*CHAPTER III.*
*A RIDE THROUGH THE BUSH.*
The fire by the white pines had died away, but a cloud of smoke rosefrom the midst of the trees and obscured the view. A faint rumblingsound and the dull thud of horses' feet reached Edwin from time to timeas he ran back to the ford.
A lantern was swinging in the acacia tree. The white gate was flungopen, and Dunter, with his hand to his ear, stood listening to thefar-off echo.
A splash of oars among the rushes, and the shock of a boat against thestairs, recalled him to the house. Edwin ran joyfully down the steps,and gave a hand to Mr. Bowen.
"We are not all here now," the old gentleman said. "Your father stuckby the coach, and he would have his daughters with him, afraid of anopen boat on a night like this."
Then Edwin felt a hand in the dark, which he knew was Cuthbert's; andheard Mr. Hirpington's cheery voice exclaiming, "Which is homefirst--boat or coach?"
"Hard to say," answered Dunter, as the coach drove down the road at arapid pace, followed by a party of roadmen with pickaxe on shoulder,coming on with hasty strides and a resolute air about them, very unusualin men returning from a hard day's labour.
The coach drew up, and Mr. Lee was the first to alight. He lookedsharply round, evidently counting heads.
"All here, all right," answered Mr. Hirpington. "Safe, safe at home, asI hope you will all feel it," he added, in his heartiest tones.
There was no exact reply. His men gathered round him, exclaiming, "Weheard the war-cry from the Rota Pah. There's mischief in the windto-night. So we turned our steps the other way and waited for the coach,and all came on together."
"It is a row among the Maoris themselves," put in Dunter, "as that ladcan tell you."
The man looked sceptical. A new chum, as fresh arrivals from the mothercountry are always termed, and a youngster to boot, what could he know?
Mr. Hirpington stepped out from the midst of the group and laid his handon Mr. Lee's shoulder, who was bending down to ask Edwin what all thismeant, and drew him aside.
"I trust, old friend," he said, "I have not blundered on your behalf,but all the heavy luggage you sent on by packet arrived last week, andI, not knowing how to take care of it, telegraphed to headquarters forpermission to put it in the old school-house until you could build yourown. I thought to do you a service; but if our dusky neighbours havetaken offence, that is the cause, I fear."
Mr. Lee made a sign to his children to go in-doors. Edwin led hissisters up the terrace-steps, and came back to his father. The coachwas drawn inside the gate, and the bar was replaced. The driver wasattending to his horses; but all the others were holding earnest councilunder the acacia tree, where the lantern was still swinging.
"But I do not understand about this old schoolhouse," Mr. Lee wassaying; "where is it?"
"Over the river," answered several voices. "The government built it forthe Maoris before the last disturbance, when the Hau-Hau [pronounced_How How_] tribe turned against us, and went back to their oldsuperstitions, and banded together to sell us no more land. It was thenthe school was shut up, but the house was left; and now we are growingfriendly again," added Mr. Hirpington, "I thought all was right."
"So it is," interposed Mr. Bowen, confidently. "My sheep-run comes upvery near to the King country, as they like to call their district, andI want no better neighbours than the Maoris."
Then Edwin spoke out. "Father, I can tell you something about it. Dolisten."
They did listen, one and all, with troubled, anxious faces. "Thistana," they said, "may not disperse without doing more mischief. Carryon their work of confiscation at the old school-house, perhaps."
"No, no; no fear of that," argued Mr. Bowen and the coachman, who knewthe Maoris best.
"I'll run no risk of losing all my ploughs and spades," persisted Mr.Lee. "How far off is the place?"
"Not five miles across country," returned his friend. "I have left it inthe care of a gang of rabbiters, who have set up their tents justoutside the garden wall--safe enough, as it seemed, when I left."
"Lend me a horse and a guide," said Mr. Lee, "and I'll push onto-night."
The children, of course, were to be left at the ford; but Edwin wantedto go with his father. Dunter and another man were getting ready toaccompany him.
