CHAPTER I.—Tender.

Waikato Times, Volume XIX, Issue 1634, 23 December 1882, Page 3 (Supplement)

CHAPTER I.— Tender.

* The mighty chajin of mountains which runs from North to South of the Western side of the middle island of New Zealand, the Ite-te-tounama or island of Greenstone, of the Mfcorics, and which culminates in the stupendous peak known as Mount Cook, that towers aloft to a height of over 18,000 feet above the restless sea, which stretches away to the Westland from its foot. This chain, the " Southern Alps " consists of the main range itself with innumerable spurs and offshoots, and extends from the comparatively tame and uninteresting heights south of Nelson, to the inexpressibly grand and romantic coast Scenery of the Sou th- western part of the island, of whioh nothing, or next to nothing is known, beyond the fact that it is a region of glacierclad mountains, vast lakes, deep fiords, rushing rivers, and gloomy gorges. A part of the country into most of which, in fact, the foot pf the white man has never penetrated, if indeed, which is questionable, that of the Maori have ever done so. Nestling in a fertile vsd\&y under the shadow of the white dome of Mount Kaimatau was the farm and homestead of Geordie Elliott, a sturdy and well-to-do half settler, half stockbreeder from the Scottish side of the border, the debateable land of old romance, that_ of yore bred so many bold raiders, and which even in these degenerate days, is famous for i the loveliness of its daughters and the manly grace and stalwart proportions of its sons. Had a painter or a poet sought a beauty spot for his theme, he could scarcely have chosen one more suitable than Arrandoon, as Geordie Elliott had called the sequestered vale in whioh he had built his homestead, after the place, where a long-limbed, flaxen-haired, bare-legged boy, he had passed his boyhood, | and whence he had borne his winsome wife, j Janet, and his three bonnie bairns to the new Arrandoon, amid the grim gaunt mountains of the Southern Britain. In sooth it was a lovely spot. _ Encircled by a vast amphitheatre of lofty hills, whose bald purple scalps sprung from a dense belt of rata, whose green foliage and crimson blossoms glowed in the summer like a huge cincture of emeralds and rubies, the valley sloped downward from the foot of the range to the Opposing rises for a width of a couple of miles being cut into two nearly equal parts by the meandering Arran river that flowed tranquilly Over its bed of white quartz shingle, through j a distant gorge, to join the treacherous Tere- , inakau — most dangerous of New Zealand . rivers — many miles away. i The homestead was built on a little knoll j overhanging the stream, and the well ordered J home paddocks, and orchard and garden, and j more distant grazing grounds, dotted with | sleek cattle and horses, bespoke the master- , hand of a thrifty and skilful farmer, while j the interior of the house, with its well-polished j furniture, and snowy napery, told of an equally i careful housewife. i A homely scene of tranquil beauty, ren- I dered still more beautiful by the contrast with ' its rugged aud harsh surroundings. j So at least thought Hector Bertram, the | young artist, who, in search of the picturesque J for his pencil, had left that paradise of painters, the Otira gorge, far behind, and had wandered unwittingly into this " Happy Valley." j Day after day had he lingered, finding fresh j scenes, and " bits " for his portfolio, sketching, smoking, lounging heedlessly in the gorges, or lying lazily in the sunlight, drink- j ing in deep draughts of delight to his essen- j tially artistic mind. j Honest Geordie Elliott, whose tastes were practical, and at whose house Young Bertram had taken up his quarters, could hardly make j his guest out, whose aimless comings and go- ' ings, and total neglect of regular meals and I hours, were so utterly opposed to his regular j and orderly habits. j " Yon lad's weel meanin' eno\" he would say, " but I'm thinkin' it's an awfu' misuse o' time this drawin' and paintin', and a' to nae purpose, that I can see." Still they got on very well together, for Hector was a companionable and hearty sort of young fellow, a good talker and a good listener. j But, although at first he hardly knew it himself, there was another attraction which bound him to the spot, beside the wonderful effects of light and shade, and the wealth of colour so dear to the artistic eye. Already he had sketched the " Grey Mare's Tail," as the waterfall up the gorge was called, from every point of view; the mountains, in all their humors, were faithfully limned in his portfolio ; and little " bits " of bush, boscage, sky, and river, were depicted on all sorts of odds and ends of " board." Day after day he had thought of " packing up his traps," and starting in search of " fresh woods, and pastures new," yet, day after day, he found some excuse to stay. And, soothe to say, there was excuse fair enough in bonnie Jessie Elliott, the farmer's winsome daughter. Whether wisely or not, theie was no doubt about it, that the poet artist, for Hector Bertram was both, had fallen irremediably over head and ears in love with Jessie Elliott. But Hector was neither a fool nor a scoundrel. To love, with him, meant no dishonor, and yet he knew that his father, the head of the wealthy firm of Bertram, Tilbury, & Co. , of Flinders Lane E., Melbourne, would utterly, and at once, forbid any alliance with the daughter of a simple farmer, though he had the blood of the Elliotts, aye, and the Maxwell's, and Armstrong's to boot, in his veins. No, no, his views on the subject were clear and decided. Hector must marry a fine lady, must marry wealth, and a foolish entanglement with a country-born and bred lassie, be she ever so good and beautiful, was not to be thought of for a moment. So mused Hector Bertram, in his more sober moments, wnen the effects of such a mesalliance flashed across his mind. What was to be done then ? He had certainly never spoken to her of love, nor as a brother might not have done to a sister, and yet he fellthat he was not altogether distasteful to her. When a young man is thrown much into the society of a pretty, simple, frank, girl, it does not always follow that his liking for her deepens into a stronger feeling. But when that young man is an artist, and a poet, and is, moreover, heart whole, the chances are that it will be so, and the more specially when the girl is not merely pretty, but lovely, and charming in every respect. Was Jessie Elliott all this ? Let me faintly, but alas, so faintly, attempt to depict her. Tall, stately as Juno, straight as a dart, with a graceful and grand entourage, and a complexion of Nature's pure red and white, such as may occasionally be found amid the fresh, clear air of the Alpine regions of New Zealand and Tasmania, never in Australia. Eyes, grey, deep, soft, mournful, the eyes that haunt one for days after seeing them; hair, brown, smooth, and abundant. Lips of the delicate pink of the faint blush of the sun on the snow peak, teeth regular and white as the snow itself. A bewitching smile, a sweet resonant voice, an accent tinged with the faintest soup^on of her father's border Scotch. Such was this bonnie lassie, the farmer's daughter, But no common farmer's daughter was Jessie Elliott. While her mother lived, she had been kept at school in Chrfetchurch, and at her 1 death had come home to keep the widowed father's -house. With all her country breeding, she had the instincts and manners of a lady, and in her domestic avocations it was, as Henry Kingsley quaintly puts it, " as if you had come upon a duchess making butter." Somehow these two had fallen into the pleasant way of calling each other Jessie and Hector, neither knew exaotly how, but so it was. Thus, then, Hector had, as has been said, fallen over head and ears in love with Jessie Elliott, and Jessie — well, we shall see. But Hector, being neither a fool nor a scoundrel, but only an artist-poet in love, was sorely perplexed. He turned the matter over and over in his mind, but could not -solve the difficulty. How could 1 he 1 face "his stern, un

