The Member has money, as I have mentioned, and here, as elsewhere, money is a magician's rod that will work wonders. To the Member labour and the cost of it bear other relations than they do to us. He is able to look on life in a different light, and may expend toil on other matters than such as are of bare utility. And he has done so, wisely and lavishly, and so his home is what a home should be in this fair land—an Eden of natural beauty.
In this garden there are smooth lawns and dainty flower-beds, winding walks and blossomy banks, trellised arbours and shady groves. Taste and elegance are manifest all round us, from the scented rosery to the well-kept melon-patch. The rich and splendid hues of countless flowers delight our eyes, while their unwonted sweetness sends a mild intoxication into us with every breath we draw. We pass up to the house along a straight, broad path, smooth and white with shell-gravel. The path divides the garden in a part of its length, and has a hedge on either side. But these hedges are of ornamental rather than useful kind. One is of geranium and the other of fuchsia. Here those beautiful plants, which are guarded so carefully in English conservatories, grow into trees in the open air. These geranium and fuchsia hedges are composed of many varieties of both. They are about eight or ten feet in height, and are constantly and carefully pruned to keep down their too exuberant tendencies. They are loaded with blossom, while the fuchsia fruit is a palatable addition to the many dainties of garden and orchard.
The house before us carries about it the same air of comfort and ease as the garden, not to speak of elegance. It is a large villa, similar to some of the mansions one may see about colonial cities. Of what style its architecture may be I cannot say. It appears to partake of the character, externally, both of a Swiss châlet and a Norwegian country house.
Of course, the material of the building is entirely kauri timber, with the exception of the chimneys, which are of brick, and the piles, hidden from sight, which are of puriri wood. There are many angles, corners, gables, wings, and outputs, designed for utility as well as appearance. Round the whole house runs a broad verandah, following the irregularities of the edifice. Above it is a balcony, forming a verandah for the upper storey, and the high, steep roof extends evenly over this. Between the pillars of the verandah is a light rail or trellis, upon which flowering creepers are twined, passion-flowers, with their handsome blossoms and refreshing fruit, conspicuous among them. Openings give admittance from the garden here and there; while light staircases connect the upper and lower verandahs outside the house.
There has been some care in the ornamentation and finish; suitable carvings and mouldings adding beauty to the general design. The walls are painted white, picked out with green, while the shingled roof, being coloured red, looks passably like tiling. Altogether, the Member is to be congratulated on his domicile. It is a very different affair to ours. It would be honestly called a mansion in any country.
This is the sort of house we intend to have, we say, as we walk up to it. And this is the kind of garden we will have round it, too. O'Gaygun sniffs at the flowers with pretended disrespect, and mutters something about "taters" being more useful and to the purpose. But even he is a little quelled by the surroundings, and we hear no more of his barbaric philosophy for a time.
Still, mark this, there is an air about the place that makes it different from so many old-country habitations. You do not feel that you may look but mustn't touch. You are not reminded that everything is for show, and not for use. There is no primness in the garden. There is an honest degree of orderly disorder, and an absence of formality. You do not feel as if you ought not to walk on the grass for fear of hurting it. There is no artificiality apparent; no empty pretences whatsoever.
The house partakes of the same characteristic. It looks homely, and as if it was meant to be lived in. As we reach the verandah we notice a saddle or two carelessly slung over the rail; we see a hammock hung in one corner; and some clothes drying on lines in another. A couple of colley dogs come barking to meet us from their kennels on a shady side; and various other slight details betoken that we are still in the unsophisticated bush.
We tramp heavily along the verandah, a formidable gang of uncouth barbarians. Old Colonial, at our head, gives a gentle coo-ee to intimate our arrival. Then out pops our hostess from somewhere. A merry, bright-eyed little woman is she, such as it does one's heart good to behold. She comes forward, with two of her children beside her, not a whit dismayed at the invasion. She gives us a hearty welcome, shaking hands religiously all along our lengthy line.
This is one of those women who always make you feel gratified and contented with yourself and all the world, after you have shaken hands with or spoken to her. "Magnetic," some people call it. She is every one's sister, and you feel an instinctive affection for her, of that sober and yet warm kind which may be termed loyalty. She is queen in the Kaipara; and all of us think it the greatest pleasure in life to obey her behests.