had arrived at that point where he related the sounding of the trumpet,” resumed Colonel Bradshaw, “to the consternation of the whole
pah trumpet really broke upon the air. It was too real to be a subject of question, and all rose from their sitting position and rushed into the village. The reason of the commotion—which was communicated by about fifty people at once—was, that a lot of kangaroos which belonged to the King had escaped, and were now leaping over the country.”
“Are there kangaroos in New Zealand, then?” said Jack: “that's capital. I should like uncommonly to join in a kangaroo hunt: I have read that it is fine fun.”
“I don't know about the fun of it, Jack,” the Colonel answered. “I have hunted them in Australia, and I never wish to do so again. There is something repugnant in hunting such defenceless creatures as kangaroos. Although it is very exciting at the time, one feels ashamed of oneself afterwards for a bully. No: there are no kangaroos in New Zealand to hunt. These I speak of were some that had been sent to the King as a present, and which he very much valued, as he hoped that they might breed and become naturalized to the climate. Here was an end to the council and the speculations about the supernatural agencies at work against the King. A hunting party was made up at once, and all the men of the settlement set off in pursuit of the kangaroos.”
“Rather difficult hunting kangaroos in such a country as this, I should think,” observed Bernard.
“So our friends found it: they very soon lost sight of the kangaroos. It so happened that the animals leapt
“I expect Waipata caught it pretty roundly from his papa,” said Jack Stanley.
“No: the King was too much staggered to say anything. In vain Waipata apologized; the King kept silence. He felt more than ever convinced that he was bewitched. He remained the whole night brooding gloomily over whathad happened. Waipata, like a Christian man as he was, sent a Maori to light a pipe for his father, and to place a bottle of rum near him; for he feared he might catch cold and die. Taonui, after awhile, fell asleep and dreamed. He dreamt that the kangaroos rose up to life again, and that he was compelled to hunt them. Then one of the beasts turned and confronted him, and as it did so, it was transformed into a warrior dressed in armour.”
“In armour! did the Maoris ever wear armour?”
“No, no; this was a suit given by one of the King Georges of England to a Maori chief, Chongi by name. It was celebrated over the district. It had played a conspicuous part, I now remember, in the original quarrel between Taonui and Pomare. Pomare had taken possession
“I beg your pardon for the interruption,” said Jack. “Please go on.”
“What follows is very shadowy, and I think must be looked upon as a dream of the King.
“He supposed that he went through an interview with an ancient idol of his people, —for no doubt, at some remote time, the Maoris must have worshipped idols, although they do not do so now, by the remains that have been found of their temples, —which idol led him to a council of great men or chiefs, whom he recognized as those who had fallen in battle with the King Pomare. Preparations were made for a cannibal feast by these shadowy gentlemen, and Taonui discovered that he was expected in person to furnish the table.”
“I hope he felt then how disagreeable it is to be eaten,” said Jack.
“He submitted to his fate with his customary courage; only before his expected death, he defied all the powers of witchcraft, and cursed the idols of his people and the priests or tohungas. Then he imagined or dreamt that he was impaled upon a stake to be roasted, when there came to his rescue the shadow of Pomare with Tedra. At their coming, the idol, the fire, and the shadowy chief passed away; and Taonui lost consciousness.”
“Poor fellow! one cannot help pitying him to a certain extent,” said Bernard. “Do you think he was mad?”
“I cannot say,” answered Colonel Bradshaw: “that is an easy way of escaping from things which are above our comprehension. Taonui's subsequent conduct shows no sign of madness; and as the result of all these supposed visions was one of very great importance to the man himself, of vital importance I may say, it is best not to be rash in ascribing causes.”
“What was the result, sir?” asked Jack.
“That the King of Mokau was completely subdued by the contrast between his conduct and that of Pomare: that his proud heart gave in. He sent to the missionary station where Waipata was living, and was reconciled to his son, and sanctioned his marriage with Tedra. Then he assembled all the chiefs together, and told them he had been in the wrong.”
“He became a Christian, then, sir?” said Bernard.
“At any rate he abjured idolatry and the worship of devils, and submitted to be taught a better faith, which does not allow of vindictiveness and revenge. The whole story, however much of it is true, contains a wonderful moral.”
“It does indeed, sir,” said Bernard. “It draws a very strong contrast between the impulses of human nature untaught by God and the influence of the Gospel.”
But Jack Stanley said nothing.
A Reminiscence of A Kangaroo Hunt In Australia.
Before leaving the pah the Englishmen proposed to Marāra that he should, if it suited him, remain in the settlement, as the people there were Christians; but the man did not in any way fall into their views. He wished to continue with the Pakeas to as near a point as they should arrive at to his native village.