"Father," whispered Edwin, "there is the black horse; you can take him.Come and have a look at him."
He raised the heavy wooden latch of the stable-door, and glanced roundfor Whero. There was the hole in the straw where he had been sleeping,but the boy was gone.
"He must have stolen out as we drove in," remarked the coachman, who wasfilling the manger with corn for his horses.
The man had far more sympathy with Nga-Hepe in his trouble than any ofthe others. He leaned against the side of the manger, talking to Edwinabout him. When Mr. Lee looked in he stooped down to examine the horse,feeling its legs, and the height of its shoulder. On such a congenialsubject the coachman could not help giving an opinion. Edwin heard, withconsiderable satisfaction, that the horse was a beauty.
"But I do not like this business at all, and if I had had any idea Mr.Hirpington's messenger was a native, you should never have gone withhim, Edwin," Mr. Lee began, in a very decided tone. "However," headded, "I'll buy this horse, I don't mind doing that; but as to takingpresents from the natives, it is out of the question. I will not beginit."
"But, father," put in Edwin, "there is nobody here to buy the horse of;there is nobody to take the money."
"I'll take the money for Nga-Hepe," said the coachman. "I will makethat all right. You saw how it was as we came along. The farmers andthe natives are on the watch for my coming, and they load me with allsorts of commissions. You would laugh at the things these Maoris get meto bring them from the towns I pass through. I don't mind the bother ofit, because they will take no end of trouble in return, and help me atevery pinch. I ought to carry Nga-Hepe ten pounds."
Mr. Lee thought that cheap for so good a horse, and turned to the halflight at the open door to count out the money.
"But I shall not take him away with me to-night. I will not be seenriding a Maori's horse if Hirpington can lend me another," persisted Mr.Lee.
Then Mr. Bowen limped up to the stable-door, and Edwin slipped out,looking for Whero behind the farm buildings and round by the back of thehouse. But the Maori boy was nowhere to be seen. The coachman wasright after all. Mr. Hirpington went indoors and called to Edwin tojoin him. He had the satisfaction of making the boy go over the groundagain. But there was nothing more to tell, and Edwin was dismissed tohis supper with an exhortation to be careful, like a good brother, notto frighten his sisters.
He crossed over and leaned against the back of Audrey's chair, simplyobserving, "Father is going on to-night."
"Well?" she returned eagerly.
"It won't be either well or fountain here," he retorted, "but a boilinggeyser. I've seen one in the distance already."
"Isn't he doing it nicely?" whispered Effie, nodding. "They told him toturn a dark lantern on us. We heard--Audrey and I."
"Oh yes," smiled her sister; "every word can be heard in these NewZealand houses, and no one ever seems to remember that. I give you fairwarning."
"It is a rare field for the little long-eared pitchers people are sofond of talking about--present representatives, self and Cuthbert. Weof course must expect to fill our curiosity a drop at a time; but youmust have been snapped up in a crab-shell if you mean to keep Audrey inthe dark," retorted Effie.
"Cuthbert! Cuthbert!" called Edwin, "here is a buzzing bee about tosting me. Come and catch it, if you can."
Cuthbert ran round and began to tickle his sister in spite of Audrey'shorrified "My dear!"
The other men came in, and a look from Mr. Lee recalled the young onesto order. But the grave faces, the low words so briefly interchangedamong them, the business-like air with which the supper was go
t through,in the shortest possible time, kept Audrey in a flutter of alarm, whichshe did her best to conceal. But Mr. Bowen detected the nervous tremorin her hand as she passed his cup of coffee, and tried to reassure herwith the welcome intelligence that he had just discovered they weregoing to be neighbours. What were five-and-twenty miles in thecolonies?
"A very long way off," thought the despondent Audrey.
At a sign from Mr. Lee, Mrs. Hirpington conducted the girls to one ofthe tiny bedrooms which ran along the back of the house, where the"coach habitually slept." As the door closed behind her motherlygood-night, Effie seized upon her sister, exclaiming,--
"What are we in for now?"
