A LETTER

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XVI, Issue XXV, 20 June 1896, Page 733

A LETTER

From Mrs Evelyn Eden, Tihitoto, Auckland, New Zealand, to Mr Arthur Han way, Chippenham, Wilts, England. (BY ALICE A. KENNY.) Dear Arthur.—Yon lazy old scamp, why haven't you written to me yet ’ Yon onght to have received the letter I sent yon from Auckland long ago. Yon don’t deserve that I should send yon another so soon. However, I know you’ll write me a really long epistle in answer to this, so I’ll assure yon of my sisterly forgiveness and proceed. Harold and I are fairly settled now in the dearest little bungalow like cottage with a wide verandah all round, a river frontage, a view of the hills, and a garden fnll of docks. It's a regular bower of a place, and may it not be long before it has the honour of sheltering your lordship’s bead. Tibitoto is not a very large place; it is the centre of a wide spread population, and as Harold is the only doctor in the place, he is kept very busy indeed riding here, there, and everywhere, and climbing inaccessible mountains, and the roads here are for the most part simply shocking. You remember that Harold at Home was inclined to be plump. Well, he isn’t now ; but he likes the life, and I’m as happy as happy can be. I’m not going to tell you anything about the scenery of this country —I know your inartistic soul too well; and besides, I hope you will come as soon as you have passed. You and I are the only ones of our family left, and we ought to hang together. I’m sure yon could do well out here. I am very fond of Hal’s mother, but, between ns, Artie dear, I don’t care for my new papa a bit. He is too fond of ‘ coming the corker,’ to use your elegant speech, over the rest of his family, and if he wasn’t a gentleman, and an old one at that, I could almost find it in my heart to say that he bullies his wife. Hal’s brother Ted—there are no girls you know, else I’d begin to matchmake for you—is much younger than Hal, and a regular young larrikin. I think you and he would get on well. Now, there is a compliment for you. You know Hal always calls me Eve, so be calls Hal ‘ Adam,’ and nur residence the Garden of Eden.’ Eve Eden is rather a funny name, isn’t it ’ Ted is a thorough colonial, and he talks the most extraordinary speech I ever heard. Every conceivable slang word figures in his vocabulary with such a sprinkling of Americanisms and Maori, that I am sometimes quite at a loss to understand him. But he is very nice to me. Sometimes he comes over and has boxing matches with Hal in the kitchen just after I’ve swept it, and they have such good times that I have to sweep it again when they have done. For yon know, Artie, I do everything for myself now. The house and the family is so small that I really don’t need a servant, especially as there are no gaieties here, and scarcely anyone to visit. That’s all the general news, and now I’m going to tell you about my arrival, and a real adventure that I bad. I shall call it ‘ The Story of My Chivalrous Knight.’ I told you in my other letter about our voyage. When we landed in Auckland we found some very nice letters of welcome awaiting us. None of the home folks could get away to meet us in Auckland, but were, they said, very eager to greet their new daughter, having no girls of their own. Harold and I decided to postpone doing the Auckland eights until some future time, and for the present to go straight home. We were going to stay with Hal’s people till were properly settled down. Well, we got on board a small steamer, and steamed to a small place with a perfectly unpronounceable Maori name. It was a marvel to me how Harold pronounced it all. He laughed most impolitely over my attempts at some of the names, especially when I pronounced Onehunga Wunhunga, instead of O nee-hunga. But how was 1 to know ? We went ashore at the unpronounceable place ; it was at the mouth of the river Something or other, and we had to wait for the up-river steamer which would take us straight to Tihitoto town. We got there pretty early in the morning, and Harold telegraphed to his people to say we would be home that evening when onr boat got in. Sometime later he received a telegram which brought him ramping to me. * Here’s an everlasting go,’ he said, handing it to me. It was from his father. I took it and read :— Gerald run from school. Not come home. School teachers don't know where he is. Could you go Auckland and see about him ? Ted can’t get away. * Confound it 1’ said my husband. * But who is Gerald ?’ I inquired in surprise. * Why, haven’t I ever told you ?' said Harold. ‘He is such an insignificant person that I hardly ever think of him. He is mv nephew, youk now, poor old Gerald’s boy.'

