Story 3--Chapter III.
Golden Gap.
“‘And I said, if there’s peace in this world to be found’—Go on, Joey, will you?—‘The—he heart that is humble might welcome it here,’” sang and said a sturdy-looking, hard-faced man, with cleanly-shaven chin and upper lip, and a pair of well-trimmed grizzly whiskers. He was somewhat sun-browned, but wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and in addition, as he strode a very weedy, meditative-looking pony, he carried up a large gingham umbrella.
“Well, Joey!” he continued, apostrophising the pony, which had come to a full stop; “you’re a sensible beast, and it is a beautiful spot, and ‘the heart that is humble’ might truly ‘welcome it here.’ What a paradise! They may well call it Golden Gap! Golden, indeed! A heavenly gilding—no dross here! No more like Battersea Fields than I’m like an archangel. Well, Joey, suppose we meditate, then, for half an hour. You shall chew your herb, and I’ll smoke mine, even if it be not canonical. I don’t like good things to be wasted, as my old mother used to say. Savages smoke, so why should not a parson?”
Slowly dismounting, he closed his umbrella, unbuckled the pony’s bridle, that he might graze, and then, seating himself beneath a huge tree-fern, he filled and lit his pipe, and began to enjoy its fragrance.
For he was seated far up on the side of a mountain, whose exact similitude was on the other side of the valley, so that it seemed as if, in some wild convulsion, Nature had divided one vast eminence, and then clothed the jagged and rugged sides from the point where the glittering, snow-tipped summits peered forth, down to the lovely stream in the valley, with the riches of her wondrous arboretum. The fattest of pastures by the little river, and deepest of arable rich soil; and then, as step by step the mountain rose, everywhere shone forth the glory of the New Zealand foliage, with its fern and palm-like fronds, parasite and creeper, of the most golden greens, and here and there blushing with blossom; while in scores of places tiny silver threads could be seen dashing, plashing, and flashing in the sun-rays, as they descended from the never-exhausted storehouses of ice and snow far above, which glowed in turn, like some wondrous collection of gold and gems.
Some three miles away there shone the sparkling waters of a tiny bay, whose shores, at that distance, could be seen framed in emerald green, as the forest trees grew right down to where the sea could almost lave their roots, and goodly ships have made fast cable or hawser to their trunks. And yet, in all the length and breadth of the glorious vale, stood but one house, sheltered in another tiny valley, running off at right angles; while right up and up, higher and higher, tree, crag, and mossy bank were piled with a profuseness of grandeur that displayed novel beauties at every glance.
“‘And I said, if there’s peace,’—I don’t believe any place could be more lovely, even in this land of beauty,” muttered the traveller, tapping the ashes out of his smoked pipe on to a mossy boulder, and then blowing them carefully away. “Here am I, too, defiling Nature’s beauties with my vile nicotine. But beauty is beauty, Joey; and it only satisfies the eye; and man has a stomach, and bones that ache if they don’t have a bed; so, my gallant steed, we’ll finish our journey to the Moa’s Nest, and see what friend Lee will say to us, and whether he will bestow on thy master, damper, tea, and bacon, and on thee some corn.”
The gallant steed did not even sniff at the prospect of the feed of corn, but submitted, like the well-broken animal he was, to the replacing of his bit; when, arranging his bridle, his master mounted, put up his umbrella again, and then, leaving the pony to pick his way, slowly descended the zigzag track which led to old Martin Lee’s station, known far and wide, from an old Maori tradition, as the Moa’s Nest.
The distance seemed nothing from where he had been seated; but the track wound and doubled so much, from the steepness of the descent, that it was getting towards sundown before the traveller rode up to the long, straggling, wooden building, that had evidently been erected at various times, as the prosperity of its occupant had called for farther increase; when, slowly dismounting, he closed the great umbrella, hung his bridle upon a hook, and stalked in to where the family were at tea, if the substantial meal spread out could be so called.
“God bless all here!” he said heartily, as he brought down the umbrella with a thump; “How’s friend Lee?”
“Right well am I, parson, thank you!” exclaimed a bluff, sturdy-looking farmer. “Won’t you draw up to the log fire?”
There was a merry laugh at these words; for it was midsummer, and the Gap was famed for its hot days and nights.
“And how is the good wife, and my little queen, too?” continued the new-comer, shaking hands with Mrs Lee, a sharp, eager little woman; and then taking their daughter’s blooming face between his hands, to kiss her lovingly, as if she had been his own child. “All well? That’s right! Yours obediently, sir,” he continued, to a tall, dark man of about thirty, who had risen from the table with the others.
“A neighbour of ours, Mr Meadows,” said Mrs Lee; “Mr Anthony Bray.”
“Your servant, sir,” said the new-comer stiffly. “A neighbour, eh? Lives close by—six or eight miles off, I suppose?” And then he muttered to himself, “I know what’s your business.”
“Well, I think you’ve made a pretty good guess at the distance,” said the other; “it is seven miles.”
“Great blessing sometimes, but it makes one’s parish too extended to be pleasant. I find it a long journey to visit all my people in the nooks and corners—”
“And Moas’ Nests.”
“Ay, and Moas’ Nests, they get into. Well, I’ve come to ask a bed and a meal, if you’ll give them to me, friend Lee.”
“Always welcome, parson, so long as you don’t come begging,” said the head of the family.
“But I have come begging,” he said, standing with one hand upon his umbrella, and the other stuck under his grey frock coat. “I want a subscription towards our new church; so, if we are not welcome, Joey and I will have to—There, bless me, child, don’t take away my umbrella!” he exclaimed, to the pretty daughter of the household, who, in true patriarchal fashion, was divesting him of his sunshade and hat, and placing him in a chair.