"Sleep and silence," returned Audrey; "for we might as well disclose oursecret feelings in the market-place as within these iron walls."
"I always thought you were cousin-german to the discreet princess; butif you reduce us to dummies, you will make us into eaves-droppers aswell, and we used to think that was something baddish," retorted Effie.
"You need not let it trouble your conscience to-night, for we cannothelp hearing as long as we are awake; therefore I vote for sleep,"replied her sister.
But sleep was effectually banished, for every sound on the other side ofthe thin sheet of corrugated iron which divided them from theirneighbours seemed increased by its resonance.
They knew when Mr. Lee drove off. They knew that a party of men werekeeping watch all night by the kitchen fire. But when the wind rose,and a cold, pelting rain swept across the river, and thundered on themetal roof with a noise which could only be out-rivalled by the ironhail of a bombardment, every other sound was drowned, and they did nothear what the coachman was saying to Edwin as they parted for the night.So it was possible even in that house of corrugated iron not always tolet the left hand know what the right was doing. Only a few wordspassed between them.
"You are a kind-hearted lad. Will you come across to the stables andhelp me in the morning? I must be up before the dawn."
There was an earnestness in the coachman's request which Edwin could notrefuse.
With the first faint peep of gray, before the morning stars had faded,the coachman was at Edwin's door. The boy answered the low-breathedsummons without waking his little brother, and the two were soonstanding on the terraced path outside the house in the fresh, clear,bracing air of a New Zealand morning, to which a touch of frost had beensuperadded. They saw it sparkling on the leaves of the statelyheliotropes, which shaded the path and waved their clustering flowersabove the coachman's head as they swayed in the rising breeze. Heopened the gate in the hedge of scarlet geraniums, which divided thegarden from the stable-yard, and went out with Edwin, carrying the sweetperfume of the heliotropes with them. Even the horses were all asleep.
"Yes, it is early," remarked Edwin's companion. "The coach does notstart until six. I have got old time by the forelock, and I've a mindto go over to the Rota Pah, if you can show me the way."
"I think I can find it," returned Edwin, with a confidence that was yeton the lee side of certainty.
"Ay, then we'll take the black horse. If we give him the rein, he willlead us to his old master's door. It is easy work getting lost in thebush, but I never yet turned my back on a chum in trouble. Once a chumalways a chum with us. Many's the time Nga-Hepe's stood my friend amongthese wild hills, and I want to see him after last night's roughhandling. That is levelling down with a vengeance."
The coachman paused, well aware his companions would blame him forinterfering in such a business, and very probably his employers also, ifit ever reached their ears. So he led the horse out quietly, andsaddled him on the road. The ground was white with frost. The moon andstars were gradually paling and fading slowly out of sight. The forestwas still enwrapped in stately gloom, but the distant hills were alreadycatching the first faint tinge of rosy light.
Edwin got up behind the coachman, as he had behind Nga-Hepe. They gavethe horse its head, and rode briskly on, trusting to its sagacity toguide them safely across the bush with all its dangers--dangers such asEdwin never even imagined. But the coachman knew that one unwary stepmight mean death to all three. For the great white leaves of the deadlypuka-puka shone here and there, conspicuous in the general blue-greenhue of the varying foliage; a poison quickly fatal to the horse, but apoison which he loves. The difficulty of getting out of the thicket,where it was growing so freely, without suffering the horse to crop asingle leaf kept them from talking.
