“Thank you,” he said, in softer tones, as he took the picture from her. “I only wish for this one. It will help to keep my memory green—when I return to my mother's people.”
“Ah,” she said, in a pained voice, “don't say that. I wish I had never asked you to look at it. I have read the papers, and know how the Maori people must feel, and I am sorry, oh! so sorry, that I have unthinkingly aroused what must surely be painful memories to you.”
“Do not think of it, Miss Torringley. Such things always will be. So long as we live, breathe, and have our being, so long will the strong oppress and slay the weak; so long will the accursed earth-hunger of a great Christian nation be synonymous for bloodshed, murder, and treachery; so long will she hold out with one hand to the children of Ham the figure of Christ crucified, and preach of the benefits of civilisation; while with the other she sweeps them away with the Maxim gun; so long will such things as the 'Last Shot at Maungatabu'—the murder of women and children, always be.”
With bated breath she listened to the end, and then murmured—
“It is terrible to think of, an unjust warfare. Were any women and children killed at Maungatabu?”
“Yes,” he almost shouted back, “many were shot as they crossed the swamp. And when they gained the fern two more were killed by that last shell—a woman and child—my mother and my sister!”
He turned away again to the window, but not so quickly but that he could see she was crying softly to herself, as she bent her face over the table.
Three days after, Mrs. Torringley showed her nephew a note that she had found on her niece's dressing-table:—
“Do not blame me. I cannot help it. I love him, and am going
away with him to another country. Perhaps it is my mother's
blood. Wipe me out of your memory for ever.”