* Gerald is your brother who died f I said. •Yes,’ answered Harold. ‘Poor old chap, he was drowned ten years ago. He went and married when he was only twenty-one—married a half caste girl of seventeen. She was a very wild girl, they said, but a regular beauty, and Gerald fell madly in love with her and married her. Her mother was a Maori woman, and her father a drunken gumdigger, and so it is small wonder that all our people were furious with Gerald. He and father ?[uarrelled beyond reconciliation — my atber is a terribly hard man you know.

They never made it up. I don't believe he ever saw Gerald again till he was dead ; but when his wife died they took the youngster, and have had him ever since, and a rare handful he’s been from all accounts, and now he’s gone and run away from school, and oh ' hang it, I’ve got to go after him.' * Must you really go back to Auckland, Hal ?’ I asked. * Yes, I must, dearie,’ he answered, * bnt I think it would be better for you to go on home. I'll put you on board the np river steamer, and it will take you safe to Tikitoto, and there my folks will meet you

and look after you till I come. Confound that young Gerald I won't I give him a hiding when I lay hands on him.’ And I was wicked enough to hope he would. I felt no kindness to my unknown nephew for running away at that time of all others and spoiling the home-coming I had looked forward to and pictured. But it was no good my going to look for him too • it would not be any help to Harold. So we telegraphed again to say that he was returning to Auckland and I was coming on alone.

We got something to eat, and Hal saw me on board my boat, a rather dirty little paddle-wheeled steamer, and said 'Goodbye,' promising to come by the very next boat. I felt decidedly cross as the steamer churned away from the wharf, where he stood smiling and waving bis hand. It was not a very long journey up the river, but the scenery was not beautiful save occasional peeps of blue mountain, and there were no interesting passengers on board.

A middle-aged woman with three babies, which she alternately smacked and fed with biscuits, occupied a good portion of the deck, and two jovial old men and a young Maori completed the passenger list. The Maori was the first of his race I had seen close to, and he outraged my notion of the aboriginal entirely by wearing a neat dark blue suit and collar and culls, and whistling * In the Gloaming ’ over and over very soltly to himself. Of course I did not expect mats and feathers and tomahawks, but I did feel rags and dirt to be the only correct things, and this man was as much a masher as Harold.

If anyone had told me then, as I sat there thinking what a nuisance that Gerald was, and how one’s plans will * go agley,’ that Hal would be home before me after all, I should simply not have believed them, but it would have been true. I suppose you think it looks rather improbable at present, so I’ll just tell you the ‘ how ’ of it. To be brief, about the middle of the afternoon the steamer ran on a mud bank away up the river at a place called •Payntor’s Landing,’ and stuck so hard and fast that it was evident she could not be moved until the next high tide. That was the captain’s verdict anyway. Sticking is a not infrequent occurrence on this river.

I must tell you that the course of this stream is about as winding as it possibly can be without tying itself in a knot, so that while the river trip is a long way, from Payntor’s Landing overland to Tihitoto it is only five miles. A very undesirable five miles to be sure, because of the evil condition of the roads, but better than spending most of the night on the steamer, wherefore all the passengers, including me, went ashore, resolved to foot it. We were a very cross party, I can assure you, and I felt most forlorn, a stranger in a strange land. The babies, as a matter of course, began to howl, and equally as a matter of course I took one up, poor wee toddler, and carried it. The young Maori, rather shyly, offered to carry the other one. It was inclined to show a British prejudice against his colour at first, but it was reasonable enough to prefer the support of a sturdy shoulder to paddling along on its own short legs. The mother had one in her arms ; she was very grateful for our help. The jovial white man marched on ahead and disappeared. Of course I did not take any luggage with me ; the captain had charge of that. The road we traversed was scarcely a road at all; where it wasn’t rutty it was muddy, and where it want muddy it was a series of green pools. I had no space to take stock of the scenery, what with hold ing the child and picking my steps. The woman said she was a bushman’s wife. She was rather tired and complaining, and had scarcely an * h ’in her vocabulary. The young fellow on the contrary, appeared very well educated. He was an interpreter, he told me, speaking in a soft and cultivated voice—a funny contrast to the English woman’s colonial drawl.