"If I had known that beastly white-leaved thing was growing here, Iwould not have dared to have brought him, unless I had tied up his headin a net," grumbled the coachman, making another desperate effort toleave the puka-puka behind by changing his course. They struggled outof the thicket, only to get themselves tied up in a detestablesupple-jack--a creeper possessing the power to cling which we faintlyperceive in scratch-grass, but in the supple-jack this power isintensified and multiplied until it ties together everything which comeswithin its reach, making it the traveller's plague and another terriblefoe to a horse, a riderless horse especially, who soon gets so tied upand fettered that he cannot extricate himself, and dies. By mutual helpthey broke away from the supple-jack, and stumbled upon a mud-hole. Buthere the good horse started back of his own accord, and saved them allfrom a morning header in its awful depths. For the mud was seething,hissing, boiling like some witch's caldron--a horrid, bluish mud,leaving a yellow crust round the edge of the hole, and sending up asulphurous smell, which set Edwin coughing. The coachman alighted, andled the horse cautiously away. Then he turned back to break off a pieceof the yellow crust and examine it.
Edwin remembered his last night's ride with the Maori, how he shotfearlessly forward, avoiding all these insidious dangers as if byinstinct, "So that I did not even know they existed," exclaimed the boy,with renewed admiration for the fallen chief.
"'The rank puts on the guinea stamp, But the man's the gold for a' that,'"
he cried, with growing enthusiasm.
"Gold or stamp," retorted the coachman; "well, I can't lay claim toeither. I'm a blockhead, and yet not altogether one of nature's making,for I could have done better. When I was your age, lad, who would havethought of seeing me, Dilworth Ottley, driving a four-in-hand over sucha breakneck path as we crossed yesterday? Yet I've done it, until Ithought all sense of danger was deadened and gone. But that horrid holebrings back the shudder."
"What is it?" asked Edwin.
"One of the many vents through which the volcanic matter escapes. In myCantab days--you stare; but I was a Cantab, and got ploughed, andrusticated--I was crack whip among the freshmen. The horses lost me the'exam;' and I went on losing, until it seemed that all was gone. Then Ipicked up my whip once more; and here you find me driving thecross-country mail for so much a week. But it makes a fellow feel whenhe sees another down in his luck like this Maori, so that one cannotturn away with an easy conscience when it is in one's power to help him,or I'd go back this very moment."
"No, don't," said Edwin earnestly; "we are almost there."
The exceeding stillness of the dawn was broken by the wailing cry of thewomen. The horse pricked up his ears, and cantered forward through thebasket willows and acacias which bordered the sleeping lake. Along itsmargin in every little creek and curve canoes were moored, but from thetiny bay-like indentation by the lonely whare the canoe had vanished.
The sudden jets of steam uprising in the very midst of the Maori pahlooked weird and ghostlike in the gray of the dawn. Only one wild-catcrept stealthily across their path. Far in the background rose the dimoutline of the sacred hills where the Maori chiefs lie buried.
Edwin looked upward to their cloud-capped summits awestruck, as the wildtraditionary tales he had heard from Hepe's lips only last night rushedback upon his recollection.
There before him was the place of graves; but where was the still moresacred Te Tara, the mysterious lake of beauty, with its terraced banks,where fairy-like arcades of exquisit
e tracery rise tier above tier,shading baths fed by a stream of liquid sun in which it is happiness tobathe?
Edwin had listened to the Maori's description as if it had been a pagefrom some fairy tale; but Ottley, in his matter-of-fact way, confirmedit all.
"This Maori's paradise," he said, "may well be called thelast-discovered wonder of the world. I bring a lot of fellows up hereto see it every year; that is what old Bowen is after now. 'A thing ofbeauty is a joy for ever.' This magic geyser has built a bathing-houseof fair white coral and enamel lace, with basins of shell and fringes ofpearl. What is it like? there is nothing it is like but a Staffa, withits stalactites in the daylight and the sunshine. If Nature forms thebaths, she fills them, too, with boiling water, which she cools to suitevery fancy as she pours it in pearly cascades from terrace to terrace,except in a north-east wind, which dries them up. All these Maoris carefor is to spend their days like the ducks, swimming in these pools ofdelight. It is a jealously-guarded treasure. But they are wide awake.The pay of the sightseer fills their pockets without working, and theyall disdain work."