“I suppose he prefers his own mud hut to those of strangers,” observed Jack. “I wonder what the fellow's history is.”
“He has told me as much as this,” said Colonel Bradshaw: “he was taken prisoner about three years ago in a skirmish between his tribe and that of the heathen settlement we stopped at, and was taken possession of by the tohunga as his share of the spoil.”
“I wonder he never escaped before,” remarked Hope Bernard.
“He has been watching his opportunity all along; but the tohunga rarely if ever allowed him out of his sight, or that of his daughter.”
“That girl who fed me, no doubt,” said Jack; “but she seemed a very good-natured kind of a girl, and was certainly on very good terms with Marāra.”
“Still, she was the tohunga's daughter, and a heathen, and very much in fear of her father's imaginary power; and it was only while Marāra made no attempt to escape that she was on good terms with him.”
“But why did not he escape?” asked Jack.
“How could he have lived in the bush without a gun or any means of providing himself with food? He showed wisdom in being patient until the time arrived when he could attempt to return home with some prospect of success. He was anxious to have some communication with us on our first visit to the pah, at that time you took his portrait; but, if you remember, he was never alone. Then, he overheard the tohunga giving instructions to Karee as to your capture, and determined to bide his time and leave the pah with you, being also swayed by some rather romantic fancy which he appears to have taken to you, Master Jack.”
“Has he? he is a very good fellow; I cannot see why he should take a fancy to me, sir. I suppose I've a very ungrateful and unaffectionate disposition; but I care for, or have cared for, so few people. But when I do care, I care very much.”
“There are some people, Jack,” replied the Colonel, “who have a greater facility than others in attracting affection. These, of course, possess a larger amount of influence than their neighbours, and consequently their responsibility is greater.”
“I do not like the idea of that,” said Jack, “I do not want responsibility.”
“You cannot escape it, my dear boy: you must influence others for good or for ill, and it depends upon yourself what the influence is to be. No one was sent into the world for himself.”
“Colonel,” exclaimed Jack, “you take such a serious view of life.”
“Because, as life is only the first step to eternity, Jack, it must be a very serious thing. Do not mistake me, my good fellow. I did not mean to say a gloomy or a melancholy thing—there is no need it should be that; indeed, a life led with a just sense of one's own responsibility, and in the fear and love of God, ought to be a very happy thing. It is said, ‘Rejoice, young man, in thy youth;’ but it must be a rejoicing mixed with the recollection that for all things done in this life God will bring us into judgment, though I do not think that the word judgment need imply condemnation or even blame.”
“I cannot imagine anything worth the name of happiness,” said Bernard, “apart from such considerations as you speak of.”
“You are a very happy fellow, Bernard, to have learnt
“But as to Marāra,” resumed Jack presently, “if he likes it, he may remain with me as long as he pleases. I hardly know yet how far or how long we, or perhaps I should say I, may be wandering about the island; and in my wanderings we may come near to Marāra's home.”
“That is the thing he wishes. He knows that you two and I part at Auckland. He wants to go on with you and Bernard. And, Jack, if you will let me give you a piece of advice—try, by talking with Marāra, to learn as much of his language as you can. Nothing learnt is ever wasted. I only wish we all would lay that maxim to heart, and we should be more satisfactory people than we are.”
“Well, at any rate, sir,” said Jack, “I will endeavour to give satisfaction in that respect, for I will try to learn Marāra's language; for, apart from any idea of its being useful to me at some future time, there are not many things that you could ask me that I would not try to do.”
“Thank you, Jack,” said Colonel Bradshaw, raising his hat.
Then the conversation wandered away to other subjects, until suddenly Jack said,
“The other day, sir, you mentioned having taken part in a kangaroo hunt. I wish you would tell me all about it.”
“And I also said, if I remember, at the same time,” answered the Colonel, “that I never wish to do so again. Jack, have you ever seen a kangaroo?”
“Yes, at the Zoo Gardens; never wild, of course.”
“I doubt if kangaroos are ever wild: they are shy and timid, like most innocent, inoffensive animals without natural means of defence; but, like all shy things, they become bolder than others when treated kindly. I will tell you of a kangaroo hunt, and then you will understand why I dislike the idea of it.
“When I was in Australia, one morning a friend with whom I was staying proposed at breakfast that we should go kangaroo hunting. I willingly agreed, as I would have agreed had it been proposed to hunt any other animal on the face of the earth, and before long we were mounted on horseback—that is, we Europeans—armed with our guns, and accompanied by a number of native Australians carrying long stout sticks, and a pack of dogs of no particular breed. We rode slowly away over the turf. It was a lovely day, warm as it is now, and with a cloudless sky, and we were in very high spirits. As we neared the ground where the kangaroos were supposed to be, we had to advance cautiously, keeping back the dogs, and keeping ourselves behind the shelter of any trees which came in our way. But the grass was so soft and velvetlike that our horses' feet made no noise in advancing. So we moved on until we were in the vicinity of the river, which was not many miles from my friend's house.
