LADY OF THE CAVE. A NEW ZEALAND, COAST TALE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIX, Issue 18019, 18 February 1922, Page 3 (Supplement)

LADY OF THE CAVE. A NEW ZEALAND, COAST TALE.

BY E'S (COPYRIGHT.) CHAPTER XXll—(Continued.) A WM of nativo voices greeted him, but 50 shots were fired. He -spoke to the Maoris in their own language. They answered him in excited shouts, but soon the noise quietened down, and a long discussion took place. '•What are they talking about? " I impatiently shouted through tho closed way"They say," said little Rau, the Maori boy, *ho waa at m - v c ' oow . " that they want the stranger white man to be sent but to them, or they will kill us all and burn up tho house —"

Tbe crack of a shot interrupted the boy's explanation. The door waa splintered, and jny brothor-in-law darted back into tho

" Just in time, old man!" I shouted. "This is my business! If they want a faste of white-man's lead, they'll get it! Let me <jut!'' and I bounded forward.

But George slammed the door, ar d stood before •t» " Remember your oath!" Lo cried, through the darkness. 'The Maoris are out to kill, and there aro hundreds of them! Anyway, yem swore th.u yr.u wouldn't leavo the house."

Anothe- couple of shots rang out, and We heard the bullets strike tho walls. 'But this is different!" I cried.

"You have sworn! Enough of that,! But, Tom, you must do something for me!" he added in a changed tone. " Xame it! Good God, man! I'll do anything, —shoot myself—" "No Tom! But, when we come to the last., you must not let Alice—my wife— your sister—be taken alive! You understand! You know whyl" I reeled from him, but the firing commenced again, and we heard the rending of the W'jhvherboards as the bullets began to n;i through them. In a few moments wo were both right at it, hot and strong. The door wai burst open, but. the black devils had not yet worked up fury enough to kill George, for they did not shoot him, as they could easily have done. I saw him in the fall, dimly outlined against the evening sky, which was visible through the open door. I saw him fiorcely striking round him with his sabre. He turned to se 6 if I was beside him' "Tom! Now!" he shouted, and I immediately ran to the baby girl's bedroom. I hastily struck a match. Alice was kneeling beside the cot, but it was empty! The child was gone. I called to the distracted mother, but sho did not hear me. Her hands were clasped, and her face was timed upwards toward her Maker as she prayed. She looked like some beauteous angel, carved from pure white marble— the sounds of the fighting in the hall came closer; I trembled as in a fever, but knew my hideous duty: I forced myself under control, and with a close and quick &hot, sent my fair sister to her God! So ended the lives of the happiest and toost blest couple on this earth, the lives of George Trite and his good wife, Alice." i I crushed the papers in a nervous grasp. The ladies turned ashy pale, realising that Dirk had at last learnt the details concerning the death of his only brother. Thai a massacre had taken place was all he had known, and now this news, received in such a roundabout and dramatic laahion, fairly unhinged his nerves for a moment or two, although he had received a warning of the truth from the previous mention of his sister-in-law's name in the manuscript. "It's all right!" he presently said, sitting down acain, for he had unwittingly risen from his chair. Ho buried his head in his Lands. "Just a bit of a shock, that's all! Go on with tho document!— Poor old George, a sportsman to the last! But never mind me, go on with the reading, and I won't interrupt you again!" To our surprise, the Lady of the Gave, without saying a word, quietly moved i'rom her chair, and, placing a footstool close to Dick, seated herself beside him. She moved closer yet, and entwined his arm within hers, and rested her fair head on his knees. The action was so natural, to dignified, and so wholly feminine and charming, that I had to rustle the papers to bide my emotion. Dick slowly stooped, and kisued the pure white forehead, and held her hand in his.

I cleared iny throat, and continued:— I must be much briefer, for the threats of the prowling natives are becoming more ominous. ...» Of course I fought dcsparately. I tried to get to George, who was down, but I was seized from the back, and speedDy found myself securely bound. I was carried some distance, and flung on the floor of this whare, where I am now. As they carried me, I heard the crackling of fire and the falling of timbers, which told me all too plainly the sad fate of the lonny Trite homestead. I was kept a close prisoner, but a few days after the massacre, welcome sounds of "musket shots and of military commands told me that news of the raid had travelled to civilisation, and that the vengeance of the white man was taking its tolL However, I was gagged and closely

watched. .... I have been kept here for about ten days, without food. They give me a little • water. I insult them all I can, to exasperate them into killing me outright, for thev delight in telling me by signs of all the" forms of torture in store for me I just now succeeded in spitting in a chieftain's face. They are furious. .... I must finish this at once.

