She was on the point of reviewing the respective conditions of missionary life in China and Hindostan, where the Zenana offered so fair a field for reformation by cultured sisterhoods, when she received a letter from her friend Mary Summers, the interpretation of which was, to Hypatia's sympathetic spirit, "Come over and help us."
With Mary Summers she had long since formed a close friendship. They had corresponded regularly since her departure to New Zealand as the wife of the Reverend Cyril Summers. He had been a protégé of Bishop Selwyn, and, as a curate, a favourite attendant during the long, quasi-dangerous journeys in which the soul of that latter-day apostle delighted.
As often happens in friendships, and even closer intimacies, the schoolfellows were strongly contrasted in appearance and disposition. The one was tall and fair, with grey-blue eyes, which could flash on occasion. An air of hauteur, chastened by philosophic self-repression, distinguished her. The other was scarce of middle height, with a petite but perfect figure, dark hair, and wistful hazel eyes.
Hypatia was impetuous, disdainful of obstacles, hating the expedient, and scorning danger. Mary was persuasive, self-effacing, soft of speech and manner, of a goodness so pervading that it seemed an impertinence to praise it. Many people were strengthened in their convictions as to a future state by the belief that any such scheme must include a heaven for Mary Summers.
She and her husband had encountered trials and privations, borne unflinchingly. They had reached a moderate degree of success, and, so to speak, prosperity, having come to inhabit a comfortable cottage near Tauranga, when this lamentable war bade fair to ruin everything, destroying the work of years, and even endangering their safety.
The epistle which decided Hypatia as to locality ran as follows:—
"My dearest Hypatia,
"Wars and alarms still prevail, I grieve to say. The colonists are determined, and the natives desperate, each race fighting as if for existence. Blood has been shed on either side, so that all hope of peace or mediation is at an end. I do not give any opinion as to the policy of the Government. My husband believes that an act of injustice provoked the contest which led to the war. The side on which the fault lay has a heavy account to settle. But now all agree that unless the natives make unconditional submission there is no hope of peace.
"And how terrible are the consequences! It is positively heartbreaking to see the dispersion of native schools, the empty churches, and to hear of promising pupils and converts in the ranks of the enemy—though they have not unlearned, poor things, all that we have been at such pains to teach them. Continually we hear of acts of humanity performed by them while fighting bravely in their own ranks. Poor Henare Taratoa went under fire to fetch water for a wounded soldier in the trenches at the Gate Pah. He himself was killed soon afterwards at Orakau.
"It is affecting to hear, as we did, from a man in active service, of their reading the lessons of the day and singing their psalms in the intervals of the hottest fighting.
"These were once our friendly natives, many of whom we know well by name. They will not fight on Sunday, or break the Sabbath in any way, which is more than our troops can say. Though at times downhearted and anxious, Cyril and I feel that we have enjoyed a high privilege in doing our Master's work.
"As to position, we are certainly not too far from the seat of war, but Cyril says they have not as yet harmed any of the missionaries. Outlying settlers have been murdered, and one poor family—but I cannot bear to think of the details.
"We are in God's hands. So far we have been shielded from evil. We are steadfast in faith and trust in the power of our Redeemer. The children and Cyril are well. If only I were a little stronger, and servants were not things of the past, I should be nearly quite happy. Always (in peace or war)
"Your devoted friend,
"Mary Summers."
"Poor dear Mary! Nearly quite happy indeed! Just like her to think of every one but herself. 'If she were only a little stronger!' No servant, too; and here am I, Hypatia Tollemache, as strong as ever I was, now that I have got over that horrid fever; safe, protected, in luxury even, only disturbed by the thought of where I shall betake myself with my gifts and endowments (such as they are), and all uncertain of what good I shall do when I get there. From 'India to the Pole' seems prophetic. I was nearly going to India; now shall I go to the 'Pole'? Yes, I am resolved. Writing to and condoling with poor dear Mary will be saying in effect, 'Be ye warmed and fed'—the lowest hypocrisy of all, it always seemed to me. I am determined—that is to say, I have fully made up my mind. I will go out and help poor Mary, the Reverend Cyril, and the dear children, besides taking my turn with the heathen, unless they bring their tomahawks to church. It will be a charity worthy of the name. There can be no mortal doubt about that. As for the danger, do they not share it? So can I. That never put me off anything, I can safely say. I shall write to Mary when I have taken my passage—not before."
So fixed in the resolve to offer up herself on the altar of friendship, duty, and danger delightfully combined was this latter-day damsel, that she went off to London, and, having no parents or near relatives to control her—only a couple of trustees, who, provided she did not spend more than her income, permitted her to do pretty well as she pleased—took her passage to New Zealand by the very next boat, the Arawatta. The said trustees raised their eyebrows when informed of her intention, but consoled themselves, being men of sense and experience, remarking that if young women of independent means and ideas did not do one foolish thing they would be sure to do another, even perhaps less desirable. So, the decisive step being taken, she had only to tell a few friends—Mrs. Merivale, née Branksome, being one—and get ready a suitable outfit for the voyage to this Ultima Thule of Maoriland.
Up to this time, though hard knocks, hard fare, and hard marches had convinced Massinger that volunteer soldiering in Northern New Zealand was no child's play, yet, on the whole, the experience had been less depressing than exciting. The health of the triumvirate was unimpaired. The youth and uniformly good spirits of Massinger had served him well. Mr. Slyde's pessimistic philosophy had much the same effect, apparently, leading him to assert that "nothing mattered one way or another in this infernal country; that all things being as bad as they could be, any change would probably be for the better; that if they were killed in action, as seemed highly probable, it would be perhaps the best and quickest way out of the hopeless muddle into which the Governor, the ministers, the settlers, and the soldiers had got the cursed country. The alternative was, of course, to desert, which, for absurdly conventional reasons, could not be thought of. His advice to Massinger was to marry Erena Mannering and join the Ngapuhi tribe, which, under Waka Nene's sagacious policy, was bound to come out on top. That would be, at any rate, a decided policy, such as no party in the island had sufficient intellect to grasp. He might then give all his support to the King movement, and possibly in course of time be elected Sovereign of Waikato and surrounding states, do the Rajah Brooke business, and found an Anglo-Maori dynasty."