"War to the Knife;" or, Tangata Maori by Rolf Boldrewood (100 best novels of all time TXT) 📕

billeted on the village. It would not have been for the first time. Cromwell's Ironsides had, indeed, tried demi-saker, [Pg 415] 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 d�jeuner 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 [Pg 416] 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 [Pg 417] 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 [Pg 418] 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 [Pg 419] 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 [Pg 420] 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 (n�e 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.