A mile of this walking brought us to the main road, and here there were a few wooden cottages, in one of which the woman had a friend, which friend she speedily knocked up, and asked for a night’s accommodation for herself and her tired and cross little family. They insisted that the young interpreter and I should go in and sit down for a while, and they refreshed us with milk and cakes. They all seemed to know that I was fresh from England and an entirely forlorn stranger, and were very kind to me, and of course the babies were a bond of union between us. They even went so far as to offer me a night’s shelter, bnt on learning that it was less than five miles to Tihitoto by road, I said I could and would walk it by dark. It would only be a pleasant adventure. • Five miles is a long way,’ said the woman of tbe house, * and it's a rough road, besides, there's swaggers on the road sometimes.' I enquired what swaggers might be, and learned that they were a species of tramp.

The interpreter went on bi« way alter shaking bands warmly all round. Seeing that I wouldn't be persuaded to stop, the woman of the house left the mother of the babies in charge of her home stead and tramped with me a long way. I discovered that she was not long from Home.and also that she hailed from our own county, and we bad quite a friendly talk. Then we shook hands again, and she ran ran off home, and there was I, alone, on a lonely grey road, with monotonous-coloured scrub on one side, and on the other forestclad mountains — I should say * bushcovered hills.' Nothing here is called by a pretty name if an ugly one comes to hand. As soon as I was alone I grew afraid, and kept looking out for * swaggers' and other wild beasts, but I had to do my three or four miles before dark, so I put forth my strength and ran and walked as though I were in for a wager. Can’t you see me in your mind’s eye ? The only other travellers I saw were two in a trap that passed me. Wherever I saw a house I ran in and asked how near I was to Tihitoto, and I would not have believed five paltry miles could have been so long. To shorten a long story, I could not shorten the walk. The sun set in rainy clouds, and still Tihitoto was a thing of the future. At this time I spied a meagre, ironroofed cottage with meagre woman at the door.

* Oh I bless you !’ she said, in answer to my usual query, * you’re a long way off the town. I’ll show you the way I always go to the town. Better than the road, ain’t above ’arf a mile neither.’ • I’ll be very much obliged to you if yon will,’ I said, somewhat dolefully. And the good woman led me round her cottage, over a ferny knoll, and set me on a track that appeared to lead away back into the mountains. ‘ Now, there you are,’ she said, ‘ on'y 'arf a mile, clear enough track. Goes through that gully there, and when you get up yonder, you can almost look down on Tihi. Good evenin’.’ And I summoned up my pluck and struck away into the dark green mountains, whose tops were bright with the colours of sunset. As soon as the path took me fairly into the wood I grew very scared. I gathered up my dress and fairly Hew along, and when I got down into the shadowy gully I would have retreated if I had dared. I gasped out a prayer and thought of Harold. I never believed that I was such a coward. I would have given anything to have found myself through that dreadful ’’arf mile.’ I struggled across the gully, hurrying and panting hard, and tearing myself on the creepers, and when I got to the top of the ridge and started down the easy slope on the other side, the swagger duly put in his appearance. Now hold your breath, Artie, and tremble in sympathy for me ! His appearance was so horribly sudden that I well-nigh screamed, but remembered my heroic ancestors in time, and gasped instead. He was coming from the opposite direction, and it was not difficult to see that he was tipsy. Just my luck ! He had a swag on bis back—hence his name—and a tin mug at his belt. All this I observed in an instant without coming to a full stop. Also, he was ill dressed, and worse looking. It was a decided shock to meet such a person in such a place, and I will admit with my customary candour that I was considerably alarmed. My heart beat fast, but I did not pause. Calmly and composedly I made to pass, when the drunken wretch said, ‘ Hullo !’ and lurched right across the way. It was only a single file path at best, and he made it impossible to pass. I can’t tell you how frightened I was when he did that. In a Hash I reviewed my situation—fear is a very painful sensation, as possibly you know—and I was so helpless —my watch, my purse —the hateful, cowardly wretch.

