Women’s Ways.

Scarlett had a day upon his hands while his gold-seeking confreres of the League made their preparations for the journey to Bush Robin Creek. To loiter about the town meant that he would be pestered with questions regarding the locality of the new “field,” which, until his friends’ “claims” were pegged off, it was desirous to keep secret. He decided, therefore, to re-visit the scene of the wreck of The Mersey Witch.

On a mount, lent him by Chesterman, he was on his way to the Maori pa, before the town was stirring. The road, which he had never traversed before, wound its tortuous way along the shore for some eight miles, and then struck inland across the neck of a wooded peninsula, on the further side of which the rugged and rocky shore was fringed with virgin forest. He had reached the thick and shady “bush” which covered the isthmus, where the dew of the morning still lay cool on leaf and frond, and the great black boles of the forest giants stood sentinel amid the verdant undergrowth, when he overtook a girl who was walking towards the pa.

Her dress was peculiar; she wore a short Maori mat over her shoulders, and a blue petticoat fell from waist to ankle, while her head and feet were bare.

Jack reined in his horse, and asked if he was on the road which led to the pa, when the girl turned her merry, brown face, with its red lips and laughing, brown eyes, and said in English as good as his own, “Good morning. Yes, this is the road to the pa. Why, you were the last person I expected to see.” She held up her hand to him, to greet him in European fashion.

“Amiria!” he exclaimed. “How are you? It’s quite appropriate to meet you here—I’m on my way to the wreck, to see how the old ship looks, if there is anything of her left. How far is it to the pa?”

“About two miles.”

“What brings you so far, at this time of the morning?”

“You passed a settler’s house, half-a-mile back.”

“Yes, a house built of slabs.”

“I have been there to take the woman some fish—our people made a big haul this morning.”

Jack dismounted, and, hooking his arm through the bridle, he walked beside the Maori girl.

“Why didn’t you ride, Amiria?”

“My horse is turned out on the hills at the back of the pa, and it’s too much trouble to bring him in for so short a ride. Besides, the walk won’t hurt me: if I don’t take exercise I shall lose my figure.” She burst into a merry laugh, for she knew that, as she was then dressed, her beauty depended on elasticity of limb and sweetness of face rather than upon shape and fashion.

“I’ll show you the wreck,” she said. “It lies between us and the pa. It looks a very harmless place in calm weather with the sun shining on the smooth sea. The tide is out, so we ought to be able to reach the wreck without swimming.”

They had come now to the edge of the “bush,” and here Scarlett tied his horse to the bough of a tree; and with Amiria he paced the soft and sparkling sands, to which the road ran parallel.

The tide was low, as the girl had said, and the jagged rocks on which the bones of the ship lay stranded, stood black and prominent above the smooth water. The inner reefs were high and dry, and upon the slippery corrugations of the rocks, covered with seaweed and encrusted with shell-fish, the two walked; the Maori girl barefooted and agile, the Englishman heavily shod and clumsy.

Seeing the difficulty of Scarlett’s advance, Amiria held out her hand to him, and so linked they approached the sea. A narrow belt of water separated them from the reef on which the wreck lay, and to cross this meant immersion.

“The tide is not as low as I thought,” said Amiria. “At low spring-tide you can walk, almost dry-shod, to the other side.”

“I’m afraid we can’t reach it without a ducking,” said Scarlett.

“But you can swim?”

Scarlett laughed. “It’s hardly good enough to ride home in wet clothes.” He divined Amiria’s meaning, but pretended otherwise.

Then she laughed, too. “But I have a plan,” she said. Without a word more, she threw off her flax cape and dropped into the water. A few strokes and she had reached the further reef. “It will be all right,” she cried, “I think I can ferry you across on a raft.”

She walked over the sharp rocks as though her feet were impervious, and clambering through a great rent in the vessel’s side, she disappeared.

When next Jack caught sight of her she was perched on the top of the battered poop, whence she called, “I’ll roll a cask over the rocks, and get you across. There’s a big chest in the saloon that belongs to you.”