About a week ago, under cover of darkness, Rau the Maori boy wriggled his way into my whare, and told mo that tho little girl was safe, securely hidden in <t cave a long wav up the coast. He showed me George Trite's signet ring, with his coat-of-arms embossed, and told rac that he would tattoo the crest and motto on the baby's arm. Rau is a brave boy though beetle-browed and morose. Yesterday, on purpose to annoy me, my captors showed me by signs bow they had caught Ran, and tried to force from him the whereabouts of the pakeha child's hiding-place. They tortured him . . .cut out, his tongue ... But he would not guide t harft .... they poured bailing lead into his cara . and finally wreaked a worse revenue, mutilated him. Thev kept him prisoner, so that the white child might die from hunger and neglect, but ho finally escaped h ? slipping into the creek like an eel, and disappeared. . . . Thev told me. . . . But I must hurrv. for they are creeping . closer. The chief's promise, 1 fear, will not be kept, for it is fully an hour yet >»v fore dawn. He speaks a little English and told me that, ray tortures will not i begin till davhghl, and that they will last till set of sun. They do not know • hat, Rau has given mo a loaded pisto and a hunting" knife. By heavens, 111 use them! . . . and keep the last shot for myself! I have called for tho chief, who is coming. . . . While I can, I will draw up MY WILL. I, Thomas Trelawney, of Buminwallah, Queensland, declare this to be my last will aud testament. I give and bequeath to my sister's child. Beryl Trite, one-half of my moneys st fixed deposit in the Bank of Brisbane, amounting to about £17,000. I also give and bequeath to the first near relative of George Trite who may lay claim to it one-half oi my moneys at fixed deposit in the Bank of Brisbane. And these bequesla I offer as my only means of recompense for the calamities 1 have caused in the Trite family. All interc.-t accrued is to be added to

the capital amount. All other properties and estate I give and bequeath to the Mayor of Brisbane for distribution among public charities as he thinks fit. And I appoint the first white man who reads this document to be executor of this my will.

As witness my hand this nineteenth day of August, 18.'

THOMAS TRELAWNEY. Signed bv the testator in the presence of—

[Witness: WAIA OMAI'EKE (X) "is mark. S\jtn«s: JfTDKUARINI (X) his mark.

I'm glad that I have been spared long enough to write this will, and should its diction or form not be in strict order, I call upon the law to recogniso tho spirit of its intentions.—T.T.

Tho chief, Omapore, has gono. He is civilised enough to understand the moaning of a will, and was manly enough to witness it and to got another chief to act similarly. I heard him speak to the people outside. I fear, or rather hope, however, that as soon as. his back is turned. , , ,

Should Beryl Trite ever read this. , ,

That was all The abruptness of tho unfinished sentences and the manner in which they had been hastily scribbled spoke volumes.

When I had finished reading, wo all remained silent for some considerable time, overcome by our emotions.

Dick was the first to conquer the shock caused by the recital of the tragic happenings, for he was the first to break the awe-struck silence that had grippod us. His cheery voice helped us to cast off tho depressing effects of the tragedy of the dead past, and to rcaliso the living present.

"Beryl!" ho cried, restraining his excitement with difficulty. "Beryl!" and ho took my lady in his arms and kissod hor fondly. " Niece Beryl! And so you are dear old George's child. You are sweet Alice's daughter. You aro my niece. Show me your arm. . . Ah, yes, thero is the old motto, but what barbarous cruelty to mark such a lovely white skin!"

She was sobbing on his shoulder.

" See, Mrs. Meredith," ho went on, his voice slightly shaken with emotion, " this is my brother's child! 1 can hardly realise it! And yet I'm stupid, for often have I wondered where I had seen those eyes before! They are the eyes of Alice Trelawney, tho loveliest woman of Cornwall, and tho truest wife. I was George's groomsman at their wedding. I tried to find out how they died, but failed. And now the news comes to me like this. But it's a queer world! To think that our seraph is George Trite's child!" and he turned to mo with a look of wonder and delight.

" Onclo Dick!" cried my seraph, raising hor head and brushing aside the tears that wore streaming down her sweet faco. " Oh, my dear Un«le Dick. And you knew my mother! My fathor and you were brothers! Oh, how wonderful! Dear Uncle Dick! I'm so glad!"

She tried to say what was in her heart, but her voice broke down, as she sobbed again with emotion and delight.

I had remained silent, thinking of what might have happened to my beloved lady had not the faithful Rau befriended her, and with a thrill of gladness I remembered that I bad shown him kindness at the end, and that he had died knowing that his watch and ward had not been in vain, fcfis life had been sacrificed for her welfare, and he had given over his charge to me, fully aware that I would carry on his mission of faithfully guarding her from harm.