I said in my most coldly civil voice : * Will you kindly let me pass?’ • Shay ! where’re y’ goin’ this hour ?’ he said, lurching a step forward with a kind of drunken, and to my eyes, menacing leer, and he added something that sounded like • pretty girls,’ but his ennuciation was not clear, to say the least of it. ‘ < >h ! if only Hal were here !’ thought I, and aloud : ‘ I wish to pass please. You are in my way,’ and in my flurry and fright I make an effort to brush past him. I was quick, but he was quicker, and he caught me by the arm and stopped me, saying with an absurd show of indigna tion (absurd to look back on). ‘ Here. Mississ, that’s rude ! when a genTman’s (hie) talking to a lady—she—she’s not goin’ to go, and go—and shove—’ • Let me go at one?,’ I said in such a fury of anger, that I could scarcely get the words out, * How dare you touch me ?’ He gave a drunken chuckle, and grabbed at my watch chain. ‘Shay! that’s 'ansome !’ he said thickly. I made a wild effort to get free from the touch of the vile creature, but in vain, and then, and not ti’l then, I lifted up my voice and shrieked aloud for help ! he’p ' !

And, hey presto ! the knight was on the

scene. God bless him ! There was a rustle in the bushes, a footstep, and a sudden voice at my shoulder. It was a clear, boyish voice, and it said imperatively, * Here '. you drop that!’

Oh ! such a wave of relief and thanksgiving went over me. The order was so startling and unexpected that the tramp promptly dropped * that ’ in the shape of my gold chain, but he still heid my arm, and turned to stare at the newcomer, and launch an oath at his head. It was only a boy of about fonrteen, a knickerbocker boy not as tall as I, but I blessed him for my champion. ‘ You let goo’ her—go on !’ said the boy, boldly advancing, and the tramp obeyed. It is true that be only did it for the sake of more conveniently kicking the boy, but the instant I was released I fled like a deer, with the sound of his drunken swearing in

my ears. I basely left my little rescuer, and never paused till a tarn in the path bid me from the pair. There I rallied, and bethinking me of the comparative sizes of my per seco tor and my knight protector, I turned about as hastily as I fled, snatching up a short stick as I ran. (I wonder what I intended to do with it ?) Bat before ever I got in sight of them I heard a crashing blow, a cry, and a doable fall —the last the heaviest, and then the sound of flying feet. I knew by the soand that it was the boy running, and I sprang to meet him. In a moment he was round the corner, running — rather, staggering along ; his head was bent forward and down ; he had both hands to bis face, and, ob. dear ! the blood was running through bis fingers, and drip-dripping on the path. * Oh ! he’s hurt yon !’ I cried, catching

him by the shoulder to steady him, and patting my bankerchiet to bis poor face. * Thank you ?' he stud, stammering and gulping, so that he eould scarcely speak. * It’s nothing m much. He fetched me a erack in the face—sent me flying—b-but I grabbed his legs and brought him down on his back—and ran. Come on, let's run ; he might follow when be gets on bis legs again, but he’s so “ tight ” it'll take him a lone time.’