She disappeared again, and when Jack next saw her, she was rolling a huge barrel with difficulty towards the channel.

“It’s a quarter-full of sand,” she cried, “and when you stand it on its end it is ballasted. You’ll be able to come over quite dry.”

Launching the cask, she pushed it before her as she swam, and soon clambered up beside Scarlett.

“It’s bunged, I see,” said he.

“I did it with a piece of wood,” said she.

Then, booted and spurred, Jack placed himself cross-legged on the cask, and so was ferried across the intervening strip of water.

The main deck of the vessel was washed away, but the forecastle and poop remained more or less intact. The ship, after settling on the rock, had broken her back, and the great timbers, where the copper sheathing and planks had been torn away, stood up like naked ribs supporting nothing.

Walking upon an accumulation of sand and debris, the Maori girl and Jack passed from the hold to what was left of the main deck, and entered the saloon. All the gilding and glory had departed. Here a cabin door lay on the floor, there the remains of the mahogany table lay broken in a corner. A great sea-chest, bearing Scarlett’s name upon its side, stood in the doorway that led to the captain’s cabin. Full of sand, the box looked devoid of worth and uninviting, but Scarlett, quickly taking a piece of board, began to scoop out the sodden contents. As he stooped, a ray of sunlight pierced the shattered poop-deck and illumined his yellow hair. Attracted by the glitter, Amiria put out her hand and stroked his head.

Jack looked up.

“Isn’t that a bit familiar?” he asked.

Amiria laughed. “Not from the girl who saved you. If I hadn’t pulled you out of the water, it might seem a great thing to touch you, but I know you so well that really it doesn’t matter.”

Jack buried his head in the chest. This relationship between preserver and preserved was new to him: he hardly knew what to make of it. But the humour of the situation dawned on him, and he laughed.

“By George, I’m at your mercy,” he said, and, standing up, with his back still towards her, he laughed again. “You’ve appropriated me, just as your people appropriated the contents of this box and the rest of the wreckage. You’ll have to be put in charge of the police for a little thief.” And again his laugh rang through the ruined saloon.

Remarking that the girl made no reply to this sally, he glanced towards her, to find that she had turned her back upon him and was sobbing in a corner. Leaving his task of clearing out the sea-chest, he went towards her, and said, “I’m awfully sorry, Amiria, if I’ve said anything that hurt your feelings. I really didn’t mean to.” He had yet to learn that a Maori can bear anything more easily than laughter which seems to be derisive.

As the girl continued to cry, he placed his hand upon her shoulder. “Really, Amiria, I meant nothing. I would be the last person on earth to hurt your feelings. I don’t forget what I owe you. I can never repay you. If I have been clumsy, I ask your pardon.” He held up her head, and looked into her tear-stained face. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

The girl, her still untutored nature half-hidden beneath a deceptive covering of Pakeha culture, broke into a torrent of Maori quite unintelligible to the white man, but as it ended in a bright smile bursting out from behind her tears, he knew that peace was made.

“Thank you,” he said; “we’re friends again.”

In a moment, she had thrown her arms about him and had burst into a rhapsody in her native tongue, and, though he understood not one word of it, he knew intuitively that it was an expression of passionate affection.

The situation was now more awkward than before. To rebuff her a second time would be to break his word and wound her more deeply than ever. So he let this new burst of feeling spend itself, and waited for her to return to her more civilised self.

When she did, she spoke in English. “You mustn’t judge me by the Pakeha girls you know. My people aren’t like yours—we have different ways. White girls are cold and silent when they feel most—I know them: I went to school with them—but we show our feelings. Besides, I have a claim on you which no white girl has. No white girl would have pulled you out of the surf, as I did. And if I showed I cared for you then, why shouldn’t I show it now? Perhaps the Pakeha would blame me, but I can’t always be thinking of your ritenga. In the town I do as the white woman does; out here I follow the Maori ritenga. But whichever ritenga it is, I love you; and if you love me in return, I am the happiest girl in the kainga.”

Scarlett gave a gasp. “Ah—really, I wasn’t thinking of marrying—yet.”

