Those good lady dwellers in the bush—how it does delight them to promote the matrimonial felicity of others! How they do enjoy matchmaking!
Every settler's wife, so soon as she has got over the exclusiveness of honeymoon happiness, does her best to induce her girl friends from the city to come and visit her. She is so lonely, she says—poor thing! No one but her husband, and his neighbours and workmen; her devoted slaves every one of them, but still, all rough men, you know. She pines for a companion of her own sex. Oh yes; very much so! It would be a charity, indeed, if dear Ada or Fanny would come and stay with her a bit.
Dear Ada or Fanny is only too glad of the opportunity. She did want to see what the bush was like, for she has never been out of Auckland yet, except a trip to the hot lakes, or so. In fact, her school-days are scarcely over yet. And then she is so sorry for her friend's loneliness. It must be dreadful to be isolated in the bush like that. She will certainly come and see her.
So Miss Ada or Fanny packs up her box. Sweet, amiable creature! She flies to alleviate her friend's hard lot. She constrains her inclinations, and sets out bravely for the bush, solely at friendship's call; for, of course, there is no arrière pensée in her mind. Oh no; how could there be?
The young lady was not considered exactly a belle in the city, perhaps; but the bush receives her as an incarnation of Venus herself. Directly she gets beyond the confines of the city, into the rough, primitive, and inchoate wilderness, she finds herself elevated to a rank she never knew before. Coach-drivers, steamboat-captains, hotel-keepers treat her with a deference and attention that is quite captivating, rude examples of male humanity though they may be.
Some settler is introduced, or introduces himself, who is travelling too. He will be delighted, honoured, to be permitted to act as her escort. Perhaps he has been deputed by her parents, or by her friend, to look after her. Whether or no, he almost suffocates with importance if she graciously accords him permission to act as her courier and footman.
Other men who are journeying on the roads or rivers somehow become attached to Miss Ada's luggage. It appears that they are going in the same direction. They say so, at any rate. They form themselves into a sort of bodyguard to look after this wonderful visitant. Mysterious dangers, not to be explained, are darkly hinted at, in order that cause may be shown for their attendance. They are necessary as porters to look after her traps, as purveyors to fetch her milk and fruit, and so on.
Miss Ada may not unnaturally be a little timid at first, but she soon gets over that, finding that these big, bearded men are a good deal more timid of her. Some of them actually colour up when she looks at them. She discovers that she is a wit; her little jokes being applauded uproariously, and repeated by one of her bodyguard to another. Every eye is upon her, gazing at her with undisguised admiration; and every ear is humbly bent to catch the slightest whisper that falls from her lips. Really, these bushmen are very nice fellows, after all, in spite of their rough looks. Quite different from the affected young fops of the city.
As the young lady journeys onward her train swells, like a snowball gathering snow. Somehow or other, it seems that the whole district is meditating a visit to the place that is her destination. And everybody is so polite to her, so embarrassingly attentive, and so determined she shall enjoy her trip, that she begins to think the bush is the most delightful part of the habitable globe; while the scenery grows more and more enchanting every minute.
By-and-by the end of the journey is reached. The settler's wife comes out to meet her guest, while a long procession files up from the river, actually quarrelling for the privilege of carrying Miss Ada's various impedimenta. The ladies are embracing and kissing with effusion, to the manifest discomfiture and perturbation of the crowd, who try to look indifferently in opposite directions.