We ran. 1 held bis hand, and he held a dreadful crimson handkerchief over his mouth and nose, and gasped with pain. The tramp shouted after us once or twice, thereby causing ns to quicken our steps, but as the boy said he was in no condition to give chase. • I’m so much obliged to you,’ I said gratefully, as we hurried along. * How quick and brave you were ! Thank yon with all my heart. lam so sorry be struck you that dreadful blow.’ *1 didn’t do anything,’ said the boy, bashfully. *1 just happened to be there, and so I told him to stop it. Wasn’t he an ugly looking beast though—and tight ? My eye !' • He was quite ugly enough for me,’ I answered ‘ I was silly to come this way alone. I was walking to Tihitoto by the road, but a woman at a cottage down there told me this way was much shorter through the wood." • It’s shorter, but it’s not much of a track,’ answered the boy ; and then irrelevantly. • how your hand shakes ! Are you scared fl • I was,’ I said, candidly. When we came to a little stream I wanted to bathe his sanguinary countenance for him, but he scorned to let me do it, and kneeling down on a stone, he sonsed away till the bleeding ceased, and then gingerly dried his face with his cap and duly washed my handkerchief. His face was horribly bruised and swollen on one side. I wonder the blow that brute gave did not stun him. I asked him which way he was going, and he said bis way lay back in the opposite direction to mine, and he reckoned he could dodge the tramp through the undergrowth. He strongly recommended me to go back to the road, but the thought of the swagger in the path and the weary miles I had already tramped decided me to go on. He assured me that I was not likely to meet any more tramps, and so we parted and I went on my way sad and fearfully. Before long my path grew more overgrown and indistinct and then it branched out into two ways, and I stood perplexed and distressed, and wondered which way to take. And while wondering, I heard again the unmistakable sound of running feet behind me. Pit pat, pit-pat, they came, striking terror into my heart. My first thought was sufficiently absurd, but under the circumstances it appeared quite possible —the swagger had caught and murdered the boy, and was now pursuing me for the same fell purpose. Doesn’t your heart bleed for me, Artie ? However, it was only the boy returning in such haste that he nearly fell into my agitated arms. • Beg your pardon'.’ he stammered breathlessly. • Oh ! is he coming ?’ I cried. • No, no,’ he almost laughed. ‘ Did I scare you ?’ • But what has brought you back!’ I asked. ■ I thought I ought—l—l—better—l thought I might as well see you to Tihitoto, that’s if you don’t mind. It’s getting so dark, you see.’ • I should be very glad of your company,’ I said, not considering it necessary to say how particularly delighted I should be, ‘ but really there is no need. Won’t it be taking you too much out of your way fl • No,’ he said laconically. ‘ But you will have to come back in the dark.’ • No, I won’t come back this way tonight.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I should only be too glad to be gnided to Tihitoto, but it seems scarcely fair to put a stranger to so much trouble. I don’t think I should let you. I am already deeply indebted to you, and how am I going to repay you for all this kindness.’ The boy blushed all over his face and looked quite pleased. ‘ I'd like to show you,’ he stammered eagerly. So what could 1 do but gratefully accept and follow my little guide down the better of the two paths that had puzzled me. I never want to have a more considerate escort than be was. He conducted me through the bush as though I bad been a royal princess on tour. He parted the creepers to make a way for me, and held back the springy supplejacks while I passed. He really was a grand little chap, and when we had to cross little creeks or patches of mud, he offered me the assistance of a sturdy brown hand, with a funny mixture of shyness and self-reliance. I had ample opportunity for studying him as we harried along, and I soon came to the conclusion that be was no common boy. His bands—Harold laughs at the

way I always notice people's hands—though neither white nor slim, were long and shapely, especially about the nails. His face was too much disfigured to show to advantage, but his skin was a clear brown in eolonr, and his hair jet black and straight, as were also his long lashes ; bnt the eyes they shaded were a clear, light grey, mnch like Harold’s. His teeth were even and white, and he was well grown, and carried himself well. He was clothed in a somewhat shabby suit of grey, and was guiltless of collar or tie. When he smiled he bad a look of Harold, and when he wets grave, as be mostly was, he somehow suggested the young Maori interpreter.

Well, we went on and on, up bill and down dale, and it began to darken rapidly. Sometimes we went through wide glades, and sometimes we bad to push through tangled creepers and ferns. We walked for the most part in silence, for I was getting desperately tired, and my guide did not seem to be a youth of a talkative habit. Tibitoto began to seem to me like a mirage that retreated ever as 1 advanced, and I wondered what Harold would have thought bad be seen a vision of his wife toiling through the dusky bush at that hour, or my new relatives, if they could have guessed where I was. I wished heartily that I bad never left the steamer, unattractive place as it had formerly seemed to spend the night in. At last it was quite dark, but I didn’t mind that as I would have had I been alone. I was relying with a beautiful con fidence on my pretty boy guide. I could only just see him as he walked along in front of me. The path seemed to be growing rougher and rougher all the time, and though he stepped lightly along I stumbled at every other step, and mourned inwardly.

At last I stopped and cried : * Surely we’re off the path ! surely we have walked much more than half a mile !’ and simultaneously the boy stopped and exclaimed : * I say, I’m oft the track !’