“All at once one of the natives held up his hand for us to halt, and looking eagerly through the trees which intervened between us and the river, we could see several
“Their indecision was of short duration. Hardly had we discovered them than one of the natives let slip his dogs, which were straining violently at their leash, and the next moment away bounded the whole herd of kangaroos, the dogs following closely, and we a little less so in their rear.
“The native Australians run well: they almost kept up with the dogs and horses. You have, of course, heard of the jumping powers of the kangaroo, but you can never have estimated what they are if you have not seen them under such circumstances as those I am trying to describe. I cannot tell you satisfactorily how many feet of ground the poor frightened things may have cleared at a time. I only know they seemed almost to fly before us. It certainly was a very exciting chase. We forgot everything in the wild pursuit. We almost flew, though in a less graceful way probably, horses and men and dogs together, after the kangaroos—over fallen trees, through marshy grounds, across long, lovely tracts of turf. Gradually
“I was nearest to him at the time he gave in, and I saw him rushed upon by the savage brutes, who gnawed and worried him, covering his soft grey fur with blood. He stood impotently beating the air with his fore feet, and the great tears ran from his beautiful eyes and down his cheeks. I was thankful that I was armed with a gun, that I might as rapidly as possible shoot the poor beast dead; and by the time the others came up, I was standing over him, feeling in my own mind that I had joined in a cowardly, unmanly sport, and vainly regretting that I had been accessory in any degree to what I now looked upon as unworthy of me.
“I felt disinclined even to talk as we rode home; and when upon the following morning my friend proposed another kangaroo hunt, I vehemently declined taking any part in it; and I made up my mind that I would never again join in what cannot, under any circumstances, be looked upon as a noble sport.”
“What is a noble sport?” asked Bernard.
“Really, I can hardly answer your question to my own satisfaction,” the Colonel replied. “But hunting animals
“
Sport !”
“But how can they be destroyed, sir, if they are so extremely timid as you say?” asked Jack.
“The native Australians capture them by means of stalking, in their own peculiar way. A number of men place themselves at equal distances, some way off from a kangaroo feeding-ground. These men advance gradually nearer to the ground and nearer to one another; thus, after a time, forming a circle and enclosing the herd of kangaroos. They have a somewhat cruel way of putting the poor things to death, beating them with thick sticks; but even that is preferable to the prolonged agony of being hunted, followed up by the worrying of the dogs.”
“But the Australian natives are not any bigger than kangaroos themselves, are they?” asked Jack.
“Some of them are really not much bigger,” answered Colonel Bradshaw. “But the Australians vary in size very much in different parts of the country, as also they vary in intelligence. Some of them seem little removed from the lower animals—utterly mindless; whereas farther into the interior, you will meet with men tall and well formed,
“They are not like the Maoris in any way, are they?”
“Totally dissimilar: the Maoris I consider a very intelligent people, who do not at all come under the head of that very generic term, ‘niggers.’ Of course you must have read comparative physiology of different races. The Maoris assimilate closely to ourselves, I believe, in the formation of the skull; in other words, they show likeness to the Caucasians. The wonder is that they have continued so long uncivilized.
“I do not suppose they will ever civilize as a nation. Years hence New Zealand will be peopled by the English, and the natural ‘lords of the soil’ will die out: they are doing so rapidly.”
“I am afraid,” said Jack, after a pause—during which he had been thinking over what the Colonel had said— “I am afraid that we English are a bullying race. It seems very unfair that we should come to another man's land, and gradually push out the rightful owner and take possession ourselves: it is very much like the cuckoo in the sparrow's nest.”
“There has always been in every age a dominant race, and no doubt it is so arranged for the advance of civilization. It does not seem so much as if the English nation endeavoured to push the rightful owners from their territory as that the owners become absorbed as it were. I think the settlers in this country have tried to educate, to
“They are, I have no doubt, all that you say, sir,” replied Jack; “but why need they keep themselves so dirty?”
“I never knew a fellow run an idea to death in the way you do, Jack,” answered the Colonel. “I really believe that the dirt of the Maoris serves, in the words of our familiar nursery poem,
“I think the tohunga showed a very acute insight into character,” observed Bernard, “when he dubbed Jack with that complimentary name he gave him. It took my fancy very much.”
