Sleep in the Woods

by Dorothy Eden

  It was rather important to Hubert Carruthers at this moment to make this stray composed girl, with just that hint of lostness behind her composure, feel at home.

  “You’ll like this country,” he said. “It’s full of opportunities for young people like you. As soon as this Maori question is settled—”

  “Maori?”

  “The natives. We’ve had land troubles for years, of course. But they’ve been settled, fairly or unfairly one can’t be sure. The ignorant human who can’t use modern tools because he hasn’t seen them before is always the loser. But even the Waikatos and those wild Urewera chiefs finally agreed to the settlement. Then a fanatic called Te Kooti decides to stir up a religious war based on the old Maori grievances. It’s a potent mixture of Judaism, paganism, and a little elementary Christianity which has stirred the natives up so much that they’ve reverted to cannibalism. Pretty horrible, eh? Even the Waikatos have gone back on their word. Now they say Ka Whawhai tonu! Ake, ake, ake! which translated is ‘This is the word of the Maori. We will fight on for ever and ever and ever.’”

  The girl’s huge brilliant eyes were fixed on him. “What a musical language!” she exclaimed.

  “The Maori? Yes, they’re a musical people. And poetic. Full of lovely old legends and superstitions. But when their fighting spirit is roused and they dance their battle dance, the haka, you can wait for trouble. Well, I mustn’t frighten you.”

  “I’m not frightened, sir.”

  The girl’s head had gone up, and her eyes were glinting. By jove, she wasn’t frightened, either. She was challenged, as every good pioneer should be. No little suppressed shrieks, no attacks of the vapors.

  “Where do you come from, my dear?”

  “My family comes from Devon.”

  “And they were willing for you to come to this strange country?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. They thought it would be for my good.”

  “That’s the way. Fine unselfish parents.” He leaned nearer, his long face dolorous. “They didn’t send you out here just to find a husband?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps you’re not one of five girls. That must be quite a problem to any mother. One should sympathize, I suppose. I warn you, we’re to be plunged into some social festivities here. Oh, we’re not behind the times. We have race meetings and hunts and balls. Certainly, one might be reduced to wearing last year’s ball gown. But one can camouflage, and be a little ingenious even about that sort of contretemps.”

  “Hubert!”

  Aunt Charity advanced down the stairs, concealing, with a visible effort, her annoyance.

  “Yes, my dear!”

  “The girls are just freshening up. We might take a little light wine with our dinner to celebrate their arrival. Will you see to it? Briar, come this way. I’ll take you to your room.”

  Briar picked up her modest bag and followed Aunt Charity. Her short encounter with Uncle Hubert had done a great deal to restore her cheerfulness. He was kind. He didn’t look through people like her, he actually saw them. He was even interested in what they felt. But his wife, this large definite woman ahead of her, would not approve. Already Aunt Charity’s disapproval challenged Briar as much as the strange and distant threat of an encounter with the warlike Maori. She was not afraid. She refused to be afraid.

  Aunt Charity opened a door at the end of a dark passage that ran past the kitchen. “I think you’ll be very comfortable here. You have the room all to yourself, you see. Now I’d like you to go upstairs as quickly as possible and see what you can do for Miss Sophia and Miss Prudence. You will have your dinner in the kitchen with cook after we’ve had ours. Is there anything you would like to ask?”

  Briar’s challenging unafraid eyes diplomatically dropped. “No, ma’am.”

  “Very well, then. Do as I have told you.”

  Upstairs, Sophie was running from one window to another, making exclamations of mingled excitement and disappointment.

  “It’s so much smaller than I thought it would be. You can almost count the number of houses. And they’re all built of wood. They look shabby already. Even Government House is only built of wood. I wonder if they’re poor. I thought this was a wealthy country. I can’t imagine living in a house like this. Listen to how it creaks! And the windows rattle.” Sophia dropped her voice. “What do you think of Aunt Charity, Prue?”

  Prudence, who was sitting forlornly on the bed, not even having taken off her bonnet, muttered that she didn’t care for her particularly.

