by Jean Devanny
Messenger knew in his heart that this girl was rarely beautiful, in mind, in body and soul. He knew her only as “Errol.” Strange Christian name for a girl. But perhaps it was her surname. He remembered that Mrs. Curdy had called her predecessor in the house by her surname. She should have a lovely first name—some flower name, for she was lovely as a flower. But no! Not a flower name, for the beauty of a flower was ephemeral, carried away by the light winds, dissipated by a touch. Some grand name she should have, a name consistent with the qualities her facial characteristics indicated.
Messenger sat there and forced himself to look upon her. At the round firm chin, the chiselled red lips, the rather large but perfectly shaped nose. No hint of unworthiness anywhere in those eyes— The lids flew up, his gaze impelling them, and sheer goodness, strength and cleanliness of soul shone out at him. Again their eyes held, and this time a slow blush crept from the girl’s throat up over the creamy skin of her face.
“What are you reading?” he asked quickly, before she could return to her book.
She passed the book over to him without a word. He took it and glanced at the cover. “Gissing!” he exclaimed. “Gissing. The Private Papers”— He was about to make some comment on the book when the cover fell back and he saw her name in ink upon the page—Margaret Errol. Margaret— It suited her exactly. Grand, lovely, yet simplicity itself. He was glad she was not called by one of those new-fangled names. How awful if she had been named Gladys! or Pearl! for instance.
He suddenly remembered that he had been looking at her written name for some time. He looked up at her quickly, guiltily, fluttering the leaves through his fingers. She met his eyes eagerly and asked: “Do you know him?”
Messenger would have given money to have been able to say “Yes.” He saw at once that here was the way to her interest, through books. He was not much of a reader, especially of novels. A few works of the great English writers, inherited from his father, he had upon a shelf beside his bed, and these he was fairly well acquainted with. But the novels and light works in the two large bookcases of his father’s study he had hardly opened. He was a solid sort of man even in his literary tastes.
“No,” he answered. “I haven’t, but my friend Tutaki has spoken of him to me often. I should like to read this, though, if you will loan me your copy when you have finished with it.”
“You can have it right now,” she said fervently. “I have read it half a dozen times. Gissing is so—so good, especially in this book. This book is like what Ryecroft said should be his last thought as he lay dying—like ‘sunshine on an English meadow.’ ” She took the book from his hands and caressed it.
Messenger did not speak. He could not. He was filled with wonder and admiration. He just sat and adored her. “Like sunshine on an English meadow.” He thought she must have had a wonderful mother, surely. She spoke so well, too. Each word was clearly enunciated. Yet surely a public school education must have been all—
A vision of the other girls he knew, with rare exception a jabbering crowd of “educated” nonentities, flashed across his mental vision. Girls who had been particularly nice to him, too, he knew very well. They had sat in that same room (the house had often been filled with visitors before his father’s death), in that same chair this girl now occupied, and entertained him in their own poor, though honest enough way. What a contrast!
He leant towards her. He was about to say “How beautifully you talk!” when he remembered they were not alone. He became aware that Mrs. Curdy was regarding them with disapproval. He remembered that Mrs. Curdy had English ideas about the relations between a “gentleman” and his employees. So he said instead: “Give me the book, and any others you are interested in to the same extent. My friend Tutaki is a great lover of books. You have not met Tutaki yet, have you? The ‘lambing’ has upset our routine. Sunday is now the same as every other day, but ordinarily Tutaki and I take Sunday meals in the house. You will like him. He will talk books to you till Doomsday.”
“He is of Maire’s race?” she asked. “The name, you know—”
“Yes, full-blood Maori. The son of old Chief Tutaki. You know of him, I suppose?”
“Yes, from Maire.” She smiled round at the brown girl, who was nearly asleep in her big arm-chair. “But I don’t want to talk books with anyone till Doomsday. I should love to know about the station. The animals and—and everything. I come from town, you know. (Messenger did not know.) I have always lived in the town. I had books and talked books all the time there. I am more interested in the station life.”
Messenger’s heart sang. He forgot Mrs. Curdy again. “That’s great! After ‘lambing’ I’ll give you a decent horse and take you about. I’ll show you everything and teach you all about everything you would care to know.”
He stopped, for her eyes had opened wide and she was looking rather startled. What a fool he had been! Why, this was about the first time he had spoken a dozen words to her. He did not know himself at all. He had been tongue-tied and blind in her presence before, and now he was like a garrulous old woman. Offering a stranger, and an employee, a horse—a decent horse, he corrected—and his company everywhere. No wonder she was looking startled. He stopped, but did not know how to correct his blunder.
Mrs. Curdy helped him. She rose and: “It is time you were in bed, Errol,” she said sharply. “Maire!”
The Maori girl sat up, blinking. “Ay? What? Did you call me, Mrs. Curdy?”