him to Danish any suoti/madhicljßa* «bfet?|ii mmd on pain of being unceremoniously e'u out of his will. Certainly Ms fatner_migfi die soon, and then— no, the 'thought wai unmanly. > / , How could he go to her father and' ask hfrr for his treasure when all he had was depen dent on his father's will, which to him hae ever been law. No, it was hopeless. H< must leave the charmed spot, even if hii heart broke in the going, must leave, anc immediately. He would see her once more just once, to bid her good-bye, and 'then— Ah ! that just once 1 The next day was Sunday, and in the Scottish household it was indeed a day of rest, The old patriarchal system of divine worship was carried out in all its strictness. Everj member of the household, the two sturdj sons, daughter, servants, and guest were expected to join in the devotions in the best parlour. It was a Sabbath of prayer and praise, of goodly counsel and warning. The father, after imploring divine guidance, reverently lead a portion from " The big ha' bible, once his father's pride." expounding and explaining as he deemed most Hi. Then the singing of a paraphrase ! of a psalm, and the concluding prayer. After dinner, Hector, whose heart was sorely failing him, asked Jessie to walk with him in the garden. "Jessie — Miss Elliott," he began falteringly. She looked at him in mute surprise. " I—lI — I have something to say to you. Can you guess what ?" The tell-tale blush mantled in her cheek as she replied, " No, I cannot." " I have been here a long time, Jessie, nearly two months." "Yes." " The time has passed very pleasantly. You haye — you have all been very kind to me." " I'm very glad I—"I — " There was a pause before Hector spoke again. " I'm afraid I've been very idle, and I must make up for lost time." " What do you mean ?" " 'Tis now the end of March. I must leave here — to-morrow." The life faded out of her bright face, and she turned away to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes. " Do you care so much about me, Jessie, that you are really sorry ?" She struggled to preserve her calmness, but in vain, for in an instant she burst into a flood of tears, and buried her face in her hands. " Why Jessie," he said in a voice hoarse with emotion, " Why Jessie, what's this? surely you — I — you don't care so much for me as that ? lam not worthy so much regard, an idle do-nothing. I cannot bear to see you weep, I cannot, I cannot." and then he broke down ignominiously. "Let me, let me go in," she faintly faltered. "And then all the poet-artist's resolves went careering to the winds. " I leve you Jessie, my darling, love you, oh 1 so well, better than I can say." What boots it to tell more. It was but the old, old story, old as the hills that kissed the summer clouds a^ove them. Beckless of his father's anger, reckless of all consequences, he told her in a few burning words of the love he bore her, of his prospects, of his povverty, his dreams of wealth and fame, when he should become a great painter, and ere he turned with her to go into the house, he stood pledged to return to make her his wife, when his bright day dreams should be fulfilled. Was she content ? She looked into his face with eyes full of love, and replied meekly, " Quite content." " Content to wait, it might be for years ?" " I shall always love you, Hector," she said, " We Elliots are aye faithful to death." But to tell his story to Geordie Elliott, was, in the old fashioned saying, " another guess kind of thing." In the first place, he would not listen to him at all on the Sabbath. " No sir," he said sternly, "I hauld commerce wi no worldly gear on the Lord's Day. Bide ye till the morn, and then will we talk of this matter." The next day matters were worse, It was all very well in the flush of excitement of the previous afternoon, but with night came calmer counsels, and in the bleak early morning things did not look so promising. To ask a man for his daughter, and not to have a home take her to, was a cool request, to say the least of it, and Geordie Elliott was much of the temper of his celebrated forebear— " Wee Jock Elliott," whose motto was :—: — " Wha daur meddle wi me." Nothing was said, however, until after breakfast, when every person had been set to his or her appointed work. " Noo then young sir," said Geordie, leading Hector into the