Over the Hills and Far Away: a story of New Zealand

Preface

. In writing a story of New Zealand life, one great difficulty presents itself. It is a life which in its social aspects is continually altering, as the country advances in prosperity and civilization. The colours in the kaleidoscope remain the same, but the pattern gradually changes. In writing this story, I had in my mind the New Zealand of some years ago, with which I first made acquaintance. Since then much is altered. The land which lay waste and desolate is now fenced and under cultivation, and society has become more formal, and conforms more strictly to the rules in vogue in Europe. Preface. VI Charlotte Bronte says, at the end of one of her letters written on the Continent, to a friend at home, that it seems to her, while writing, as if the winds and waves of the Channel must drown the sound of what she is saying.

I too have the same odd fancy. Thinking of the mighty waste of waters which separates me from the home-country, I feel tempted to exclaim, " Oh, mighty ocean which divides us, hush your roar awhile ! Oh, wild winds, cease to moan ! and let them hear my voice in England ! " CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — On the Lewes Road 1 II. — Pages from Lucy's Diary 14 III. — Pages from Lucy's Diary 25 IV.— Lucy's Diary 32 V. — Laura 44 VI. — Lucy's Diary 58 VII.— Lucy's Diary 69 VIII. — The Lennoxes 79 IX.— A Drawn Game 95 X. — Mrs. Prior's Brother 106 XI.— Effie 118 XII. — Under the Blue Gums 127 XIII. — Laura Reappears 135 XIV. — The End of the Concert 116 XV. — Mrs. Lennox becomes Confidential . . . 151 XVI. — Dacre's Advice 161 XVII.— A Question Contents. VIII CHAP- PAGE XVIIL— Clinton's First Love 178 XIX.— The "Beauty of Kent" 185 XX.— Lucy's Ride 191 XXI. — Dacre to the Rescue 207 XXII.— The First Time 216 XXIII. — Louis losics his Temper at Croquet . . 226 XXIV.— The Second Time 242 XXV.— The Beginning of the End .... 256 XXVI.- Peccavi 267 XXVII.— Good-bye 275 XXVIII.— The Picture 284 XXIX.— The Third Time 295 XXX.— Broken 309 XXXI. — The Slope of the Hill 314 XXXII.— A Charge 326 XXXIII.— Forgiven OVER THE HILLS, AND FAE AWAY. A STORY OF NEW ZEALAND.

Chapter I. On The Lewes Eoad

Brighton during the season, and about three o'clock on a glorious summer afternoon ; the Grand Parade a stream of carriages and riders so deep and rapid that Lucy Cunningham, after waiting vainly for several minutes for a chance to cross the road, gave it up in despair, and pursued her way along the foot pavement nearest the sea, hoping for better luck anoru She had some letters in one hand, and was intend- B ing to drop them into the first pillar letter-box she met with. There was one on the farther side of the road just opposite to her she knew, but at present she was cut off from it by the steady ebb and flow of chariots and horsemen. She comforted herself with the reflection that she had plenty of leisure time, and that her walk would be better prolonged, for it was the last walk she was to undertake in England until — who could say when ?

This was Monday. On Tuesday she was going with her mother on board the " Flora Macdonald," bound for Otago. Lucy Cunningham said to herself, as she sauntered down the Brighton Parade that afternoon, that with the morrow a new chapter in her life would begin. But she was wrong. It was to commence that day. This history does not concern itself with anything happening to Lucy previous to the time I now write of. Briefly and concisely, in as few words as pos sible, let me state how she came to take that last walk in Brighton when a fresh episode in her life opened out before her. She was then twenty-one, and her brother Louis was eight years her senior. The last four he had spent in New Zealand with his father, and then he had taken a trip to England to fetch his sister, who had been educated at home, out to the colony.

She had been brought up under the care of her two maiden aunts, who had, besides their house at Brighton, a beautiful little villa upon the banks of the Thames, between which residences they divided their time with extreme regularity. Lucy had not seen her father for seven years, for that period had elapsed since he had left England, so that he was almost a stranger to his only daughter. When she last saw him she was " Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet — Womanhood and childhood sweet." Now childhood had passed for ever into the " days that are no more;" but Lucy was still in all the bloom of her first youth. Let me try to sketch her as she stands in this first chapter of my story, leaning over the railings of the b a Esplanade, looking out, not only at the blue waves of the Channel, but also at the advancing tide of her life.