Amiria smiled. “You don’t understand,” she said. “But never mind; if you love me, that’s all right. We will talk of marrying by and by.”

Scarlett stood astonished. His mind, trained in the strict code of a sternly-proper British parish, failed to grasp the fact that a Maori girl regards matters of the heart from the standpoint of a child of Nature; having her code of honour, it is true, but one which is hardly comprehended by the civilised Pakeha.

Jack felt he was standing upon the dizzy abyss that leads to loss of caste. There was no doubt of Amiria’s beauty, there was no doubt of her passionate affection, but there was a feeling at the back of his mind that his regard for her was merely a physical attraction. He admired every curve of her supple shape, he felt his undying gratitude go out to the preserver of his life, but that was all. Yet a weakness was stealing over him, that weakness which is proportionate usually to the large-heartedness of the individual.

Suddenly relinquishing Amiria’s clasp, he went to the broken port-hole of a dilapidated cabin and looked out upon the incoming sea.

“We must be quick,” he cried, “or we shall be caught by the tide.”

“What matter?” said the girl, lazily. “I have stayed here a whole night when the sea was not as calm as it is now.”

“But I have to get back to town—I start for the gold-fields to-morrow, before daylight.”

“Why do you go to the stupid gold-fields? Isn’t there everything a man wants here? The pa is full of food—you shall want for nothing.”

“I suppose it is the Pakeha way to want to grow rich. Come along.”

He clambered down to where the broken keelson lay, and regained the rocks. Amiria followed him slowly, as though reluctant to leave the scene of her confession, but presently she stood beside him on the slippery seaweed.

He led the way to where the barrel lay floating in the rising tide. That the ignominy of being ferried by a girl might not be repeated, he had brought from the wreck a piece of board with which to propel himself.

Perceiving his intention so soon as he was sitting cross-legged on the top of his strange craft, Amiria dashed into the water, seized the improvised oar, and threatened to drag it from his grasp.

“I’ll take you across myself,” she almost screamed. “Why should you think I don’t want to take you back?”

“All right,” said Jack, dropping his piece of wood, “have it your own way. I hand myself over to you, but let us get across quickly.”

Again the Englishman felt how mean are the conventions of the white man, how petty his propriety; again the Maori girl felt nothing but pleasure and pride in the part she played.

When they reached the further side, Amiria picked up her mat and threw it over her glistening shoulders, and Scarlett floundered over the slippery rocks towards the beach.

“You’ll come to the pa?”

“You’re too kind. I must get back to town.”

“But you’ve had nothing to eat.”

“I have my lunch in my wallets.”

Amiria’s face fell. “You’re very unkind,” she said.

“I’ll stay all day, next time I come.”

“When will that be?”

“As soon as I can. Ah, here’s my horse, under this birch tree. Well, good-bye, Amiria. Thank you for taking charge of me to-day. My word, how you can swim: like a mermaid.”

His hand touched hers for a brief moment; the next he was in the saddle. His spur lightly touched the horse’s flank, and the springy turf yielded to the iron-shod hooves; there was a waving of a disappearing hand, and the brown girl was left alone. “You will come back,” she called through the leaves.

“I’ll come back.”

Then, slowly, sadly, she walked towards the pa, talking to herself in Maori, listless and sorrowful.

By the time that Scarlett had reached the outskirts of Timber Town the night had begun to close in. Leaving the main road, he passed along a by-way to a ford, where a foot-bridge spanned the river. As his horse bent its head to drink, Jack heard a woman scream upon the bridge above him. In a moment he had dismounted, and his heavy boots were resounding on the wooden planks. In the middle of the bridge he came upon a girl struggling in the grasp of a thick-set ruffian, who was dragging her towards the bank further from the town. Grappling with the brutal fellow, Jack released the girl, who ran past him in the direction of the horse.

The scoundrel cursed and kicked, but Jack, who had him by the throat, almost squeezed the life out of him, and then heaved him over the bridge into the dark and gurgling water. Returning to the girl, who was standing at the bridge-head, crying and, seemingly, deprived of power to run further, Scarlett led her to where the horse stood beside the water.