  “Yes, I think she’s rather alarming, too. But I’ll manage her. You’ll see. Oh, Prue, for goodness’ sake stop looking so miserable. You’ll see Edmund again. This isn’t the end of the world. Though it almost is, isn’t it?” Sophia giggled. “I do think it’s all rather exciting. And Aunt Charity has promised us a luncheon party at the end of the week. I’m going to wear my Swiss muslin with blue ribbons. Or should I wear the pink silk which is really more sophisticated? Do you really think it’s true that we’ll be leaders of fashion? Oh, Prue, do cheer up and take some interest!”

  “Do you think I need go down to dinner?” Prudence asked. “I’ve a headache.”

  “Of course you must go down to dinner! Briar will rub your temples with eau de Cologne. Here is Briar! Prue has a headache and wants her temples rubbed, and I want you to hurry and unpack something that we can wear this evening.”

  Briar, looking at her autocratic young mistress, thought fleetingly of her own bag, untouched in her room.

  “Which dress, Miss Sophia?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s only Uncle Hubert, isn’t it? No need to dazzle him. Just my gray bombazine, but with a fresh fichu. You did launder them on the ship, didn’t you? And the same for Prue, I should think, if only she’d take some interest.”

  Briar, looking at Prudence’s forlorn face, had a feeling of sympathy. It must be dreadful to be in love so hopelessly. She would take care that such a thing never happened to her!

  “Here’s the eau de Cologne, Miss Prue. I’ll just dab your temples. There! Isn’t that better? It’s fresh and cool. And I imagine your aunt will excuse you to go to bed early tonight.”

  Her calm voice caused fresh tears to well in Prudence’s eyes. “You’re so kind, Briar. Are you going to be happy here? Has Aunt Charity given you a nice room?”

  “Very nice, thank you. And all to myself.”

  “Of course Briar’s going to be happy here,” Sophia said in her confident voice. “I expect we’ll lose her soon enough to some young man. But mind, not until you’ve dressed both of us for our weddings, miss!”

  “I hope to do that, Miss Sophia,” Briar answered meekly.

  But did she? Busy with the girls’ billowing dresses, brushing their fair young heads and neatly pinning up their hair, tidying away their discarded petticoats and traveling dresses, the seething untamable excitement was within her. Sophia’s chatter scarcely reached her ears.

  She was reliving that moment when she had stood on the wharf, firm land under her feet at last, and breathing in the smell of earth and green trees, the smell of the new land which was to be hers.

  Nothing, she had declared to herself then, would alarm or depress her, nothing would defeat her. The Almighty, who had let her defenseless young mother die in a ditch, had set her own feet on a strange path full of opportunity. She would seize every experience that came her way, she would become the real and vital person that already she felt hidden within herself. And she would find love.…

  “Briar!” She had scarcely heard Jemima Potter’s voice at her side. “Briar, what are you staring at in that funny way?”

  “The town. Just the town. It’s so new. Climbing up the hillside like birds’ nests on a ledge. Oh, I’m so excited, Jemima.”

  “Are you in love?” The little woman clutched her baby and looked over the calm waters of the bay. Her eyes were full of sadness. There was no need to ask what she was looking at or thinking. The sea that had swallowed two of her ch
ildren had temporarily stolen her courage. But it would come back.

  She gave the quick smile that lighted her thin face. “Briar, Fred and me want to call the baby Rose, after you.”

  Briar colored with pleasure. “Really, Jemima?”

  “Because you’re a briar rose. Not even scratchy when anyone gets to know you.”

  “Oh, Jemima, your head’s full of nonsense. You’ll have to come down to earth if you’re to get on in this country. Look, there’s Fred and the children waiting for you. And I’ll be seeing you as soon as I can get time off. They must give me an hour one day soon. Oh dear, and I think that’s Mrs. Carruthers coming. She looks very grand.”

  “She won’t get the better of you,” said Jemima confidently.

  That first look at Mrs. Carruthers had been a bit alarming, but Briar, remembering Jemima’s confidence in her, and her own undefeatable feeling of optimism, had not allowed herself to be intimidated. She had kept her head up and behaved in a quiet unflustered way. It had not been so bad, after all, for the talk with Uncle Hubert had immensely cheered her; and then trying to put some courage into Prudence had made her forget her own strangeness.