A pretty girl certainly, yet not uncommonly so. You may see many fairer faces in the carriages passing by. A complexion more pale than rosy — not beautiful, yet not sallow ; a mouth and nose of the same mediocre type; eyes not large, but bright and clear; and a broad, intelligent forehead. Her hair was, with the exception of her graceful, rounded figure, her one especial beauty. An artist would have loved its rich brown colour and its regular natural ripple ; so, too, he would have approved of the picturesque mass in which — Lucy disdained hair pads or false plaits — it was gathered high upon her head, and set off with a blue ribbon. Lovely curly rings clustered, full of golden lights, upon the front of that natural crown, but no long falling tress or ringlet concealed the outline of the graceful neck and shoulders.

Certainly that hair had been bestowed upon one who knew how to manage it and do it justice. The worst of it was, as Lucy herself used to say, that in these days of wigs and hair-dyes people would not give her credit for her real, true possession, but persisted in believing it to be false. My portrait is almost complete. It only remains to be added that Lucy was dressed, on the day we first met, like numbers of othe^r English girls, in a pretty short walking costume of silvery grey lustre, with a little black high-crowned hat, adorned with a snow-white plume. She walked on for some time without making another attempt to cross the Parade. She had by this time determined that she would find her way home through the town, and post her letters — fare wells to one or two friends — on the way. Louis, who had gone to London, would not be back until seven o'clock, and they were not to dine until then.

The tide was coming in, the sky was without a cloud, and the air was only freshened by a faint breeze from the sea. The dark-blue waters heaved languidly in the summer afternoon. Lucy, in her heart, was bidding *-good-bye" to it all, but not too sorrowfully. She was very young, and she fully intended to come back and visit it all again some day. In the town she made a few purchases — last addi tions to her outfit — and managed, with a forgetfulness for which she felt provoked with herself, to pass the General Post Office without once thinking of her letters. She only remembered them when she was half-way home, and the incident that recalled them to her mind was this : — Turning the corner of a quiet by-street, which she knew would lead her back to the Parade, she saw, lying on the pavement before her, a letter, face downwards.

She took it up. It was sealed and stamped, and directed in a lady's hand, clear and good, to " R. Dacre, Esq., M.D., " 301, Citadel Road, " Plymouth." It had been lying on a dusty square of stone, and was slightly soiled from its contact therewith. There was not a single person visible in the street, and Lucy looked at the envelope in her hand, feeling for a moment rather puzzled. Then she determined to slip it into the nearest letter-box with her own. It was quite ready for posting, and the probabilities were that it had been dropped on the way to the post-office by its bearer. She walked on with a few vague speculations in her mind as to the probable contents of this letter. Would she be assisting to make or to mar some small romance by posting it ? Or did it merely concern some prosaic, important matter of business ?

In the next street which Lucy entered there was, as she knew, a chemist's shop, which was also a post-office. As she turned the corner of the street she saw that there was, standing by the letter-box, a tall lady, whose back was towards her. A black grenadine shawl, a black dress, and a black bonnet with violet flowers — that was all she could see. But, as she approached, the tall, sombre figure turned round, and Lucy saw a handsome face with an ex pression of such blank dismay and perplexity that she actually started. Could this be the owner of the lost missive ? She held it towards the stranger with the words, " I have just found this lying in the road ; does it belong to you ? You are the first person I have seen since." The large eyes looking down at her — Lucy was rather below the medium height, and this lady was above it — lost their troubled expression.

The lady in black smiled, took the letter quickly, and dropped it into the box before her. "It belonged to me," she said. "I must have let it fall as I came along. What a lucky chance I met you ! I am much obliged to you for returning it to me. It was of importance." It was an important letter truly ; but it never reached the person to whom it was addressed. Had it done so this story would never have been told. But he had already left Plymouth. The Dead Letter Office took possession of it, opened it, and found in it no clue to the writer, consequently it was doomed to annihilation. But it deserves mention here, be cause, though it failed to fulfil the errand on which it was despatched, and died dumb to the only one who could have understood its words, yet it was the accidental cause of first bringing together two women who were destined to exercise a vast influ ence on each other's lives.

At this, their first meeting, neither made any great impression on the mind of the other. Lucy said to herself, " She is handsome — decidedly so — but she looks as if she had a temper; and, besides, she's rather faded. I wonder what that letter was about?" The other, after her few hurried words of explanation to Lucy, made her a farewell gesture and turned away. Her thought was, " A pretty baby face, with no character about it; nice hair; I should recognize her again by that more easily than by anything else." She was walking away towards the end of the street, and presently she turned the corner. As she did so she looked back, but Lucy was gone. She had gone into the chemist's shop to make some small purchase. They did not see each other again just yet. Lucy went home and found her brother Louis waiting for her.

