War to the Knife
TextRoland Massinger remained in New Zealand until his health was thoroughly re-established, when, having received the welcome intelligence that Mr. Hamon de Massinger, an old bachelor and a distant relation, had left him a very large fortune, he so far modified his thirst for adventure and heroic colonization as to take his passage to England, where his lawyers advised that his presence was absolutely necessary.
Upon his arrival, he lost no time in visiting his county and looking up his friends, who made a tremendous hero of him, and would by no means allow him to deny astonishing feats of valour performed during the Maori war. He also discovered that his Australian successor, though most popular in the county, had become tired of the unrelieved comfort and too pronounced absence of adventure in English country life. The sport, the society, the farming even, so restricted as to be minute in his eyes, all had become uninteresting to the ex-pioneer, not yet old enough to fall out of the ranks of England's empire-makers. These considerations, coupled with a fall in wool, and the rumour of a drought, widespread and unprecedented in severity, decided Mr. Lexington to return to the land of his birth.
His elder daughter had married satisfactorily, and settled in the county. "She had," she averred, "no ultra-patriotic longings. England, with an annual trip to the Continent, was good enough for her. She doubted whether George would care for Australia. Then there was the dear baby, who was too young to travel. She was truly sorry to part from her family, but as the voyage was now only a matter of five weeks by the P. and O. or the Messageries boats, she could come out and see them every other year, at any rate."
As for the younger girl, she began to pine for the plains and forests amid which her childhood had been passed. England was a sort of fairyland, no doubt. Climate lovely and cool, and the people kind and charming; but somehow the old country – that is, the new country – where they had been born and bred, seemed to have prior claims. She would not be sorry to see the South Head Lighthouse again and Sydney Harbour.
The eldest son had gone more than a year ago. He was very glad, he wrote, that he had done so. One manager had become extravagant; another had taken to drinking. Everybody seemed to think that they (the family) had left Australia for good. There was such a thing as the master's eye, without doubt. Such had been his experience. He would tell them more when he saw them.
One of the reasons which actuated Mr. Lexington, a shrewd though liberal man in business matters, was a dislike to paying the income-tax in two countries at the same time. He could afford it, certainly, but it struck him as wasteful, and in a measure unfair, to make an Australian pay extravagantly for desiring to live in the mother-land. Then, after assisting to enlarge the empire abroad, the price of landed estates in England had gone down seriously – was, indeed, going down still. With a probability of a serious fall in values in both hemispheres, it was better to part with his English investment while he could get a purchaser for it, who, like himself, was not disposed to stand upon trifles.
So it came to pass that, after a conference between his own and the Massinger solicitors, Mr. Lexington accepted the proposal to sell Massinger Court, with the Hereford herd of high-bred cattle, hacks, hunters, carriage-horses, vehicles, saddlery – indeed, everything just as it stood. All these adjuncts to be taken at a valuation, and added to the price of the estate, the re-purchase of which by a member of the family was what most probably, though his solicitor declined to say, old Mr. Hamon de Massinger, the testator, had in view all along.
The county was ridiculously overjoyed, as some acidulated person said, that the rightful heir, so to speak, was come to his own again. Independently of such feeling, nowhere stronger than in English county society, few localities but would feel a certain satisfaction at the return of a county magnate – rich, unmarried, and distinguished, as a man must always be who has fought England's battles abroad, and shed his blood in upholding her honour. Thus, although the free-handed and unaffected Australian family was heartily regretted, and "farewelled" with suitable honours, the sentimental corner in all hearts responded fervently to the news that the young squire had returned to the home of his ancestors, and would henceforth, as he declared at the tenants' enthusiastically joyous reception, live among his own people.
Of course, all sorts of exaggerated versions of his life in the far South prevailed. These comprised prowess in war, hairbreadth escapes, wounds, and captivity, the whole rounded off with a legend of a beautiful native princess, who had brought him as her dower a principality beneath the Southern Cross. To these romantic rumours he paid no attention whatever, refusing to be drawn, and giving the most cursory answers to direct questions. But when, after spending a quiet year on his estate, in the management of which he took great interest, it was announced that he was about to be married to the beautiful, distinguished, fascinating, eccentric Hypatia Tollemache, all the county was wildly excited. When the event took place, the particulars of the quiet wedding were read and re-read by every one in his own and the adjacent counties.
