by Dorothy Eden
During the two weeks preceding the ball she was happy. She loved having the house full of people, even interfering irrepressible Aunt Charity, and the silent, tall, black and bird-like figure of Mrs. Whitmore, speaking seldom but missing nothing, giving no indication as yet whether she approved or disapproved.
It was wonderful to have Sophie and Prudence to whom to chatter, and her confused anger towards Peter had resolved itself into satisfaction that she could show off to him how well she had done for herself. And indeed allow herself the pleasure of flirting with him a little, making him aware of what he might have had, had his eyes been wider open. Foolish Peter. She could have made much more of him than Sophie ever would.
Saul took Peter out most of the time. If he was going to be a farmer he had to find out what sort of a life it was. Also, if he wished to buy land in this province, he must seek for the most desirable and suitable property and stake his claim. A great deal of the bushland was to be sold by the Government, which had acquired it at a shamefully low price from the Taranaki Maoris. One knew the natives had been badly treated, Saul said, but no wrongs would be righted by white settlers failing to take up and put the land into useful production. At least that was one thing the ignorant and lazy Maori would not have done, and eventually he would find that the country under the white man flourished, and that there would be room for all.
Sophie, uncharacteristically, was the one who. lost her spirits. She agreed with Aunt Charity that it was idiotic inviting all those village people to the ball. Briar was belittling herself—or was she showing off? She was certainly very full of herself, darting here and there, her cheeks bright, her great eyes sparkling, as if she had never been to a ball in her life.
But then she probably never had. Except that fiasco in Wellington when she had slipped in and cleverly snared Saul, and then run away. It must be a great excitement to her not only to be going to a ball, but to be giving it. And naturally enough she was friendly with the villagers. They were her kind, one had to remember, even if she were a good enough actress to make one forget it.
Sophie was not usually so malicious. But it irritated her to see Briar hurrying lightly about the house, sliding down the banisters (oh, yes, she had caught her doing that one day, petticoats in the air!) lacing in her infuriatingly slim waist and really looking quite enchanting.
She herself had grown slow and heavy, and although that in itself was satisfying enough when one thought of the eventual result, it was maddening to be in that condition just now when she would like to have been having fun, too. Besides, she had grown too large to wear her prettiest ball gown.
And also one had to admit secretly to oneself that a great deal of the zest and excitement had gone out of social functions when one had successfully caught a husband. Now one could flirt only with the greatest discretion, and indeed there was no opportunity even for that when one’s waist had suddenly swelled by six inches.
So Sophie gloomed and complained. “I shall wear my gray silk.”
“Oh, Sophie, that’s elderly. We decided to make a grande toilette, for Jemima and Amy Perkins and the rest. Don’t you remember?”
“It’s all very well for you,” Sophie snapped. “What would I look like in pale blue brocade?”
“Magnificent,” said Briar. “Please, Sophie! I want you to wear it.”
If she ever spoke to Saul like that, Sophie reflected, looking at Briar’s dazzling melting eyes, he must be foolish with devotion. Even that dark arrogant man! Though one had to admit no tender glances ever passed between them. Indeed, they behaved almost like polite strangers.
“I shall never do my brocade up,” she grumbled. “And the doctor says I mustn’t lace myself tightly until after the baby is born. You wait until you’re in this condition.”
“When I’m like that I shall dance until the very last moment. Sophie, please be gay. Do you know, this is my very first ball?”
Reluctantly Sophie smiled. “You funny little thing! And I wondered at first if you and Saul were happy. Now you look as if it’s Christmas and all your birthdays rolled into one.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Briar said, with sudden sobriety. Then her face sparkled again. “Do come downstairs, Sophie. You rest too much. Doctor MacTavish says if you do that your baby will be too large and that will make the birth difficult.”
“Briar!”
“Do you think that’s indelicate, too? It’s just practical. You have to be practical to stay alive in this country.”
“Briar, how oddly you talk!”