He was a good-looking man, with a fair beard and quiet, reserved manners. But for the present we must leave them, and follow the steps of the lady in black. She walked quickly, and as one who knew her way about Brighton well. Street after street she entered and left behind her, until at last the houses grew fewer in number, and the gay, busy part of the town was passed. She was on the Lewes Boad, and in awhile she stopped at the gates of the cemetery which lies on the right-hand side as you leave Brighton. She passed under the archway and emerged on the gravel drive which leads up to the graves. Here she walked slower and with a more weary step. The tombs, among which is the great marble block with a medallion on two sides, dedicated to the memory of Frederick William Robertson, she passed without a glance.

She made her way, still slowly, but with out pausing, to the higher and cheaper part of the burying-ground — not the very cheapest, but the intermediate part. Here she sought out a grave. There was no stone on it — only grass — and at the head was planted a geranium. Other distinguishing sign it had none. Beside the green mound she sat down. She was high up on the slope of the hill. Brighton lay at her feet. The white tombs below stood out in exquisite contrast with the green tints of the grass and the trees ; the sunlight lay brilliantly over all, and the sea rippled in front, blue and calm. The solitary figure seated on the hill-side had her eyes fixed upon the lovely view below, but her inward vision saw it not. Nothing interrupted her thoughts, whatever they were. There were two or three parties of visitors to the cemetery, but they were satisfied with examin ing the larger and more striking-looking tombs below.

Not one of them came any higher. At some little distance from her a man was busy paint ing the small iron railing round a baby's grave with dark-green paint, but he was intent upon his work, and did not notice the woman seated by a mound on his right. It was not at all an uncommon sight there, so that no one saw a change pass gradually over the face of the motionless watcher on the hill. It was a very handsome face, and would be so most probably for some years to come, although the first bloom and softness of youth were past, and although at first its expression was one of utter weariness and indifference; but as the minutes flew by, slowly, very slowly, the pale cheeks began to flush with pink, and there rose and darkened in the great grey eyes a look of wrath. The man who was painting the green railing came at last to tell her that it was the hour when the cemetery was closed for the night.

He thought, as he spoke to her, that the expression of her face was not pleasant. She got up, however, and when he had gone back to fetch his paint and brushes, she pulled a few leaves from the geranium at the head of the grass-covered mound. She had a bunch of charms hanging to her watch chain. Into one of these — a large, old-fashioned locket — she put the leaves, fastening the glass over them carefully, and then shutting the trinket with a firm snap. Two of the charms upon the cluster were remarkable — a wedding-ring and its guard, a circle of dead gold set with three turquoises. After this she walked slowly away. At that mo ment she felt, as did the girl in Jean Ingelow's beautiful ghostly poem, " Requiescat in Pace," after her vision, as she sat on the Cromer Downs and looked out to sea, — " I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. What can wringing of the hands do, that which is ordained to alter ? He had climbed, had climbed the mountain he would ne'er come down."

Chapter II. Pages From Lucy's Diary

On board the " Flora Macdonald," July 27th, 18 — — Yesterday, Louis and I went on board the " Flora Macdonald," at Gravesend, and to-day we sailed ; so I suppose I ought immediately to commence a diary of the voyage. Every one, I am told, begins one on first setting out, but people say it is very hard to find something to record every day at sea. I shall learn by experience if this is true or not. To begin, then, with yesterday. It was rather a dull kind of day, and very hot, until in the middle of the day a breeze sprang up from the river. We dined in Gravesend, and went on board our ship just after the passengers who were already assembled had finished their dinner in the saloon. They were most of them on deck. Just as I stepped on board, a gust of wind blew off my hat. It was immediately captured and restored to me by a gentleman with a dark beard, who was standing near.

As I took my hat from him, I distinctly heard him mutter to himself, " What beautiful hair ! " I felt myself grow scarlet, and was thankful to turn away to hide my hot cheeks; for the little scene had been so dramatic that it almost seemed as if I had lost my hat on purpose, for the sake of effect ! I had spirits enough to see the humorous side of everything ; and, indeed, the day was not a sad one at all to Louis and myself. This was chiefly, I think, because we had no especial friends to come and see the last of us. My aunts were not strong enough to attempt it ; Louis' friends are chiefly in New Zealand; and of my school-girl allies, not one could arrange matters so as to escort me to the ship. It was much better ; and both Louis and I were relieved at having got through all our farewells on terra firma.