  That had not come back until at last she had gone to bed in the narrow little room off the kitchen. Then she had had to confess that the night sounds were alarming. The window opened directly into the dark garden, and there were strange rustlings and sighings. Sometimes a bush clapped together with a dry sound, like castanets, and there was the constant sigh of the wind running up through the grass and rattling the windows. The stars, too, were still unfamiliar, although she had looked at them often enough on board ship after crossing the line. Once, long after midnight, there had been a mournful crying that sounded like a small owl, and later she had almost leaped out of bed with fright as there was a sharp rustling in the grass just outside her window, followed by a harsh screaming cry.

  But morning came, with dazzling sunlight streaming in, and a fresh clean smell to the air that was irresistible. She sprang up, full of happiness. What did it matter who or what had cried in the night? The night was over, and there was the garden, rather wild and untended, with the cause of the castanets, an untidy coarse-leaved flax bush, and beyond it the silver-plumed toe toe grass that rustled with a silken sound in the wind.

  The cries she had heard, cook explained, would have been made by the small native owl called morepork, and perhaps a kiwi had blundered by, giving its harsh call. They were great birds, the kiwis, unable to fly, and no use for anything. But she would soon get used to strange sounds at night, and there was nothing to be afraid of.

  “You don’t need to lock your window,” cook sniggered. “There’s not likely to be anything prowling but birds and opossums. Too bad, isn’t it?”

  But Briar was to remember those words when cook had forgotten them.

  They went driving in the town that afternoon. Aunt Charity said there was room in the carriage for Briar, too, as she would have to learn her way about the town.

  Prudence had cheered up considerably, partly because she was young and could not remain indifferent to new surroundings, and partly because Edmund had called on Aunt Charity and had found that lady unexpectedly kind.

  Actually, Aunt Charity had been very shrewd. She had summed up the situation at once, seeing in Edmund a likeable enough but not too strong character, and guessing that with the roving life he was leading he would tire soon enough of his vows of faithfulness to Prudence. Prudence, too, would eventually recover from her shipboard romance, but in an effort to make the recovery as painless as possible, and to prevent more of those detested tears and melancholy looks which would surely drive every other eligible young man away, Aunt Charity had decreed that the young man might be permitted to present himself again when he returned to New Zealand, and thus prove the seriousness of his intentions.

  Prudence had flung her arms gratefully around her aunt, and at last there were smiles instead of tears. So it was in a general atmosphere of good temper that the carriage set off.

  The roads were steep, dusty and made uneven by rocks embedded in the hillside. The horses proceeded at a walk, and Aunt Charity was able to point out the houses of friends, the Morleys, the Maxwells, the Reids, all of whom had daughters, the Fanshawes whose only son Peter would be coming to the luncheon party, the Browns and the Pattersons. Not the least, the wide verandahed Government House set in a flat space of lawns and gardens, where the girls would duly be presented to the Governor and his lady. Up a steeper narrow road Aunt Charity pointed to a small cottage which she said belonged to old Mrs. Whitmore.

  “She lives alone. She’s a little odd, people say, but she went through the siege of Lucknow where her poor husband was killed. Enough to turn anyone’s head, poor thing. She has a son, Saul.”

  “That’s an unusual name,” said Sophia interestedly.

  “And an unusual person,” returned Aunt Charity, rather grimly. “He’s quite a recluse. He spends most of his time on his land in the Taranaki district, and when he comes home he’s the most elusive person imaginable. One would think he hated women.”

  “Then he isn’t married?” Sophia inquired eagerly.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Is he eligible?”

  “Oh, very. I should say he’s the most sought-after young man in the province. He’s first cousin to the Earl of Marsham. His father was a colonel in the Indian Army, and I believe was decorated several times. Saul himself has taken part in the earlier Maori wars. But all that dreadful business is over.”

  “Uncle Hubert says it isn’t,” Prudence put in.

  “Oh, dear, has he been frightening you girls? I particularly forbade him to do that. He has an obsession about this business. We’re perfectly safe here in Wellington. It’s only a small outbreak here and there in the forest and bush country. Actually, I think the Maoris are quite harmless. You’ll see some presently, and realize what I mean.”