‘Are you’’ I said, helplessly. ‘Not lost*

‘ I’ll find it again,’ he answered confidently, and be fell on his knees and felt about in front of him with his hands. Then be struck a match, still kneeling, and looked all round anxiously.

It looked so strange—the sudden glimmer of yellow light shining on the tranks of unfamiliar trees, all tangled over with creepers and damp moss, and giving glimpses of limitless blackness on either hand. I shivered as I looked round, and my heart sank. The boy struck match after match, and we searched backwards and forwards till his whole box was exhausted, but without avail. By the light of the last two or three we found what we believed to be the path, but after following it down into a thick gully it ceased to be a path and we found ourselves brought to a halt in utter darkness and confusion. I put out my hand in the gloom and met that of my juvenile guide, and we clasped bands tightly. * Isn’t this a go '.’ he said in a subdued voice. • It’s my fault. We’ll just have to wait till daylight. I’m regularly lost.’ ‘Wait till daylight?’ I echoed with a sigh. • Oh, dear ! I am tired.’ ‘ Here’s a flat stone here,' he said, feeling about in the dark. ‘ If you sit down on it and lean your back against these pungas it’ll rest you a bit.* * Thank yon,’ 1 said, eliding gingerly down on to the stone, and no sooner was I off my feet than I realised how very tired I was, and I thought- with a melancholy longing of white pillows and sheets, and then of tea and food.’ * I wish I’d thought of bringing something to eat,’ I murmured aloud. There was a gentle rustling at my side, and something was poked into my hand as it lav on my knee. ‘ Oh ! what’s that ’’ I said, starting. * It’s only a biscuit and a chunk of toffee.’ said my boy, apologetically. ‘ It’s one of those ship biscuits, you know—jolly tougb. but not bad if you’re hungry. Do you like them ?' ‘ Well, you are a good, kind boy,’ I said. * When I’m tired you find me a seat, and when I’m hungry you give me your own supper. Thank you very much, but indeed I couldn't think of robbing you.’ ‘ You aren’t robbing me,’ he answered eagerly. ‘ No, really, I had my tea before. I couldn't eat it. Won’t you, please ?’ ‘ I haven’t had anything since mid-day,' I said, ‘ so 1 will very gratefully eat the biscuit, bnt you must take the toffee.’ ‘ Halves, then,’ he said, snapping it into

two pieces. It’s almond toffee, this is. D'you like almonds F I said I did, and busied myself with the hard biscuit. ‘ Will anyone be out looking for you ? he asked me next. ‘ No,’ I answered, • nobody knows where I am. The people at the town think I'm on the steamer. She stuck down the river, you know, and I tried to walk to Tibitoto — and my husband is in Auckland.’ ‘ You are married ?’ queried my little guide with interest. ‘Yes,’ I answered, and then added, ‘ What about you ? Won’t your people be very anxious if you’re missing ? A—a—what is your name ? What can I call you ?’ ‘Jerry!’ he said, laconically. ‘No o, my people don’t know where I am, and they don't care either.’ ‘Then we are a pair of strays,’ I said. ‘ why this is quite a curious adventure, isn’t it ? Oh ! what’s that ?’ It was only on owl that passed suddenly and screeched, but it nearly sent us into each other’s arms with fright. We laughed, but our hearts were beating audibly. *Oh ! that did give me a start,’ he panted. ‘ You aren’t scared, are you ? There’s nothing to hurt, you know, not a jolly thing.’ ‘Ob ! I’m not frightened,’ I said, airily, * but it’s so dismal and ghostly.’ * Oh ! don’t let’s talk about ghosts,’ he said earnestly. ‘ All right,’ I said, • it’s no use making ourselves miserable. We must just endure till morning. * I’m all to blame for not going back to the road when you advised me to ’

‘ No, it’s my fault,’ he said, • for leading you wrong. My word ! I would be in a scare if I were lost here by myself.’ ‘ So should I,’ I said, • but you mustn’t try to blame yourself. I’m only too mnch obliged to you for your kindness in helping and escorting me.’

( To be continued. )