“There, sit down, do!” exclaimed the settler, laughing; “it’s quite a treat to see a fresh face—and I daresay I can buy you off with a crooked sixpence or so. Fall to, man; you look hot and worn.”
“Little overdone, perhaps,” said the visitor. “Phew! bother the flies! How they always seem to settle on you, when a little out of sorts! Scent sickness, I suppose. Thank you, my child; nothing like a cup of tea for refreshment. Why, our Katie looks more blooming than ever, Mrs Lee.”
“Ay, she grows,” said the father; “and we begin to want to see her married and settled, eh, Mr Bray?”
Kate Lee’s face crimsoned, and she darted an appealing look to her mother, one not misinterpreted by the other visitor, who assumed not to have heard his host’s remark.
But farther remark was checked by a boisterous “Hillo!” a horse cantered up to the door, and Edward Murray, flushed and heated, sprang to the ground, to fold Kate Lee in his arms in an instant, and then heartily salute the rest of the family.
“Couldn’t overtake you, Mr Meadows,” said the young sailor, “though I saw your old umbrella bobbing down the valley like a travelling mushroom.”
“There, parson, there’s no best bed for you to-night,” said the settler. “The woman-kind worship this fellow, and you’ll only come off second best.”
“I can be happy anywhere,” said Mr Meadows. “Don’t incommode yourselves for me.”
Meanwhile it needed no interpreter to tell of the intimacy between Edward Murray and Kate Lee. A love the growth of years—the love that had induced him to quit the navy; for he had felt unable to settle when old Lee had left his native town, driven by misfortunes to settle in one of the colonies, New Zealand being his choice, where now, after some years’ hard fight with difficulties, he was living a wealthy, patriarchal life in this pleasant valley.
So Edward Murray had found no difficulty in getting appointed to a trader, which, however little in accordance with his tastes, took him at least once a year to where he could visit the Lees in their new home.
At first, old Lee did not evince much pleasure at the sight of the young man, for he had seen Anthony Bray’s dark visage grow more dark as he tugged at his handkerchief, and then, after a vain attempt at showing his nonchalance, he rose hastily and quitted the place, followed by the eyes of Mr Meadows, who generally contrived to see all, and to interpret things pretty correctly.
And he made few mistakes in the conclusions he had that evening arrived at; for, but that very afternoon, Anthony Bray had, after months of unsuccessful wooing, asked the maiden to be his wife, but only to meet with an unconditional refusal; for Katie Lee possessed a faith not shared by both her parents, and it was with a triumphant joy in her bright eyes that she took her place quietly by Edward Murray’s side, as he told of his long and stormy travels since he met them a year ago.
“And when did you get into the bay?” inquired old Lee.
“Only last night,” said the young man.
“Then you have lost little time,” said Mr Meadows.
“Well, no,” said the other simply. “I wanted to get here, and see what I’ve been thinking about for the last twelve months;” and he turned to Katie, whose eyes met his for an instant, and then fell as her colour heightened.
“Ah! it’s all plain enough what it means, Mr Meadows,” said Mrs Lee. “Martin, there, used to tell me, years ago, that now I was a wife, I must stay at home, and cry ‘clack, clack,’ to the chickens; and now it seems that I’m going to cry ‘clack, clack’ in vain; for one’s chick is going to ran away, when she might be happily settled down here close by, where we could see her.”
Katie’s wandering and troubled look fell upon Mr Meadows, who smiled grimly, as he said, “I’m afraid, ma’am, that your poor mother would have to cry ‘cluck, cluck’ very loudly before you would hear her all these thousand miles away. It’s nature, ma’am, nature. As the old birds mated in the pleasant spring of life, so will the young ones; and God bless them, say I, and may they be happy!”
“Amen!” said old Martin; “there’s no getting over that, wife. All I want is to see some one happy; and I’m afraid it’s rather a mistake when old folks try to manufacture the youngsters’ future. That’s about the best sermon I ever heard from you, Parson Meadows; it was short, and to the point. I’ve been wrong, I know; but then she talked me into it.” And he nodded towards his wife, who rose and left the room, while Kate crept to her father’s side, Edward following Mrs Lee out into the garden, where the long, conversation that ensued must have terminated favourably; for when Kate, who had been anxiously watching for their return, at length followed them out into the bright moonlit space in front of the house, she was encountered by her mother, who whispered two or three words, and then hurried in, having owned herself defeated.
“And where are the young folks?” said old Lee, as she entered.
Mrs Lee made a motion with her hand, and then bustled away to superintend the arrangements for the night, besides receiving deputations of shepherds and stockmen, and acting as her husband’s prime minister, so that he might be left at liberty to entertain his visitors.
“It’s hard to manage matters, parson, when two children want the same apple,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said the minister; “all you have to do is to give it to the most deserving. There’s a simple straightforwardness about the young sailor I like, though he did compare me to a mushroom.”
“Yes, I like him,” said old Lee; “but then the wife was set on this Bray, because he’s close at hand here. But I think she’s come round, though I know she did hope that time and the long journeys would tire out the other; but he’s true as—”
“The needle to the pole, as he’d say,” laughed the other; “and if he’s that, what more would you have?”
“Who? I? Nothing, nothing. I only want to see the little lass happy. I’m sorry for Bray, though. I suppose he could not bear to see it, for he has gone.”
“Yes, he went long enough ago, scowling furiously. I hope, friend Lee, there will be no unpleasantry between them.”
“O, nonsense!” ejaculated the old settler; and farther converse was stopped by the entrance of the young people.