“Do I? Perhaps I’ve grown up. Now do come downstairs. Peter and I are going to practice the polka.”
The house glowed like a Chinese lantern on the night of the ball. It must be visible for miles, Saul grumbled. But even he did not protest too much, for gaiety was in the air. The pianist and the fiddler had arrived, and in the distance, down the rutted road, the carriage lights of the first arrivals twinkled. It was a still, frosty night, with scarcely room to set a lighted candle between the stars in the sky. Smoke from blazing wood fires hung fragrantly in the air. Already far-off voices echoed, and there was the thud of hooves as carts and buggys and sledges approached.
In the kitchen, Mabel, in the best of her two cotton dresses, stood beaming over the piled plates of food. She didn’t understand white people’s ways. Food cooked in an oven and put on plates to be eaten cold was not the Maori way. Nor was the lively music played by the fiddler in the fern-hung drawing room at all like the sad and haunting melodies of her race. But this was still a tangi, sure enough, and she was going to enjoy her part of it.
Katie, too, had a hectic time getting all the ladies dressed, lacing Aunt Charity until that lady was purple in the face, but resolute, re-doing Sophie’s hair three times because she had decided that if her figure had lost its elegance at least she could make the most of her hair, helping old Mrs. Whitmore into her sober black silk and cooing with pleasure over her mistress’s toilette. Never had she seen her look so vivid and glowing, and it was not just the best rose pink silk with the low neckline, for even in her petticoats she had seemed to palpitate with eager life.
After these duties, Katie was not too tired to put on her own best gown, though she had to tie over it a freshly starched apron. But that she might be able to discard later. When all the guests had been relieved of their wraps, and such children as had to be put to sleep upstairs were safely asleep, she would peep into the ballroom and tap her feet to the music.
But it was Briar whose evening it was. As the first guests came up the drive she stood in the lighted doorway and her heart swelled with uncontainable excitement.
This was the unimportant servant girl, the waif without a name, standing here in her beautiful dress in the doorway of her fine home waiting to welcome guests to her very own ball.
It wasn’t true!
But it was true. The fiddler was playing an Irish jig, the candles were blooming like crocuses, footsteps were crunching on the gravel, voices laughed and called to her.
Surely this was happiness!
Sophie was the last to go down. Peter, waiting impatiently, said, “Do come along, dearest. You look very well indeed.”
“I look like an elephant. And it’s no use your telling me I don’t.”
He came to kiss her on the forehead. “I like you to look like an elephant at the present time. At least, a very small elephant.”
“Oh, you’re so kind, my darling, and it must be terrible for you. I shan’t be able to dance, of course.”
“One short waltz won’t hurt you.”
“Aunt Charity would be scandalized.”
“Never mind about that. Briar doesn’t mind scandalizing her, and see how she gets away with it.”
“Oh, Briar! If we had been in England, none of this would have happened to her.”
“We’re not in England, my love. And don’t grudge Briar her triumph.”
“I’m not grudging her anything. But don’t dance with her too often
tonight, Peter.”
“Why not?”
“It would be more courteous to look after other guests,” Sophie said evasively. “Some of those terrible village people. Darling Peter, don’t hate it too much.”
“I shall enjoy it enormously,” Peter assured her, “if ever we get downstairs.”
“Oh, dear! My hair! It’s coming down! I declare, no one could do hair as Briar could. But she’s been too busy this evening for me to ask her. Peter, don’t wait for me, but please send Katie up immediately.”
When Katie came Sophie was at the window looking out. Her window faced to the side of the house, with a view over the wild garden, and beyond it the dark line of the encroaching bush.
She stared violently as Katie came in. “Oh, Katie! You frightened me.”
“Is something wrong, ma’am?”
“I thought I saw something move in the garden. Beyond that bush. Can you see?”
Katie peered out nervously. “I can’t see anything, ma’am.”