  “Aunt Charity,” said Sophia, with her single-minded persistence, “is Saul Whitmore coming to our parties?”

  Aunt Charity pursed her little mouth. “If he’s in town he’ll be invited, certainly. But that’s no assurance that he will come. He’s the rudest person I’ve ever met.”

  “You adore him, Aunt Charity!” Sophia said daringly.

  “Well!” Aunt Charity tossed her head, and fretted her brow into innumerable lines. She puffed her chest and looked, thought Briar, self-important and absurd. And she didn’t like Saul Whitmore. He outraged her. But he was first cousin to an earl. Aunt Charity had not left her class consciousness behind in England. She had very definitely brought it to this new country.

  Briar decided that she, too, would dislike Saul Whitmore. If she ever met him, which was unlikely.

  The first group of Maoris they saw on the roadside looked harmless enough. A woman in a blanket, carrying a brown-faced baby, another in an absurd, large straw hat trimmed with ribbons and flowers which was obviously treasured finery received from some white woman, and a man also in a blanket, with a tattooed face, and a feather in his tightly curled black hair. They all looked up, smiling in the most friendly way.

  “They’re lazy and they have very native habits,” said Aunt Charity, not very explicitly. “But I still can’t believe your uncle’s accounts of their dreadful nature in wartime. I sometimes think he just likes to shock me. There’s a pa or Maori village just a little way out of town, so you’ll see plenty of these strollers. The children run wild. Now here we come to the shopping area,” she went on more brightly. “Prices can be quite exorbitant, you know. Eggs are fourpence each, and milk fivepence a quart, butter one and six or even two shillings a pound, and a two pound loaf of bread is ninepence, which is scandalous. I paid sixpence for a cabbage the other day. As for good china, or good quality silks, they’re almost unobtainable. But I suppose one must expect that, living at the ends of the earth as we do. Somehow one manages. You’ll be surprised at how the ladies can turn themselves out when they really try. I’ve fou
nd a treasure of a dressmaker, a Miss Matthews who came out last year to set up business. She makes the smartest bonnets, too. I’ve already whispered to her about the probability of wedding gowns.” Aunt Charity tapped Sophia playfully., “You first, my dear, as the eldest. And then dear Prue.”

  Sophia gave her jolly, good-natured laugh, tilting her bonnet crooked, gazing about her with interest. “That Saul Whitmore sounds fascinating. Do you think he’ll be rude to me?”

  “No one will be rude to you, my darling child,” said Aunt Charity with finality.

  She sat back in the comfortable seat of the carriage, feeling much more contented than she had done last night when her first impressions had not been particularly accurate. For Sophia, if not a raving beauty, was very vivacious, and that was always a great attraction. Prudence, now she had lost her doleful look, was really quite pretty, her skin was charming, and clever Miss Matthews might make her a bonnet that would modify the longness of her face. Even Briar seemed a discreet, quiet little thing, minding her own business even if she was not as biddable-looking as one would have liked. But she would realize that society existed here, too, and keep her place.

  “You dear girls must write letters home this afternoon,” she said comfortably. “The Mary Louise will take them when she sails. We have to take care to catch every ship, as sometimes there are very long intervals without news. Briar, you may also wish to write to your family.”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am,” replied Briar, thinking of her dear Andrew Gaunt who had taught her to correspond not only in perfect English, but in French. She would compose a letter to him in heaven, telling him of this new remarkable turn in her life. He would be deeply interested. Wouldn’t he? For if he would not, who in the whole wide world would?

  “Then don’t look so glum, child. You may have an hour off to write your letter.”

  But Briar, sitting in her narrow room alone, was suddenly violently unhappy at the pretense. Was it not unendurable that she alone should have no one who cared to receive a letter from her, or was concerned for her health and happiness? Inventing a loving family who waited to hear from her made her able to hold up her head in front of others, such as smug, overbearing Aunt Charity, but it did not ease the lonely ache in her heart. For the first time since her arrival her confidence left her, and she felt the orphan she was, alone and destitute.