Fresh tales and legends, however, continued to be circulated. His first wife – for he had married a beautiful Maori princess; at any rate, a chief's daughter – was killed fighting by his side in a tribal war. She was jealous of Miss Tollemache, and had committed suicide. Not at all. Her father, a great war-chief, disapproved of the union, and, carrying her off, had immured her in his stronghold, surrounded by a lake, which her despairing husband could not cross. So she pined away and died. That was the reason for his occasional fits of depression, and his insensibility to the charms of the local belles.
He was obdurate with respect to giving information as to the truth or otherwise of these interesting narratives; indeed, so obviously unwilling to gratify even the most natural curiosity, that at length even the most hardened inquisitor gave up the task in despair.
The county had more reason for complaint when it was further announced that Sir Roland and his bride had left for the Continent immediately after the wedding, whence they did not propose returning until the near approach of Christmas-tide. Then such old-world festivities as were still remembered by the villagers in connection with former lords of the manor would be conscientiously kept up, while the largesse to the poor, which under the new régime had not by any means fallen into disuse, would be disbursed with exceptional profusion.
After the sale Mr. Lexington had been besought to consult his own convenience, absolutely and unreservedly, as to the time and manner of his departure. The purchase-money having been received, and all legal forms completed, he was to consider the house and all things appertaining thereto at his service. Messrs. Nourse and Lympett had instructions to take delivery of the estate whenever it suited him to vacate it. The Australian gentleman, having had much experience in the sale and taking over of "stations" in Australia – always regarded as a crucial test of liberality – was heard to declare that never in his life had he purchased and resold so extensive a property with so little trouble, or concluded so considerable a transaction with less friction or misunderstanding on either side.
And so, when the leaves in the woods around the Chase had fallen, and the ancient oaks and elms were arrayed in all their frost and snow jewellery, word came that the squire with his bride were returning from their extended tour. They would arrive on a certain day, prepared to inhabit the old hall which had sheltered in pride and power so many generations of the race. Then the whole county went off its head, and prepared for his home-coming. Such a demonstration had not been heard of since Sir Hugo de Massinger, constable of Chester, came home from the wars in Wales after the death of Gwenwyn.
When the train drew up to the platform, such a crowd was there that Hypatia looked forth with amazement, wondering whether there was a contested election, with the chairing of the successful candidate imminent. Every man of note in the county was there, from the Duke of Dunstanburgh to the last created knight. Every tenant, every villager, with their wives and daughters, sons and visitors; every tradesman – in fact, every soul within walking, riding, or driving distance – had turned up to do honour to Sir Roland of the Court, who, after adventures by sea and land, through war and bloodshed, had been suffered, doubtless by the direct interposition of Providence, to come to his own again.
As Sir Roland and his fair dame passed through the crowd towards their chariot, it was quickly understood what was to be the order of the day. The horses were taken out, and a dozen willing hands grasped the pole, preparatory to setting forth for the Court, some three miles distant. Waving his hand to request silence, the bridegroom said —
"My lord duke, ladies and gentlemen, and you my good friends, who have known me from childhood, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the welcome which you have given to me and my dear wife on our return to our native country and the home of my ancestors. My wife would thank you on her part, if her heart was not too full. We trust that in the future we may show by our lives, lived among you, how deeply, how intensely, we appreciate your generous welcome. At present I can say nothing more, than to invite you, one and all, to accompany us to the Court, to do us the honour to accept the first hospitality we have been in a position to offer since I left England."