“Which way shall I take you?” he asked.

“I live at the other side of the town,” she replied. “I was going home when that brute met me on the bridge.” Again she lost control of her powers, and Jack was obliged to support her.

When she had recovered, he swung her into the saddle and led the horse across the river.

“I was just in time,” he said. “How do you feel now?”

“Better.”

“It’s lucky I didn’t kill the brute. Do you know who he is?”

“I never saw him before. But I think he’s a digger: lots of them have come into the town since this discovery of gold was made. Oh, I’m so frightened! Do you think he will come again?”

“It’s hardly likely. I think he must have had enough trouble for one night.”

“Suppose you have drowned him——”

“There’s no chance of that—the water is only deep enough to break his fall. He’ll be all right.”

“I think I had better get down, if you please: it would be rather an unusual thing to ride through the town in this manner. I think I can walk.”

She slid limply to the ground, and Jack supported her.

“Whom must I thank for helping me?” she asked.

“I’m a digger, too,” said Jack; and he told her his name.

“Are you the man who discovered the new field?”

“Some people give me the credit of it. I start back to-morrow. It was lucky I was crossing that stream when I did. You haven’t told me whom I have had the pleasure of rescuing.”

They were passing a street lamp, and for the first time Jack could see the girl’s face. She was pretty, with black hair, an oval face, and a dark complexion.

“I’m Miss Varnhagen,” she said. “My Dad will be awfully grateful to you.” She looked at her preserver with eyes which expressed all the gratitude that Scarlett could desire.

“I’ll see you safely home,” he said; “and when you tell your father, perhaps he will repay me by letting me see you again.”

“He’ll be only too pleased. He says the town owes you more than it can ever pay you for discovering this gold, which, he says, will mean thousands of pounds to him and the other merchants.”

They passed through the town and paused before a great wooden mansion, painted a light colour, which made it conspicuous even in the dark. Here Rachel said she lived. Between the gate and the house grew a plantation of palms, camellias, and rare shrubs, which were displayed by the lights which shone above the gate and the door.

“Won’t you come in and see my father?”

“Nothing would please me more, but I’m wet, and my horse is tired and needs a feed. Some other time I’ll call and tell your father how pleased I was to be of service to you. Good-night.”

Rachel gave his hand a tender squeeze. “Thanks awf’lly,” she said, looking up at him with seraphic eyes. “Thank you awf’lly much. I think you’re just the nicest man I ever met. Be sure you come to see us when you return. Good-night.” Another tender squeeze of the hand, another affectionate look, and she disappeared among the palms and camellias.

Jack mounted his horse, and rode it to its stables. Then he went to The Lucky Digger, where he changed his clothes and had dinner, after which he directed his steps towards the house of Pilot Summerhayes.

His knock was answered by Rose herself, who conducted him into the quaint dining-room, where, upon the polished table, lay the materials for a dress which she was making, and beside them the hundred-and-one oddments which are necessary for such a task.

“Father’s out. He has gone to fetch a steamer in.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I should like to see him before I go back to the bush.”

Rose sat silent. She was very demure, and her manner was somewhat stiff; therefore, seeing that his experiences had exhilarated him, Jack said, “I’ve had a great day. Two of the prettiest girls I ever saw almost devoured me.”

“Where have you been, Mr. John Scarlett? You want watching.”

Rose’s bashfulness had entirely disappeared, but she was blushing profusely.

“I went out to see the wreck,” said Jack, “and met your little Maori friend.”

“Your life’s preserver.”

“My life’s preserver. She ferried me across an impassable strip of water on a barrel, and almost captured my heart in the saloon.”

“Don’t play any games with Amiria’s heart, or I shall cut you dead. I tell you that plainly.”

“I assure you I have no intention whatever of playing with Amiria’s heart. It was she who played with mine, and nearly won. But I saved myself by flight. It was fortunate I had a good horse.”

Rose laughed. “One would imagine you were hardly big enough to look after yourself. That’s the kind of young man they generally send out from England. Well?”

“As I was coming home I met a digger molesting another friend of mine, a Miss Varnhagen.”