But pathetic little scenes were about us every where, and were taking place that day all over the ship, from the wheel to the forecastle. In one corner I saw a poor old woman crying bitterly over her son, whom she never hoped to see again. A girl of my own age was lowered into a boat, looking as pale as death. As the boat pulled off, I saw that she had fainted, and her friends were trying to restore her, so far in vain. Her lover was on board our ship. The '-ship's husband," as he is called, was on board, and the agent from Simpson and Seymour's, but not the captain, and no one seemed quite to know when he might be expected. At six o'clock we went down to a most uncomfortable tea in the saloon. Every one sat in the wrong place, and no one had any appetite. All the other first-cabin passengers were at tea, and I may as well put down their names here.

The stern-cabin next to mine is taken by a young married couple — a Mr. and Mrs. Grant ; then comes my cabin, then Louis', then the doctor's ; opposite to him is the gentleman with the beard, whose name I have not yet learnt. Then comes a cabin belonging to a Mr. Lennox, who has a run in Otago, and is returning from a few months' visit to England. He is grave, grey -haired, and elderly ; but with a pleasant, attractive face and manner. Then two ex-officers of the 200th, Mr. Prior and Mr. Meredith, share a cabin between them ; and the other stern-cabin is taken by a Mrs. Mostyn, with her two children and nurse. She is going out to join her husband. The saloon party is completed with the captain and first mate, who take the head and foot of the table. After tea we went up on deck again. It was utter misery and confusion.

The doctor was reviewing the sailors on one side of the deck, and some of the second cabin passengers had pitched their camp-stools, and were actually trying to keep their heads sufficiently clear in the confusion as to admit of their studying C cheap editions, in very small type, of the Waverley Novels \ It was a very hot night. The breeze died away again, and it became perfectly calm. Louis and I went and leant over the bulwarks, side by side, but were neither of us inclined to talk. A small steamer, bound for Rotterdam, passed us ; and the people clustered like bees on her deck, waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and cheered the emigrant vessel. Some of us returned the salute. It began to grow dusk. When it was getting quite dark, and I was tired of watching •'The lamp's quiver So far in the river," I went below.

Sleep, as I imagined, would be out of the question in that small closet of a cabin, with such strange noises all about me; but I was dead tired, and soon fast asleep. The last thing I remember is hearing some one, standing close to my cabin door, in the saloon say, "Good-bye, Dacre. Dieu vous garde !" I looked through the slides of my cabin ventilator, and saw the bearded gentleman shaking hands with, apparently, a friend, who was just leaving. " Dacre ? Dacre ? Where have I heard that name lately ? I cannot remember." The captain came on board late at night, and we sailed about four o'clock this morning. Grey dawn showed the water visible through my port-hole, glassy smooth, but turning green. After breakfast I went on deck. It was a lovely morning, without a breath of wind. We were towed by a steam-tug to Deal, where we anchored, and waited for a breeze.

Mr. Meredith, who is a very handsome, fair-haired man, introduced himself to Louis, and they rapidly made friends, while Mrs. Grant and I showed each other some new patterns in tatting. If we had been setting forth on a picnic in a pleasure-boat, we could not have had a more lazy, charming day of it, with novels and backgammon on deck. July 28th, Thursday. — Sailed this morning. Another lovely day. At night, off Dungeness. July 29th. — Our pleasant society has been quite C broken up by the melancholy fact that almost all its members have succumbed to sea-sickness. There were several gaps at the breakfast table, and about ten o'clockLouis broke down. He went below, leaving me on deck, fully determined never to give in. The first mate came to me, as I stood by the door of the companion-stairs leading from the saloon, and told me Beachy Head was in sight.

I was wild for a last glimpse of the dear old Sussex coast, so he helped me to walk up the deck, aud, holding fast by one of the belaying pins, I looked at the distant coast-line out of my opera glass. After awhile a voice behind me said, " You must be tired of standing. Shall I fetch your easy chair up here for you ? " I looked round. Doctor Dacre, with his telescope in his hand, was close to me, standing, in spite of uhe rolling of the vessel, with sufficient ease and firmness as to show that this was not the first time he had been to sea. Doctor Dacre is the gentleman whom I have mentioned in my diary before as " the man with the beard." I should have added, "and with the eyes," for his eyes are certainly uncommonly bright and handsome. For the rest, he looks about thirty, and has a pleasant face, with a square forehead.