“No, I can’t either now. I must have imagined it. Or it might have been one of the guests taking a short cut.” She shivered slightly. “Draw the curtains, Katie. And then do pin up my hair more securely. Hurry, please. I must go down. Is everyone arriving?”
“Lots of people, ma’am.” Katie giggled. “There’s one baby already.”
“Then you’ll be kept too busy to get into mischief. There, that’s better. Now I can go.”
After she had gone, Katie went to the window again and stared out. After a moment she blew out the candles, so as to accustom her eyes to the dark. But she could see nothing beyond the gloom of the bushes and trees. For a moment, when Sophia had mentioned her suspicion, a wild hope and fear had leaped in her.
But there was nothing out there. She lit the candles, and pausing a moment, looked in the mirror at her own pert face with its crown of untidy red hair. Really, with all those people to dress there was no time to look tidy herself. She stuck in a hairpin or two, hastily. It didn’t matter how she looked, for no one would pay any particular attention to her. She didn’t want anyone to, anyway. She wasn’t in the mood to laugh at the feeble jokes of the shepherds or return their suggestive glances. She hadn’t been in that sort of mood for a long time. White men! They were so dull!
The drawing room no longer looked spacious. With chairs around the wall, the piano at one end, space for dancing in the center, and thirty or so people either dancing or standing about, it was crowded.
The party was going with an immense swing. Somehow the women, even the ones from isolated farms who obviously had on their only best dress, and that several years behind the fashion, managed to look festive, with new ribbons, or a treasured ivory fan, or hair done in a tortuous array of ringlets. They talked harder than they danced, for company was rare and parties even more rare. The unaccustomed proximity of numbers of people was intoxicating.
Jemima Potter sat beside her husband, her thin face full of its optimistic light, and crouched on the stairs peeping through the banisters, Lucy and Jimmy were overcome with wonder. Amy Perkins had obviously borrowed the green velvet ribbons from Briar’s bonnet to trim her pathetically shabby dress, but they would be restored to the cherished bonnet for church in the morning. Martha Peabody, immensely stately in her best black silk, chatted in the same easy sociable manner to everybody, and the Reverend, gallantly doing his duty, danced a measured waltz with Aunt Charity.
Peter begged Briar, when she could spare time from welcoming her guests, to dance with him. She agreed sedately, and revolved in his arms, seeing with secret satisfaction the admiration in his eyes at last. She would like to have shaken him and said, “Why couldn’t you see that I’d have made you a much better wife than Sophie?”
“Briar, why didn’t I notice sooner how beautiful you are?”
“Didn’t you?”
“But you were in disguise, weren’t you? Waiting to come out and dazzle everybody.” His hand tightened on hers. “You’re so soft and sweet—even with that thorny name.”
This sort of thing was intoxicating. She had had little enough admiration not to find it flattering. It also eased the galling memory of her earlier failure with Peter.
The music sounded beguilingly and she gave herself up to it, dipping and swaying, smiling, lifting brilliant glances to Peter, chattering about nothing, feeling, at last, successful and irresistible.
Saul was dancing with Prudence. Briar caught a glimpse of Prue’s long gentle face, unusually animated, as they went by. Sophie sat on the couch at the other end of the room, and, in spite of the opportunity to play the great lady to Jemima and others, her face wore a heavy sulky look.
The music stopped. The fiddler grinned and wiped his brow. In ordinary life he was Harry Jones, the handyman and rouseabout at Tom Galloway’s. The bearded gentleman who played the piano with admirable dash and fortissimo, was a traveling salesman who plodded about the countryside with an aged horse and a cartful of miscellaneous wares: bolts of material, ribbons, sewing cottons, large glass jars of sugar candy, tea and spices, tobacco and pots and pans. He offered his services as a musician en route, and would, for a meal and a bed, enliven a lonely household with a rousing evening at the piano, were the owners so fortunate as to possess such an instrument.
The room was suddenly a buzz of talk.
“Let’s get some air,” said Peter to Briar.
