Perhaps this might be the way to some digger’s hut, occupied or otherwise; perhaps the approach to the abode of some mad “hatter”; at all events it was more than a wild goat track, and I resolved to follow it. Before I had gone twenty paces I detected a slightly muddy patch, and conceived the idea that if these were any recent footprints they might help me to form some conclusion as to whether this path had been used by Maoris or Pakehas. Accordingly, I bent down and examined the ground. There were footprints, not of Maoris’ bare feet, but of someone with boots—long, well-shaped boots they were, such as would be found on the feet of a very tall man. One cannot always judge Hercules by his foot, but when there are two feet, or rather footprints, situated nearly two yards apart in stride, it is safe to say that they belong to a man considerably over six feet in height.
As I hurried along, the track became slightly wider, and here and there a marshy part was strengthened with a corduroy of tree-fern trunks. Up, on to a slight ridge, through a long grove of white pines on the top, with the wind shrieking and whistling among their clean boles, I pursued the path, then down into a valley, and through another dark grove of tree-ferns, where, losing it altogether on the soft bed of dry fern dust, I wandered on, thinking to pick it up on the other side.
I had not gone far in the grove when, between the bare trunks of the tree ferns, I caught sight of a light twinkling some little distance beyond. I made towards it, and on coming out into an open space, saw that it came from a square window in some small abode standing on a rising ground at the further end of the space. I could just discern the vague outlines of a log hut with a giant roof-tree towering above it, while beyond was a wooded hill, whose ridge, fringed with roaring pines, broke the fury of the gale. This was obviously some digger’s hut, and here I should certainly get shelter.
Cautiously I made my way over the small clearing towards this secluded abode in the wilderness, so as to peep in at the window and get a glimpse of the inmate before asking for a night’s rest. I took this precaution because solitary “hatters” are often so obviously mad that the wisest course is to let them alone. But, when I reached the window and looked in, I got a sudden surprise. By the light of the candle standing on a rough table near the window, I encountered the face of one who was surely as much out of place there as a rough digger would be in the House of Lords. As I looked I saw that the owner of the face was poring over a large, quaint-looking volume and making notes with pen and ink in the broad margin. Now, to ponder some point, he leaned back in his chair and gazed straight before him, so that, by the light of the candle and the glow of the fire, which touched the edge of his short, crisp brown beard on the cheek that was turned from me, I saw his face clearly. It was truly a striking one, with a mouth well moulded within the shadow of a short, thick moustache, a nose aquiline and strong, eyes lustrous, half passionate and full of dreams, and a forehead massive and high, from which the hair rolled back good-naturedly like a mane. This should be some Waring of Browning’s portraiture, who had disappeared from his circle to bury himself in solitude, probably leaving a gap behind him which no other could fill. If indeed he was mad—and it seemed that he must be to waste his powers in such a hidden corner of the earth—it was a gentle, poetical madness, if one might judge by the almost tender expression of his face, and, withal, of a methodical kind, for, having unravelled his knotty point, he returned to his broad margin and made certain emendations.
After my brief glimpse of the remarkable man within, I had no hesitation in asking him for a night’s shelter. Accordingly I knocked gently at the door, and a deep voice answered, “Come in!”
I obeyed, and entered the hut.
“Ah!” said my host, rising from his seat and looking down at me—his dark eyes smiled genially as they met mine—“you’ve lost your way, I presume.”
“Yes; I started out to find Te Makawawa’s pa, but missed it, saw your light, and ventured to look you up.”
“Quite right. You’re welcome.” He extended his hand and gripped mine without cracking all the bones as most men who stand six and a half feet high love to do.
I now had a better view of this recluse, and recognised him again from his footsteps. He was a man of magnificent build, and his bush shirt, bush trousers, bush leggings, and, still more, bush boots, hid neither the fact that he was of good breeding, nor that his limbs were in perfect proportion, even to the point at which a man might wear a dress suit successfully. His strong, but sensitive face, with its deep, passionate eyes, which lighted up when he smiled, appealed to me as no man’s face has ever done before or since. In the space of time which it took him to get a chair for me, I had recognised a man who in every way could carry about three editions of myself under his arm, and yet in his courteous smile as he addressed me, I saw the gentlest man alive.