They were talking so earnestly they did not perceive a patch of hot,crumbling ground until the horse's fore feet went down to the fetlocksas if it were a quicksand, shooting Ottley and Edwin over his head amongthe reeds by the lake. Ottley picked himself up in no time, and flew toextricate the horse, warning Edwin off.
"Whatever you may say of the lake, there are a lot of ugly placesoutside it," grumbled Edwin, provoked at being told to keep his distancewhen he really felt alight with curiosity and wonder as to what strangething would happen next. Having got eyes, as he said, he was notcontent to gape and stare; he wanted to investigate a bit.
Once more the wail of the women was borne across the lake, rising to afearsome howl, and then it suddenly ceased. The two pressed forward,and tying the horse to a tree, hastened to intercept the agonized wifeventuring homewards with the peep of light, only to discover howthoroughly the tana had done its work.
But the poor women fled shrieking into the bush once more when theyperceived the figure of a man advancing toward them.
"A friend! a friend!" shouted Ottley, hoping that the sound of anEnglishman's voice would reassure them.
There was a crashing in the bushes, and something leaped out of the wildtangle.
"It is Whero!" exclaimed Edwin, running to meet him. They grasped handsin a very hearty fashion, as Edwin whispered almost breathlessly, "Howhave they left your father?"
"You have come to tangi with us!" cried Whero, in gratified surprise;and to show his warm appreciation of the unexpected sympathy, he gravelyrubbed his nose against Edwin's.
"Oh, don't," interposed the English boy, feeling strangely foolish.
Ottley laughed, as he saw him wipe his face with considerable energy torecover from his embarrassment.
"Oh, bother!" he exclaimed. "I shall be up to it soon, but I did notknow what you meant by it. Never mind."
"Let us have a look round," said the coachman, turning to Whero, "beforeyour mother gets here."
"I have been watching in the long grass all night," sobbed the boy; "andwhen the tramp of the last footsteps died away, I crept out and gropedmy way in the darkness. I got to the door, and called to my father, butthere was no answer. Then I turned again to the bush to find my mother,until I heard our own horse neigh, and I thought he had followed me."
Ottley soothed the poor boy as best he could as they surveyed the sceneof desolation. The fences were all pulled up and flung into the lake,and the gates thrown down. The garden had been thoroughly ploughed, andevery shrub and tree uprooted. The patch of cultivated ground at theback of the whare had shared the same fate.
It was so late in the autumn Ottley hoped the harvest had been gatheredin. It mattered little. The empty storehouse echoed to theirfootsteps. All, all was gone. They could not tell whether the greatdrove of pigs had been scared away into the bush or driven off to thepah. Whero was leading the way to the door of the principal whare,where he had last seen his father. In the path lay a huge, flat stonesmashed to pieces. The hard, cold, sullen manner which Whero hadassumed gave way at the sight, and he sobbed aloud.
Edwin was close behind them; he took up a splinter from the stone andthrew it into the circle of bubbling mud from which it had been hurled.Down it went with a splash--down, down; but he never heard it reach thebottom.
"Did that make anything rise?" asked Ottley anxiously, as he looked intothe awful hole with a shudder.
"They could not fill this up," retorted Whero exultantly. "Throw inwhat you will, it swallows it all."
To him the hot stone made by covering the dangerous jet was theembodiment of all home comfort. It was sacred in his eyes--a fire whichhad been lighted for the race of Hepe by the powers of heaven and earth;a fire which nothing could extinguish. He pitied the Ingarangi boy byhis side, who had never known so priceless a possession.
"Watch it," said Ottley earnestly. "If anything has been thrown in, itwill rise to the surface after a while incrusted with sulphur; butnow--" He pushed before the boys and entered the whare.
There lay Nga-Hepe, a senseless heap, covered with blood and bruises. Astream of light from the open door fell full on the prostrate warrior.The rest of the whare was in shadow.
Whero sprang forward, and kneeling down beside his father, patted himfondly on his cheek and arm, as he renewed his sobbing.