But Dick was speaking to me. He! put his arms around my lady, his new-j found niece, and extended his hands toward me. I rose and clasped them, and she stood between us. " I think we'll be able to look after her, old man," ho said simply and with a quiver in his voice. What was the peculiar feeling that stole its unwelcome way through me for a moment or two, when I realised that I was no longer the solo responsible protector of my lady ? Could it have beon jealousy? Perhaps so! But, whatever it was, I dismissed tho foolish feeling before it had tfell-nigh taken shape, and heartily responded to my mate's firm grip of the hands.

" U she is sure that I am wor'hy I began, but I turned toward Mrs, Meredith, who was crying softly, her handkerchief to her eyes, and Dick went to her.

J'iv seraph rested her head upon my breast, and put her arras around my shoulders. Tenderly I led her from the house to a grassy knoll overlooking the harbour, and as the light of the now day gleamed over the horizon, wo stood together, my seraph and I, and the glancing rays fell upon her shining hair as if searching for the secret of its glory. " Bervl!" I cried. " Beryl Trite! My own Beryl! Look at me, sweetheart, straight in the eyes!" The dear girl looked at me, wonderingly. Her eyelids fluttered a moment, and then her gaze was steady, and I saw that she read my thoughts. "Toll me, Beryl!" I softly whispered. "Tell me something, will you? Tell me if you know all that I mean when I say, : 'I love you!'" ' She trembled ever so slightly, but quickly recovered herself, and gradually there stole into her eyes the softest and most heavenly look that it has been the good fortune of any man to gaze upon. Her very soul seemed aglow with an ecstasy of gladness, and to echo its ]ovs in her glance. Her purity, her trust, and her wondrous love shone forth as if her message was born on ethereal rays of heavenly light. - "I know," she murmured. "Yes, I know! And I can see in your eyes the thoughts of your mind! I can read in vour look what your heart- would say to fne . . . Love ? Yes, I know full well its truth and its glory! The stars taught me to love, when my thoughts went out to them from the loneliness of my cave. They taught me, but I could not learn all that they would teach. I knew that their message of love was beautiful, and good, and pure, but I could not gather into my mind all that it meant. It was as a seed that is sown in the dark, without the warmth of the sun to quicken it into life; my seed of lovo was sown, but it lay m mv heart for long, until the glow of another's love awakened its sieepme spin* into the morning of a new and wonderful life. . . ." Her voice died away, and she paused. '•'And that other's love-?" I whispered. " Was yours, my man-who-found-me! When von came to me, and when I knew that it was of you that the stars had given mo their message, my old lifa fell away from me, and a new life began. My lovo for you is the same as your love for mo; it is like the glory of a sun that can never set. It shines from your eyes so that I can see into your soul, and you can &ee into mine; it causes your eyes to speak to mo, and the ta.lt that they tell is the tale of truth; it is a holy thing. . . .' She went on speaking, softly, murmuring- her lovely thoughts, and her voice sounded far away.

1 was too enraptured to listen closely, too entranced to follow her words. I only knew that I felt upon my breast the heartthrobs of Nature's most glorious handiwork, the sweetest creature that God had ever made, and that she clung to me with the confidence horn of true and sacred love, worthy of the fairy childwoman I had found in the isle of the seamy lady of tho cave!

CHAPTER XXIII. • the postscript. fly man-who-found-mo has at last,shown mo his long manuscript, and I have road it. lio could not put me off any longer, j for twelve months ago to-day we were married, and 80 this is a special day. I have cried a great deal over the manuscript, but ever bo many mysteries are now cleared up, for neither my husband nor Uncle Dick wouW tell me anything about the cavo, or that strange boat, the cutter; and they have seldom mentioned poor Rau's name. I feel now just between crying and rejoicing at it all But poor Rau; he was so faithful, and yet, so stern and harsh. Uncle Dick and his dear wife are staying with us just now. It is hard to think of her as " Mrs. Trite " for I had become so accustomed to " Mrs. Meredith." My little canoe stands on a polished pedestal in our hall, and my romantic husband says that it is one of his most valued possessions. And the way in he cherishes a,, old faded blue gown is delightfully siUv, and when I put it on for him, and let'my hair down, he calls me his " Lady of the Cave! " He has bought a big flatshaped boat, and intends to have her altered and fitted up as a pleasure yacht. (As if our life isn't one long pleasure!) She is called the .Empress, but her name is to be changed ; Uncle Dick suggests The Seraph, but my man-whoiound-me seems to prefer BERYL. IHE EXB.

The London critic, Mr. A. B. Walkley, discourses on a popular subject:—"The general trcatmant of lovo on our stage is" it seems to me, inadequate. Either it' is a mere ficelle, an expedient for a plot, or it is apt to be conventional, secondhand, unobserved. We want fresh, patient, and fearless studies of it on our stage. Though the subject is the oldest in the world it is always becoming new.