The moon was shining, she knew. It would have been pleasant to walk outdoors with Peter, feeling the frosty air on her face and savoring more of this intoxicating feeling of being admired and desired.
She was aware of Saul’s eyes on her.
It was not because of that, but because she hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything so rash as disappearing outdoors that she said lightly, “I must look after my guests. Peter, please be an angel and dance with Amy Perkins. She’ll remember it forever.”
The music was beginning again. There were hard fingers on her arm.
“Perhaps I may dance with my wife?”
She smiled the gracious acquiescence she would have given a stranger.
“I haven’t seen that dress before.”
“Naturally. There hasn’t been an opportunity.” Saul’s voice had a strange note, curiously quiet, that made her nervous. She began to chatter. “It was some material Sophie gave me. Miss Matthews made it. She’s clever with her needle, isn’t she?”
“People have been kind to you, haven’t they?”
“Oh, very kind. When I was to be married—” She stopped, knowing very well that most of the kindness she had received was because of her impressive marriage.
“Why did you marry me, Briar?”
She looked at him sharply. “Saul! What a thing to discuss now! We have guests. It’s a very successful party, isn’t it? I’m sure everyone’s enjoying it enormously. It’s the first party I’ve ever given, you know. Am I doing all right?”
“Must you be coquettish? You know that you’re excelling yourself.” His ironic voice disturbed her, as did his quietly smiling face, and his intense black eyes that saw, she was certain, into her very heart. But she could say no more, for he had stopped dancing and was saying easily, “There’s Sophie, all alone. Go and look after her. As for that other question—we’ll talk about that later.”
Katie was in the kitchen when the tap came at the window. She spun around and saw the dark face pressed against the glass. Suppressing a scream, she stood petrified. Who was it?
Then white teeth gleamed in a broad smile. A hand beckoned. She flew to the door.
“Rangi!”
“I come for you, little Rata Flower.”
“You can’t come for me now! We’re in the middle of a ball.”
There were footsteps in the passage. Mabel, who was carrying trays of food into the dining room, was coming back.
“Quick!” hissed Katie. “Around to the other side of the house. I’ll meet you.”
He vanished like a shadow. She had shut the door, and stood
breathing quickly, hoping Mabel had noticed nothing. Mabel, however, was too interested in the events inside the house to care what happened without.
“All that food, he disappear,” she said in astonishment. “Missus said bring more.”
“I can hear the baby upstairs crying,” Katie improvised. “I can’t stay to help you, Mabel.”
She skimmed down the passage and into her own room. There she shut the door and went to the windows that opened so conveniently on to the verandah. This part of the house was hidden from the ballroorn. Tiptoeing across the verandah she watched.
A dark form detached itself from behind the ngaio tree and came swiftly towards her. In the moonlight she saw the broad naked shoulders, the supple waist, the long lithe legs beneath the flax mat. There was something hard at his waist, too, she noticed as he dragged her towards him. A tomahawk! Oh, well. A Maori warrior was always armed, wasn’t he? And she couldn’t think coherently because that familiar intoxicating dizziness had swept over her. She smelled the rank odor of oil from his skin, and because that odor was already associated inextricably in her mind with the other piercing sweetness she had experienced in the hollow tree, she was lost.
She let him take her away through the long wet grass, down the slope out of sight of the house, and, in a little grove of gum trees, lying on the crackling resin-scented leaves, the same irresistible sweetness surged over her.
She was lost, she knew. But she didn’t care. There was nothing in the world but this hard body and the sure searching hands. And afterwards, his face in her loosened hair, as if it fascinated him, although in the dark he could not see its color.
“What are you doing back here, Rangi?” she managed to ask at last.
“I came to look for you.”
“All by yourself? Aren’t any of your friends with you?”
“Not here. I came alone.”
His face in the dim light was alien, dark, terrifying. Yet as his body moved against her she was deeply deeply sunk in her intoxication.
Then abruptly he sprang up. He seemed to listen. He lifted his hand in a half salute.