Due notice had been given. Preparations had been made on a scale of unprecedented magnitude. A partial surprise awaited the wedded pair as the carriage passed through the massive gates, above which the triumphal arch seemed to have levied contributions on half the evergreens in the park. The heraldic beasts, each "a demi-Pegasus quarterly or in gules," on the moss-grown pillars, were garlanded with hot-house flowers, as also with the holly-bush and berries appropriate to the season. Marquees had been erected on the lawns, where all manner of meats, from the lordly baron of beef to the humbler flitch of bacon, were exhibited in such profusion as might lead to the inference that a regiment had been billeted on the village. It would not have been for the first time. Cromwell's Ironsides had, indeed, tried demi-saker, arblast, and culverin on the massive walls of the old hall, without, however, much decisive effect. Hogsheads of ale were there more than sufficient to wash down the solid fare, for which the keen bright atmosphere furnished suitable appetites.
The nobility and gentry were entertained in the great dining-hall, where a déjeuner had been prepared, thoroughly up to date, abounding in all modern requirements. Champagne and claret flowed in perennial abundance. The plate, both silver and gold, heirlooms of the ancient house, had been brought back from their resting-places. It was evident that the whole thing – the cuisinerie, the decorations, the waiters, the fruit, and flowers – had been sent down from London days before; and as Sir Roland and Hypatia took their places at the head of the table, mirth and joyous converse commenced to ripple and flow ceaselessly. Even the ancestral portraits seemed to have acquired a glow of gratification as the lovely and the brave, the gallant courtiers or the grim warriors, looked down upon their descendant and his bride; on those fortunate ones so lately restored to the pride and power of their position – so lately in peril of losing these historic possessions, and their lives at the same time.
Did Hypatia, as an expression of thoughtful retrospection shaded her countenance momentarily, recall another scene, scarcely two years since, when the bridegroom, now rejoicing in the pride of manhood, lay wounded, and a captive, helplessly awaiting an agonizing death; herself in the power of maddened savages, as was Cyril Summers with his wife and children? Then the miraculous interposition – the fierce Ropata sweeping away the rebel fanatics, with the fire of his wrath! And she – alas! the faithful, the devoted Erena, but for whose sacrificial tenderness Sir Roland would not have been by her side today! What was she, Hypatia, more than others, that such things should have been done for her? The tears would rise to her eyes, in spite of her efforts to compose her countenance, as she looked on the joyous faces around. Mary Summers and her husband sat in calm enjoyment of the scene. Then, with a heartfelt inward prayer to Him who had so disposed their fortunes to this happy ending, she strove to mould her feelings to a mood more in accordance with her present surroundings.
A change in the proceedings was at hand. The Duke of Dunstanburgh, rising, besought his good friends and neighbours to charge their glasses, and to bear with him for a few moments, while he proposed a toast which doubtless they had all anticipated.
His young friend, as he was proud to call him, whose father he had known and loved, had this day been restored to the seat of his ancestors, to the ancient home of the De Massingers in their county. He would but touch lightly on his adventures, by flood and field, in that far land, to which he had elected to find – er – an – outlet for his energy. Danger had there been, as they all knew. Blood had been shed. The lives of himself and his lovely bride, who now shed lustre upon their gathering, had trembled in the balance, when by an almost miraculous interposition succour arrived. He would not pursue the subject, with which painful memories were interwoven. Enough to state that under all circumstances, even the most desperate, Sir Roland had maintained the honour of England, and had shed his blood freely in defence of her time-honoured institutions. (Tremendous cheering.) He had returned, thank God! he would say in all sincerity, and was now, with his bride, a lady who in all respects would do honour to the county and the kingdom, placed in possession of the hall of his ancestors. He was come – they had his assurance – prepared to live and die among them; among the friends of his youth, and those older neighbours who, like the speaker, had hunted and fished and shot with his father before him. He was proud this day to give them the toast of Sir Roland and Lady de Massinger – to wish them long life and prosperity – and he was sure he might add, in the name of the whole county, to welcome them most heartily to their home.