“Oh, I have no doubt the tohunga is clever enough. The old rogue must have been listening to everything we said, and I dare say he heard and understood my animadversions upon the filthy state of himself and his friends,” answered Stanley.
Jack Stanley Gets Hold of the Wrong Man.
However anxious to reach Auckland for their own private reasons Bernard and Jack Stanley might be, yet they looked forward to their arrival in that town with very mixed feelings; for farther than Auckland Colonel Bradshaw could not go with them. He purposed remaining in the city for a short time in order to visit some friends, and returning to his own part of the island by the river, as more time had been consumed upon the road than he had calculated upon, through the circumstances of Jack Stanley's adventure, and, as we know, his own fruitless return home in search for him.
Both Stanley and Bernard had become attached to the Colonel more than they themselves were aware of until the time drew near that they must separate. Colonel Bradshaw had made himself so completely one of them in his good-natured wish to make the journey pleasant— his conversation had been such a constant source of
“I do not know,” said the Colonel, on the day before they arrived in Auckland, “what your plans may be after leaving the town, whether to go still farther north; but if you return by the coast, I should advise your stopping for a time at New Plymouth; there is a number of hot springs in the neighbourhood, and volcanic formations of a very interesting kind. How long shall you stop in Auckland?
Jack Stanley glanced at Bernard, and said after a pause, rather awkwardly,
“I have some business in Auckland; I do not know how long it may take me. Hope is coming in search of his father, I believe.”
“In search of his father?” said Colonel Bradshaw, laughing; “has he lost him, then?”
“Jack has such an odd way of expressing himself,” interposed Bernard. “He means that I hope to find my father here. He had left Wellington, and I was told he had gone on to Auckland.”
“Well, I hope you will come across each other at once, my boy,” said the Colonel, kindly. “Do you know any one in Auckland?”
“No one, sir.”
“You had best make inquiries of the missionaries; they are the kindest fellows possible. If I can help you of course you will let me; won't you?—either Bernard in
Here was a difficulty: Jack did not wish to be questioned as to his object in visiting Auckland: he could not tell the Colonel what it was—he felt sure that he would disapprove of it; yet it seemed so ungracious to be reticent after all Colonel Bradshaw's kindness to him. It gave an awkwardness to his manner which could not but be observed. He was unusually silent that evening, for this little conversation had revived again in full force the old feeling. He tried to get away from his companions, that he might think; and with that intention he slung his sketching materials over his shoulder and wandered off into the forest as if going on a painting excursion.
Once more he thought over all the past—as he had been unable to think of late, through the rapid change of scene and varying interests through which they had been passing: his father's broken health and spirits and premature death, and his own loss of The Beeches; and he took from his breast the pocket-book which held Maitland's letters. Yes, they were condemnatory enough, and soon, very soon now, Jack Stanley would have in his power the ruin of his father's and his own enemy. He was close to Auckland. Maitland was to be found there. Jack slowly folded up the letters again, replaced them in the book, and the book whence he had taken it. He
That night, as Jack Stanley was sleeping, Hope Bernard walked to his bed-side and looked at him. Jack's hand was in his bosom, where he always kept the packet of letters. There seemed a struggle going on in the mind of Bernard, for twice he returned to his own bed and sat down upon the edge of it, and twice went back to the side of his friend. At length he said in a very low voice, as if speaking to himself,
“There can be nothing dishonourable in it in such a case as this: it must be justifiable.”
But at the moment that he was about to put his hand into the bosom of Jack's shirt, the latter started up in bed, fully awake, and exclaimed,
“Why, Hope, old fellow, what is it? What are you doing out of bed?”
“I have been out of bed some time,” replied Bernard, slowly. “I have not slept at all this night.”
“No wonder,” said Jack, “with such myriads of fleas. I have hardly slept myself.”
Bernard smiled at the good faith with which Jack made the assertion, the which he fully believed, when he remembered how peacefully Stanley had slept regardless of fleas until the instant before. However, he said nothing, but went and lay down upon his own bed. The cause of
On their arrival in the town of Auckland, Colonel Bradshaw put an end to one difficulty by saying at once,
“Now, I think, boys, we must go our own ways. I cannot, I am sorry to say, take you to my friend's house, for he is a great invalid, and cannot see anybody. I shall be every morning while here at the Reading Rooms, and there you will always find me. Let us first go and have a farewell dinner together at an hotel, and we will then talk over anything we care to talk about. Come on.”
They followed him, and the dinner was eaten, and then the Colonel warmly shook hands at parting, but with a promise soon to meet again.
“Now, Jack,” said Bernard, when they found themselves alone, “what are your intentions?”