“You’d better be careful—she’s a flirt.”

“Then I rather like flirts. I threw the digger into the river, and took her home. She has the most lovely eyes I ever saw.”

“And she knows how to use them.”

“You’re jealous, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t you want to look at the man who had saved you from an ugly brute, who met you in the dark on a narrow bridge from which you couldn’t possibly escape?”

“Perhaps. But why don’t you feel a little sentimental over the girl who saved you from a watery grave? You’re callous, I’m afraid, Mr. Scarlett.”

“Not at all: I’m merely flattered. It seems a pity I can’t stop in Timber Town, and see more of such girls; but I must be off to-morrow to get more gold. Gold is good, Miss Summerhayes, but girls are better.”

“Fie, fie. Gold and a good girl—that’s perfection.” “They always go together—I quite understand that.”

“Now you’re frivolling. You’re making yourself out to be blasÉ and all that. I shall tell my father to forbid you the house.”

“In which case I shall call on Miss Varnhagen.”

“That would be all right—you would meet with the punishment you deserve. Marry the Varnhagen girl, and you will be grey in two years, and bald in five.”

“Well, I’m going to the gold-fields to-morrow.”

“So you said. I hope you will have the same luck as before.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What more do you want?”

“Any amount.”

“You’ve got gold: you’ve got feminine adoration. What more is there, except more gold?”

“More feminine adoration.”

“I should have thought you had to-day as much affection as is good for you.”

“You’re in high spirits to-night.”

“I am. It’s jolly to think of people succeeding. It’s jolly to know somebody is growing rich, even if my old father and I are poor, that is too poor for me to go to assembly balls and private dances and things like that. So I sit at home and sew, and make puddings, and grow roses. Heigh-ho! I’m very happy, you know.”

Jack looked at her closely. Her cheeks were pink-and-white, her crisp, brown hair formed a becoming setting to her face, and her blue eyes sparkled as they watched him.

“It seems to agree with you,” he said. “I feel inclined to recommend a course of sewing and cooking to all my plain girl-friends.”

“Mr. Scarlett!”

“I mean it.”

“Then go, and tell Rachel Varnhagen to use your recipe.”

“She’s beautiful already.”

Just at this point of the conversation, there was the sound of heavy steps somewhere in a remote part of the house, and presently the Pilot of Timber Town tramped into the room.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Scarlett! Making love to my dar’ter, when I thought you was on your way to the diggings? Come, come; you’re losing your opportunities; you’re wasting time in gallivanting, when you might be growing rich. There’s great news abroad. They’ve issued a writ against that chap Tresco for the robbery of those mail-bags.”

“Tresco?” said Scarlett.

“Aye, Tresco the goldsmith. He’s wanted by the police.”

“Then I’m afraid they won’t find him,” said Jack. “He’s safe, I reckon.”

“Indeed. How do you know that?”

“He was in the bush with his prospector friend, when I left Bush Robin Creek. But he robbed no mails, bless you, Pilot. What would he want with other people’s letters?”

“I don’t pretend to know. There’s money in mail-bags, I suppose. Perhaps he was after that.”

“He’s after gold, right enough, and he’ll get it, if I’m not mistaken.”

Jack had risen to go.

“We leave early in the morning,” he said. “I must get some sleep. Good-bye, Pilot; good-bye, Miss Summerhayes.”

“Good luck, lad. Come back rich.”

Rose was silent till Jack was near the door. Then she said, “I shall remember your recipe—I shan’t neglect home duties: I shall attend to them regularly.”

Jack laughed, and the Pilot went with him to the front door. “Eh, lad, there never was such a gal for minding a house. She can make a batter-puddin’ with anyone, and I don’t care who the next is. Good night, lad, good night. There’s never no need to tell her to look after her old father, none at all. And it’s a good test—as good as you can have, Jack, my lad. If a gal looks after her old father well, she’ll look after her husband, too, when he comes along. Good night, Jack; good night. Eh, but you’re in a lucky streak. You’ll die rich, Jack. Good night, Jack; good night.”