parlor, " you and I maun hae a bit crack, if it plea&e ye." " If you please Mr. Elliott." "If I please is as may be. Sit ye doon, my lad. And noo, what's your wull o' me?" Hector told him as briefly as he could the entire story, omitting nothing, nor concealing the fact that it was more than possible that his father would emphatically forbid the marriage, nay more, that he might disinherit him if he married against his wishes, and that, in that case he would be a poor man,, would have nothing in fact, beyond a hundred a year left to him under his mother's will. " But Sir," he continued. " Your daughter loves me, and I her, as an honest man may. I have my profession before me, and I may, nay I will, win fame for her sweet sake, and fame in my art means wealth," The old man listened silently to the end, and then said gravely. " I'm no sayin' my lad that I dinna fare to like you, and none the waur that you like my bonnie bairn. Nay mair, I'll go so far as to say that if she must wed I wadna mislike to see her get an honest, and true mon like yersel', for honest and true I thing ye are." " Oh thank you sir for that"— Geordie held up his hand for silence. " I've heard your say, noo ye maun hear mine. What's this you ask me to dae ? To consent to your disobeying your fey ther, for that's jist what is, and no ither." "But Sir, surely — " I know what ye'd say, my man, and I jist tell ye plainly that I'll no do it. I dinna want my bit lassie to wed for mere wealth, but the daughter o' Geordie Elliott shall never steal into ony mon's hoose by the back door. No Sir, she's welcome as the flowers i' May, or no at a. She's an Elliott, Sir, and an Elliott can hauld her heid up wi ony in the land. I'm sorry for you my lad, and I'm mair than sorry for her, but it canna, and it munna be. Ye hae my answer. Noo, gang your am gate, and forget aboot this piece o' foolishness, for after a' ye re owre young to marry yet, or, if ye love, as I loved her mither, yell gang to your feyther and tell him. If ye bring me his consent, his full consent, mind ye, I'm no sayin' what I might say, in four or five year maybe." " And if he refuse ?" " Then, no more's to be said." "Oh, sir!" said Hector, bitterly, "what would you have done in like case ?" "What I might ha' done is no man's guide. The Elliotts were ever a headstrong race, but I'll no hae the sin and woe o' your disobedience to your parents at my gate." In vain Hector pleaded, for the old man was obdurate, and all he could get h,ib tp promise was' that he would not attempt to* interfere with his 'daughter, although, he said, " A's one for that, for she's a quid lassie and a dutiful, and wadna wed without my consent and blessing, and that she'll never get wi you till your feyther is oontent." With this meagre satisfaction he was forced to be content, and an hour later saw him, swag on back, striding moodily up the valley in the direction of the Ocira Gorge, without having had the satisfaction of parting wifh Jessie, ' except seeing a vision of a tearstained face at a window, and the quick flutter of a pocket-handkerchief. But his bitter cup of disappointment had a i sweet drop at the very bottom*. Turning sharply round a cliff 'whi6h ! hid the, hopse from view, he came across her* brothV Geordie the younger, a' gigantic, 'ruddy-ia'oe^yiitihg

lookih'for the iaulcL'grey'-inearifliat'if, Jtr^yedjt and I thought it but mannerly t'o r see;,ye'a' mile or two o' the road, if'ye're.so mindedl" ; Hector thanked him, and the twp'stfode, stoutly on, eaoh occupied with h^a own thoughts. Hector's were sad enough, "but those of the burly son of Anak seemed to be, about some ponderous joke — perhaps about " the Auld grey mear." Arrived »t the shoulder of the mountain where a track struck off towards the Otira Gorge, the giant gave a grim chuckle, and opened his mouth and spake : " I'm thinkin' I'll be turning baok the noo, the road's fair before ye noo, and I say,V and he drew nearer, confidingly, and spoke in a gruff whisper ; " wat ye weel, there's mair friends than ye think for doon yon awa for ja' that's come and gone. I hae a word for ye, laddie, and it's just this. Oor Jess says, do ye mind what she tauld ye the Elliotts aye were ?" and he strode away back down the road with a benevolent grin. What the Elliotts aye were ? "We Elliotts arc faithful — faithful to death V