“You know my intentions perfectly well,” answered Jack Stanley, with some temper; “and I am quite aware that you do not approve of them; but if you talked against them for half a century, it would make no difference in my views of my duty. I do not expect you to sympathize with me in the matter. Perhaps you do not
“Whatever you think of my want of sympathy or want of warmth,” replied Bernard, with gentleness, “at any rate there is no need for us to quarrel.”
“I did not mean to quarrel, Hope,” exclaimed Jack, starting up and catching Bernard by the hand; “but you provoke my ill temper by your coldness. Let us each go our own way, and do our own work. We need not be the worse friends because we differ on this one point.”
Bernard sighed deeply, but gave no answer, and shortly afterwards Jack Stanley took his hat and left the room.
His first course was, as at Wellington, to inquire at the shipping offices for Mr. Maitland; but, although the name was well known, he could get no satisfactory particulars. Mr. Maitland had not while in Auckland entered into any business. It was believed that he had left the shipping line. He was a man of large property. His private house was quite away from the wharves—indeed, in the fashionable quarter of Auckland.
“A leader of fashion, no doubt,” thought Jack, with an internal sneer; “rolling in wealth: somewhat a contrast to the dingy lodging in which my father spent his days.”
He hurried to the other part of the town, and came amongst handsome houses, showing even externally signs
Yes, he was there at last! upon the very door-step of his enemy. There was no mistake, for on the iron gate, which opened upon a garden, was a brass plate with the name “Mr. William Maitland.” Jack Stanley paused to breathe. As he did so, the sounds of music and laughter reached his ears, and he became aware that there was some festivity in progress. Moving a little to one side of the house, he could look through a slight flowery hedge over the grounds which lay at the back of the house. There was a sloping lawn and a flat croquet-ground, upon which was placed a large marquee, and where ladies in gay muslins and gentlemen were playing, and a little farther stood a small band, from which the music came, while some were dancing upon the grass to its melody. Jack Stanley looked until he grew savage. It was not a scene under usual circumstances to provoke a person's anger, for everything was pretty and in keeping; but to his wrought-up feelings this merrymaking seemed a fresh insult added to the injury sustained by his father.
I suppose that Jack Stanley's figure was perceived as he stood looking from the other side the hedge of flowers, for after a short time a man-servant approached him, and civilly asked if he was wishing to see any one.
You must understand that Jack was not now in his bush travelling dress: he had accommodated himself to
“I wish to see your master,” replied Jack, with an indignant air, as if the poor man who addressed him was also an enemy for being even remotely connected with Mr. Maitland.
“My master is very much engaged just at present, sir,” answered the man. “As you may have perceived, we have a large company this afternoon. Unless it is something very particular,” he added, presently—
“It is something very particular,” returned Jack, “and something which admits of no delay. Tell your master that Mr.—no, say that a gentleman desires to speak with him very urgently.”
The man stared, and no wonder, for there was an unusual and ill-suppressed excitement in Jack's face and manner; but he showed him into a waiting-room, and left him.
More signs of luxury. The furniture was costly; the shelves of the book-cases were filled with well-bound books; the walls were decorated with ornaments: everything was in painful contrast to the lodgings still so fresh in Jack's memory in all their shabbiness. At The Beeches his father and he possessed such luxuries as those he now looked upon. An old, dreamy recollection of the library at The Beeches came across his mind vividly for a moment; the next he glanced away from the books and the furniture, and looked out of the window. In a meadow,
It seemed as if every circumstance contrived to work his mind into a state of indignant wrath with the possessor of all this comfort, when the door opened, and a middle-aged gentleman entered the room. He would have held out his hand in the friendly fashion of the colonies, but Jack Stanley's hands were immovable, and his face forbidding in expression. However, the stranger inquired in a pleasant tone of voice,
“Do you wish to speak with me, sir?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” said Jack. “I have come all the way from England to find you. I have searched Wellington for you, and not finding you there, have come on to Auckland. I have that to speak about which will interest you more than you anticipate.”
“Indeed?” said the gentleman. “Will you not be seated?”
“I have come to tell you,” continued Jack, without noticing the interruption, “that I am ready to proclaim you, who think you stand so high in colonial estimation, a scoundrel and a swindler!”
“Sir, be careful what you say,” said the stranger, advancing a step or two, and flushing red.
“I say nothing but what I can substantiate. I have proofs with me which will show you in your real colours
“Young man,” said the other, “again I entreat you to be careful. You must be under some great mistake, or you must be a madman, to enter a house, and insult the master of it in this outrageous manner. Be good enough to leave personalities, and explain what you mean before I insist upon your retracting every word of it.”