When the cheering had subsided, taken up again and again, as it was from the outer hall and even from the lawn, by the tenants and villagers, who, if they could not see, could at least judge by the storm of voices as to the nature of the address which had called it forth, Sir Roland stood up and faced the crowd of guests, who cheered again and again as though they never intended to stop. He commenced with studied calmness, thanking them all, his good friends and neighbours, the old friends of the house, and those among whom he had lived so long in friendship, he might say affectionate intimacy, until circumstances, apparently, made it necessary for him to leave the home of his childhood. They would doubtless appreciate the greatness of the sacrifice, the bitterness of feeling, with which he quitted the home of his race. He resolved to go as far as was possible from home and its memories, and had, in fact, gone so far South that the Pole only would have been the next abiding-place. It was a British outpost, however, well deserving the name of the Britain of the South; destined in years to come to be the home, the prosperous home, of millions of the men of our race, and one of the brightest jewels in the Imperial crown. Difficulties had arisen with the Maori nation, a proud, a brave, a highly intelligent people, who had made the best defence in war against British regulars by an aboriginal race since the days when the stubborn valour of the ancient Britons scarce yielded to the legionaries of Rome. (Tremendous cheering.) That war, fraught with disastrous losses in men and officers to Britain's bravest regiments, was now over, he was rejoiced to say. There might be irregular fighting from time to time, but the high chiefs had surrendered, and vast areas of the most fertile land in the world had now become the property of the Crown. He himself held what might be considered an incredibly large domain, which must prove of great value in time to come. He would not mention the number of acres. He was not going back there. (Redoubled cheering.) He could assure them of that fact, though in days to come another Massinger Court might arise beneath the Southern Cross. (Renewed cheering.) He was as fixed here, under Providence (he told them now), as the "King's Oak" in the Chase. (Loud and prolonged cheering.) He and his wife had experienced a sufficiency of adventure, by land and sea, to last them for their natural lives. They desired, in all humility, to return heartfelt thanks to Almighty God for their restoration to this pleasant home, and those dear friends whom at one time they never thought to see again. They hoped to prove their gratitude, by lives of usefulness in their day and generation.
The adventures of Sir Roland de Massinger and Hypatia his wife, insomuch as regards peril and uncertainty of war or peace, travel by land and sea, or even the stormy politics of a new nation, must be said now to have lost much of their interest. Henceforth Sir Roland was contented to pursue the ordinary course of the country gentleman of England, which, if not exciting or adventurous, is surely one of the happiest lives in the world. He was contented to manage his New Zealand property through an agent. Indeed, after Mr. Slyde's appearance in England – that gentleman having received a year's leave of absence, on account of his wound and eminent services in the war – he was pleased to place the whole management of Waikato Court and Chase, near the flourishing township of Chesterfield, in his hands. Mr. Slyde was about to relinquish his connection with the New Zealand Land Company, having, as he said with his customary cynicism, been fool enough to encumber himself with a picturesque and fertile block of land, on the same river, and also to commit the crowning folly of matrimony with a young lady to whom he had become engaged just after the war. New Zealand was bad enough, he averred, but for a man who had been born without the proverbial silver spoon, England was the worst country in the civilized world. Therefore, if his comrade, Sir Roland, had sufficient faith in his intelligence and honesty – rather rare endowments in a colony – he supposed he could manage both properties with much the same outlay of cash and industry as his own.
The arrangement was completed, and worked so satisfactorily, that for many a year Sir Roland had no duties connected with the antipodean estates beyond supervising the sale of wool, frozen mutton, butter, cheese, cocksfoot grass seed, and other annual products, which so excited the admiration of his neighbours and tenants that they could hardly be made to believe that such satisfactory samples could be produced out of England, his frozen lamb, equal to "prime Canterbury," notwithstanding.
Hypatia is truly happy in her home – blessed with a growing family, contented with her duties as the wife of a county member, and, above all, firmly convinced that Roland was the only man she had ever loved. She is almost convinced, as her outspoken friend Mrs. Merivale (née Branksome) often assured her, that it served her right for her absurdly altruistic notions and general perversity that she so nearly lost him. The days are only too short for her employments and enjoyments. Nor did she abandon the philanthropical obligation, but as the kindly, generous, and capable Lady Bountiful of the estate, is "earthlier happy as the rose distilled" than in any imaginable state of "single blessedness," however advanced and politically eminent.