But he is not nearly as good looking as Mr. Meredith, who is by far our handsomest cabin passenger. I thanked Doctor Dacre, and he fetched my chair. Then, standing by my side, he said, " No one has introduced us to each other ; but, considering that we are likely to be near neighbours for a good many weeks, I think I may venture to present myself. Your name is Miss Cunningham, I know, and mine is Rylston Dacre." We both bowed very gravely and formally, in honour of the introduction, and then both laughed ; and Doctor Dacre remarked, " You seem to be a good sailor, Miss Cunningham." I told him this was my first voyage, and I was afraid to boast too soon. " But you have been to sea before now, I am certain," I added. He asked me how I knew that. I said by the way he walked the deck. He smiled, and said I was right.

He had been accustomed to spend days on board a Plymouth trawler, and the motion of this large ship seemed nothing to him after that. Then, after a short pause, he told me that with his telescope he could see a thrashing machine on the downs, near Beachy Head. I exclaimed — and he held the glass for me to look through. When I raised my head, I saw that he was gazing at the white cliffs with a face, the expression of which had clouded during the last moment or two. I know his look rather startled me; and he must have noticed that it did, for, catching my eye, he said, " I was thinking of the last time I stood on the deck of an outward-bound, and looked at those cliffs. Six years ago. It's a long time." I did not know what to reply to this, so I made no answer. He also held his peace, and looked out darkly, for a few moments, at the distant coast.

The blue waves of the Channel were leaping and dancing all round us. A large Turkish vessel was passing us to leeward ; and behind were the white chalk walls, with glimpses of the green down-land above. " Do you know Sussex, Doctor Dacre?" I asked, more by way of something to say than because I took the slightest interest in the answer I might receive. He shook his head. " No," he said, " I have never even entered that county. I have no associations with it whatever." "All my pleasantest Enghsh associations centre in Sussex," I said. " And mine in Devonshire." I was beginning to grow intensely weary of the conversation. "This tiresome man!" I thought. " Will he never go away, and let me read in peace ? What do I care which county he likes best ? or about his life six years ago ?" I was glad when the first mate, Mr. Bruce, came up, and began to talk to Doctor Dacre, who pre sently left me, and they walked up and down the deck together.

I pondered for a minute or two on a subject that puzzles me. Where did I see or hear the name " Dacre " before I left England ? I never knew any one of that name. I must have read it somewhere, but where ? and in connexion with what subject ? I cannot remember. Tired of worrying my memory, at last I took up my book again. It was the " Mill on the Floss," and I was soon quite absorbed in the history of Maggie Tulliver and Stephen.

Chapter III. Pages From Lucy's Diary

In the afternoon Louis came on deck. He was pale and misanthropic. He said that life at present was a burden to him, and that the times were out of joint. He really was a trifle cross ; but, under the circumstances, I quite forgave him. July 30th, Saturday. — A thick, gloomy day. Wind against us, and we were beating about all day off the Isle of Wight. Doctor Dacre and myself still the only survivors of the first-cabin passengers. His face looked much brighter than yesterday, in spite of the weather; and he was kind enough to take me under his especial charge all day, wrapping me up in rugs and waterproofs from the wet mist, and carrying my easy chair about to one sheltered part of the deck after another as the vessel altered her course. He did not talk much, nor did I; but, somehow, I did not feel lonely with that rough coated, broad-shouldered figure keeping guard over me at a little distance ; and, upon the whole, the day passed pleasantly, though Louis was still invisible.

July 31st, Sunday. — The captain read the Morn ing Prayers of the English Church in the saloon ; and most of the passengers, including Louis, came to life again. August 1st, Monday. — To-day the pilot left us, and we had our last sight of the English coast. Devonshire faded away in the gloamin', and on Tues day morning we saw only a sapphire sea on all sides. I have been looking back over the pages of my diary, and I find that I have written a good deal in it about Doctor Dacre. I scarcely know what is the reason of this, except that he and I have been, from the force of circumstances, which neither of us could prevent, much in the other's society during the past week. And then, too, there is certainly some thing about him which I hke. I should say he is a man who would gain a great influence over the people he saw much of.

But he is very peculiar with it all — very odd, indeed, at times. If it would not sound too romantic and sentimental for anything but a young lady's diary, I should venture to suggest that he might have a story connected with his life. I must put down something which happened, trifling though it is, to show what gave rise to this theory in my mind. This evening, Tuesday, August 2 nd, most of the passengers were on deck about tea-time. It was a lovely evening, and a light wind, quite in our favour, was wafting us along swiftly and gently. I was playing backgammon with Mr. Meredith, who is certainly the handsomest man on board the " Flora." Doctor Dacre was leaning over the bulwarks near us ; he was lounging with that perfect grace with which some men can manage to do nothing — languor of the most fascinating kind, because it is only strength dormant.