He spoke with wonderful calmness, like a man who was in the habit of exercising self-control; but his bright eyes flashed, and the clenched hand he had laid upon the table trembled with the effort he made to keep his temper.
“The explanation is simple enough,” retorted Jack. “You will hardly pretend that I am under an error, or that I am a madman, when I tell you that I am the son of the man you once called your friend, and then ruined by your rascality. I am the son of John Stanley. Do you hear, William Maitland?”
At this last name the stranger started: then, after a short pause, he said,
“I see it now; you are under a mistake. I am not Mr. Maitland.”
Jack stared aghast.
“Whether you would have been justified in using such language as you have to Mr. Maitland, I cannot say. As the insults were not intended, I presume, for me—”
“Who are you then, sir?” gasped Jack.
“My name is Tudor,” answered the stranger: “perhaps the plate upon the entrance-gate led to your mistake. Mr. Maitland did live in this house until about a month ago: I ought to have had the plate removed, but have been too much occupied.”
“Sir,” said Jack, bowed down with shame and contrition all at once, “what can I say to you? How can I apologize sufficiently humbly for my insolence?”
“Never mind apologizing, my dear boy,” said the stranger, good-humouredly. “As it was not meant for me, it goes for nothing, though I cannot think what poor Maitland can have done to provoke your indignation to such a degree.”
“You do not know him, sir, at least, in his real character: he is a scoundrel.”
“He is a very eccentric fellow, at any rate,” said Mr. Tudor. “He left Auckland without a moment's warning, and went no one knows whither.”
“Escaped again!” said Jack.
“And a good thing for him,” returned Mr. Tudor, laughing, “if he is to be accosted in such a very impetuous way as you accosted me.”
“I hardly know what to say, sir, in my own excuse,” resumed Jack. “What must you have thought of me?”
“I thought you a very hot-headed, rash young man; but now come out into the garden with me, and take some refreshment. I have some friends with me this afternoon.”
“I know it, sir,” answered Jack; “and there again I ought to apologize for keeping you in this way. Excuse me now, I could not wait for anything further; only say that you will try to forget my insolent language to you.”
You see what a mixture of contradictions Jack Stanley was. No one could be more courteous than he, when in his proper senses.
Mr. Tudor held out his hand and shook that of his companion heartily; then, accompanying Jack to the hall door, he left him and rejoined his friends upon the lawn at the back of the house.
Jack Stanley felt very uncomfortable as he descended the steps of the house. He had the unpleasant consciousness of having made a fool of himself. As he thus thought, he caught sight of a figure just a little in advance of him. Could he believe his own eyesight? Was it Hope Bernard?
Jack Stanley Makes A Fool of Himself Once More.
It certainly was Hope Bernard, although Jack caught sight of him but for a few seconds, for Bernard appeared unwilling to be seen, and disappeared up the first turning.
Was it possible, Jack thought, that Bernard was watching him? What should bring him close to the house where he had been on what Jack felt his own peculiar interest? Why should Bernard have followed him secretly?
By the time Jack Stanley arrived at his hotel, he had worked himself up into being very angry with his friend; and, when he entered the inn and encountered Bernard, he at once burst upon him with—
“What were you doing at Mr. Tudor's house, where I have been?”
“I had business there as well as yourself,” answered Bernard.
“What business? to watch me? You could not have had business with a man you do not know. You did not even know who lived there.”
“Don't be rude, Jack, if you please,” said Bernard. “I have told you that I had business there, and it is a fact.”
“I will not be watched, or have my steps dogged by any one! Leave me to go my way, and you go your own! You said you came here to look for your father: look for him; but don't interfere with my pursuit!” said Jack, hotly.
“It must come out some day: as well now as any other time!” exclaimed Bernard, with as much passion as Jack.
Then he paused; and in that pause altered his determination, and said no more.
“What must come out some day? What do you mean?” asked Stanley.
“No matter. I was about to tell you something, but I will not. I see you are determined to quarrel with me, Jack: you will find an occasion before long; and it will be better that we should part. I have a duty in life which will make my actions antagonistic to yours; I will henceforth pursue it alone.”
He held out his hand towards his companion; but Jack pretended not to see it, and Bernard left the room.
For some minutes Jack Stanley sat nursing his wrath, thinking, like Jonah of old, that “he did well to be angry.” But after a short time his anger passed away, and the words that Bernard had used came back to his recollection: “I was about to tell you something. I see
From their first meeting there had been something almost approaching to mystery about Bernard. Jack went back in thought to their first meeting, and recalled the image of his half-conscious dying father being treated so tenderly by Bernard; and he started to his feet, exclaiming,
“What an ungrateful brute I am!”