After the tana had feasted to their heart's content. after they hadcarried off everything movable, Nga-Hepe had been called upon to defendhimself against their clubs. Careful to regulate their ruthlessproceedings by ancient custom, his assailants came upon him one at atime, until his powerful arm had measured its strength with more thanhalf the invading band. At last he fell, exhausted and bereft ofeverything but the greenstone club his unconscious hand was graspingstill.
"He is not dead," said Ottley, leaning over him; "his chest is heaving."
An exclamation of thankfulness burst from Edwin's lips.
Ottley was looking about in vain for something to hold a little water,for he knew that the day was breaking, and his time was nearly gone.All that he could do must be done quickly. He was leaving the whare topursue his quest without, when he perceived the unfortunate womenstealing through the shadows. He beckoned the gray-haired Maori, who hadwaited on Marileha from her birth, to join him. A few brief words andmany significant gestures were exchanged before old Ronga comprehendedthat the life yet lingered in the fallen chief. She caught her mistressby the arm and whispered in her native tongue.
The death-wail died away. Marileha gazed into the much-loved face inbreathless silence. A murmur of joy broke from her quivering lips, andshe looked to Whero.
He went out noiselessly, and Edwin followed. A hissing column of steamwas still rising unchecked from a rough cleft in the ground, renderedbare and barren by the scalding spray with which it was continuallywatered. Old Ronga was already at work, making a little gutter in thesoft mud with her hands, to carry the refreshing stream to the bed of adried-up pond. Edwin watched it slowly filling as she dug on insilence.
"The bath is ready," she exclaimed at last. The word was passed on toher companions, who had laid down the sleepy children they had justbrought home in a corner of the great whare, still huddled together inMrs. Hirpington's blanket. With Ottley's assistance they carried outthe all but lifeless body of Nga-Hepe, and laid him gently in therefreshing pool, with all a Maori's faith in its restorative powers.
Marileha knelt upon the brink, and washed the blood-stains from hisface. The large dark eyes opened, and gazed dreamily into her own. Herheart revived. What to her were loss and danger if her warrior's lifewas spared? She glanced at Ottley and said, "Whilst the healing springstill flows by his father's door there is no despair for me. Here hewill bathe for hours, and strength and manhood will come back. Whilsthe lies here helpless he is safe. Could he rise up it would only be tofight again. Go, good friend, and leave me. It would set the
jealousfury of his tribe on fire if they found you here. Take away my Whero.My loneliness will be my defence. What Maori would hurt a weeping womanwith her hungry babes? There are kind hearts in the pah; they will notleave me to starve."
She held out her wet hand as she spoke. Ottley saw she was afraid toreceive the help he was so anxious to give. Whilst they were speaking,Edwin went to find Whero.
He had heard the black horse neigh, and was looking round for hisfavourite. "They will seize him!" he muttered between his set teeth."Why will you bring him here?"
"Come along with us," answered Edwin quickly, "and we will go back asfast as we can."
But the friendly ruse did not succeed.
"I'll guide you to the road, but not a step beyond it. Shall men say Ifled in terror from the sound of clubs--a son of Hepe?" exclaimed Whero."Should I listen to the women's fears?"
"All very fine," retorted Edwin. "If I had a mother, Whero, I'd listento what she said, and I'd do as she asked me, if all the world laughed.They might call me a coward and a jackass as often as they liked, whatwould I care? Shouldn't I know in my heart I had done right?"
"Have not you a mother?" said Whero.
Edwin's "No" was scarcely audible, but it touched the Maori boy. Heburied his face on the horse's shoulder, then suddenly lifting it upwith a defiant toss, he asked, "Would you be faithless and desert her ifshe prayed you to do it?"
This was a home-thrust; but Edwin was not to be driven from hisposition.
"Well," he retorted, "even then I should say to myself, 'Perhaps sheknows best.'"
He had made an impression, and he had the good sense not to prolong theargument.