Then all his old affection for Bernard returned. We know that Jack had never had friends in his youth; that his father had been the one love of his boyhood, until the moment that he met Bernard, when he learnt friendship for the first time: such friendships usually last for life.
Jack seized his hat the next moment, and flew to the hall. Upon inquiries, he found that his friend had left the hotel immediately upon parting with him, and for a few moments Jack hesitated what to do.
“He did not say where he was going, I suppose?” he asked.
“No, sir. Paid his bill, and walked out; that is all.”
“At any rate,” thought Jack, “Auckland is not so large but I shall probably run up against him before long.”
And with that intention he walked out upon his search; and in less than half an hour he saw Bernard at a little distance from him on the beach. He was seated, looking
“Forgive me, old fellow, for my rudeness, and do not let us quarrel. I am very sorry for what I said.”
“All right,” said Bernard, smiling. “What an odd fellow you are, Jack! but I cannot help liking you, somehow.” And then they dropped the subject, and talked of other things.
The harbour of Auckland is peculiarly beautiful, from the fact that the trees grow down to the very edge of the water, so that they reflect upon the sea. The water is remarkably calm and lovely, being, in fact, a bay, the entrance into which does not measure above three-quarters of a mile, after which it stretches out into a broad basin. After some time spent in contemplating the water, and watching the various craft, principally connected with the whale fisheries of the coast, Bernard said,
“Jack, I must tread upon dangerous ground again. It is impossible for us to be friends and yet, as you said, go our different ways. You are aware that my great anxiety is to meet with my father: I shall, as Colonel Bradshaw advised us, call at the missionary station, and try to learn something about him.”
“He is not in Auckland, then?” said Jack.
“I should scarcely be sitting here if he were,” answered Bernard.
“I will go with you to the station; I might hear something of Maitland,” said Jack.
“I would rather you did not,” replied Bernard, colouring. “Please make your inquiries irrespective of me.”
Jack was ready to flare up again; but remembering their very recent disagreement, he restrained himself, and relieved his feelings by pelting the water savagely with stones.
“Very well,” said he, presently; “have your interview first, and I will call at the station afterwards. There is something almost comic in the way we run our heads against each other in our separate searches.”
In the evening Bernard rejoined him, and Jack greeted him with—
“Well, have you learnt anything?”
“Yes,” said Bernard, “I think I have a clue. I shall follow it.”
“Where is he supposed to be?”
“Up the country, in the interior,” answered Bernard; “it will not, probably, take me more than a few days; I can return to you here.”
“Then you think I am going to stop here until you come back, do you? Nothing of the sort: I shall act Ruth to your Naomi, my good sir—unless, of course, I have reasons for going in another direction,” added Jack, more gravely.
Bernard made no answer, and Jack thought he looked vexed.
“What is the matter?” resumed he. “May not I go with you?”
“If you wish it, of course,” answered Bernard; “but you might amuse yourself much better here.”
“However, I may hear something to-morrow which may send me in quite an opposite direction,” said jack.
Next morning Jack called at the missionary station, and saw a gentleman who treated him very courteously, but apparently could give him no information, though, as Jack repeated to his friend when he was once more with him, “There never was such a fellow for not compromising himself: he would not give me a decided answer, although I asked him again and again if he could not guess in which direction Mr. Maitland is gone. I cannot help thinking that he knows something about him, notwithstanding: there was a very demure look about him.”
“He is a very good fellow,” exclaimed Bernard, warmly.
“Oh, I have no doubt,” returned Jack; “a first-rate fellow in your estimation, as you got more out of him than I did. Hope, I don't know what to do. I have half a mind I will remain in Auckland until I learn something. I must find him.”
“I wish I could persuade you to abandon the search,” said Bernard. “Yes, perhaps you had better remain here.”
“In order to make inquiries tending towards my abandoning the search, eh, Master Hope?”
“No, I did not mean that,” said Bernard, confusedly; “only, if you are bent upon it—”
“I am bent upon it. And now may I ask whereabouts
“Oh, no: I shall hire a couple of men.”
“What is the name of the place you are going to?” asked Jack.
“Waikato.”
“I never heard the name before, but it is very like Waipata, the son of Taonui, the dear old Colonel told us about. Let us go in search of him at the club this evening. I must let him know that I am going to stay for a while in Auckland.”
Bernard's spirits seemed to have risen to an unusual height. He rivalled Jack himself in his talking and laughing, and was more demonstratively affectionate to his companion than Jack had ever known him.
At the club they found the colonel, who kindly congratulated Bernard upon his success, and advised him as to the best means of reaching the banks of the Waikato.
“The Maoris about there,” he said, “are of a poorer class than those amongst whom we have been hitherto. You must be prepared at times to live on short commons. Let me advise you to lay in a good stock of tobacco before leaving Auckland, for in some parts it is more valued than money. Also take your gun: you will find plenty of use for it; and take a very stout walking-stick. When do you start?”
“To-morrow, sir.”
“Then leave this young scapegrace in my care,” said
“Thank you, sir,” said Jack, impudently; “that will involve more than you anticipate, for I have to keep Marāra in order; and the first thing I am going to do with him,” he added presently, “is to clothe him in clean clothing.”
“A complete fashionable suit?” said Bernard.
“I should say a suit of livery. What are your colours, Jack? I hope something which will be becoming to Marāra's complexion,” said Colonel Bradshaw.
“I think he would look well in buttons,” said Bernard. “I wish I was not going to-morrow: I should enjoy rigging him out.”
“I shall not countenance any such vanity,” Jack answered. “Marāra shall have a bran-new flax mat, and nothing besides. I will try to keep him an unsophisticated savage as long as I can; and I shall insist upon the old mat being made a bonfire of. Only fancy how it will burn and fizzle! I should think Marāra, with his Maori nose, will enjoy the smell of it.”
Jack Stanley was up early on the following morning, to see, as he supposed, the last of his friend Bernard for some time. The Colonel also came to wish Bernard good bye; and the three walked together for some distance beyond the town; then, wishing Bernard farewell and God speed, the Colonel and Jack turned, and left him to pursue his way by himself, accompanied only by his guides.
The Colonel had an engagement with his friend for the afternoon; and Jack sauntered about, or sat by the sea upon the beach, by himself. Many things in Hope Bernard's conduct and manner of late had surprised him, and his incoherent behaviour was more surprising than ever. Why had Bernard been separated from his father all these years, apparently knowing so little of him? and why did his father seem always to fly before him, just as Maitland escaped from Jack?
“Bernard would say, perhaps, that Maitland is kept beyond my reach to prevent me from carrying out my retributive justice,” mentally said Jack; “but the argument cannot apply to him. Surely it must be a righteous thing to look for one's own father, whether my course of conduct is right or wrong. I wonder what sort of a man this father of his is? If he is anything like Hope he must be a good fellow, excepting for his seeming to care so little for his son.”
Jack Starts off After Bernard.
So Bernard started in company with two Maori attendants, and Jack Stanley was left in charge of Colonel Bradshaw.
It was on the same evening of the day upon which Bernard had said good bye to them that the Colonel observed,
“Well, Master Jack, how did the ‘business’ get on which brought you to Auckland?”
This was said at the club, where several other gentlemen, acquaintances of Colonel Bradshaw, were present.
“Not at all well, sir,” Jack answered. “I came here in the hope of meeting a man who, I was told, was in the place, and found that he had left Auckland before my arrival. It was just the same when I arrived in Wellington: he had been gone for six months.”
“Here is a gentleman who is as good as a directory in New Zealand,” said Colonel Bradshaw, indicating an elderly grey-headed man who sat a little distance off from them.
“I think,” continued the Colonel, addressing the stranger to whom he had drawn Jack's attention, “I think you know pretty well all the movements of Auckland society?”
The stranger smiled quietly, and said, “I believe so, as far as they can be known.”
“What is your friend's name?” asked the Colonel.
“Thank you,” said Jack, quickly, “he is no friend of mine; his name is Maitland.”
“What is he?” asked the grey-haired stranger: “there have been several Maitlands here; it is not an uncommon name.”
“In Wellington he was a shipowner,” said Jack.
“And so he was here, if you mean William Maitland who came six or eight months ago from Wellington—a man about five and forty; very handsome man.”
“I know nothing about his looks, and care less,” replied Jack. “Do you happen to know anything about where he is gone?”
“He threw up his business in a very eccentric manner, and made off early one morning, taking very little with him. He has a large amount of money banked in the town, and has never drawn any since he left.”
“But do you know, sir, where he is gone?” asked Jack again, eagerly.
“We have a very strong suspicion,” answered the other; “but do not alarm yourself, my young friend: he is not about any harm. The last time I heard of him, from
“The Waikato! why, that is where Bernard is gone today!” exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet and looking at the Colonel.
“That is rather strange,” answered Colonel Bradshaw, “It is a pity you did not go with him.”
“I will follow him at once.”
“Not to-night, certainly, Jack: to-morrow will do.”
To-morrow seemed a long way off to the impetuous young man, but he had to submit; and, after thanking the grey-haired gentleman for his information, he and Colonel Bradshaw left the club.
“Who is that? who is that old gentleman?” asked Jack as soon as they were in the street.
“He is the head of the police in Auckland,” answered the Colonel.