“Yes, it is time you and Errol were in bed.”
Maire looked blank. She was not in the habit of being ordered to bed like a child. Any time she chose was bedtime other nights. She looked sulky, wide awake now. “I don’t know about that,” she said, and looked at “Errol.” “I don’t remember saying that I wanted to go to bed. Did you?”
Margaret Errol felt humiliated and angry, and showed it with flushed face and stormy eyes, but she did not know what to say. Instinct told her the reason for Mrs. Curdy’s order. Messenger knew it too, and cursed beneath his breath. He rose precipitately and, too boyish and “raw” to deal with the situation effectively, he gave vent to his feelings by kicking over his chair and stalking out of the room.
His action looked so foolish that Margaret Errol had to laugh, and even Mrs. Curdy smiled. But as the eyes of the two women met she quickly straightened her face and said: “Don’t encourage Mr. Messenger to talk with you. That was all nonsense about him taking you around the station. Gentlemen don’t take serious interest in their housemaids.”
The girl’s face blazed. She clasped the book tightly to her breast and burst out: “They do! They do! Gentlemen do! In New Zealand they do! You are vulgar and beastly! You and your rotten ideas about gentlemen! That man is good, and he thinks I’m good, and here you are putting bad ideas into his head! Gentleman! He’s only a common farmer working on his land—like his men. And he doesn’t want to be any different from his men, either. I’ve seen how he hates your English ideas. Don’t you try to boss me in front of him again, because I don’t like it.”
She stopped, out of breath and astounded at herself, with tears of anger starting. Maire sat bolt upright in her chair and stared with all her eyes. Then the white girl’s anger forsook her, and she rushed past Mrs. Curdy, who was plainly speechless, and out of the room. As she pulled the door open blindly she fell against Messenger, who had been listening outside. “Oh!” she gasped. Then with an immense surprise, as though she had not seen him for a year: “Why, what are you doing here?”
He grabbed her roughly by the arms. “I’ve been listening to you. You’re right. She’s an old fool. She doesn’t understand our ways. I want to marry you. May I?”
The door being still open, Mrs. Curdy and Maire heard every word. Margaret Errol stared at him, looking like an amazed child, then broke away and ran, laughing hysterically. He stared after her blankly as she darted up the stairs, then turned and glared belligerently at his housekeeper, who was now standing in the doorway. “Well,” he said, “a nice thi
ng you’ve done.”
“I don’t see how you can blame me. You never told me that you wanted to marry Errol, Mr. Messenger. It is my duty to protect my girls.”
He thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned against the wall. “Well, I didn’t know myself that I wanted to till to-night. Anyhow, it is my business—mine and Errol’s, not yours.” Here another thought struck him. “And don’t call her ‘Errol’ any more, please. That sort of thing might be all right at home, but it doesn’t suit me. (Mrs. Curdy smiled again. He had made no objection to her calling Errol’s predecessor by her surname.) Her name is Margaret.”
“Very well. The night has been rather startling. If you will excuse me, I’ll go to bed now. And ‘lambing’ is on, you know. You need all the sleep you can get yourself.”
“All right. Good night,” he said, and made for the stairs. Going up he looked back. Mrs. Curdy and Maire were watching him. The older woman was smiling introspectively. Messenger suddenly felt a fool.
He wanted to get away from these women. That such a thing could have happened to him! Whatever would she think of him, making love to her in public, one might say? “I make love just about as gracefully as an elephant would handle a sen-sen,” he muttered savagely as he kicked off a boot. “The whole thing will be all over the station now.”
But then he reflected. It was just as well it had happened, anyhow, seeing that the girl was his housemaid. He knew the slanderous tongues of the sheds. For her protection it was just as well. He did not want to have to knock anyone’s head off. But what would she be thinking? He could not see her in the morning, either, unless he stayed at home especially. And that would be too barefaced. He had not the courage. Besides, he knew that every man was needed on the range. He was short of men as it was. No, he could not stay at home. He lay in his bed and worried. Why not write a note? Good idea. He hopped out of bed and found paper and pencil. An hour afterwards he crept along the passage and pushed the folded paper beneath her door.
When Margaret Errol opened it out the next morning she read: “Forgive me for last night. I love you and want to marry you, but as I have never been in love before I do not know how to act. Forget about last night. When ‘lambing’ is over I’ll court you properly, and give you a fair chance to find out if you can like me well enough to marry me. Sincerely Yours.”
CHAPTER III
Margaret Errol was really only seventeen years old.
Her mental attitude towards life was visionary and unreal. Satisfactory enough, though, to her the pure-minded, this world of dreams, for it was peopled only by idealistic wraiths. She knew that sin existed. Of its various phases she had read much and seen quite a little in her home town, which was the capital of New Zealand, but she had read and seen in a detached, semi-alive fashion that had preserved her mind inviolate.
She came of good clean stock. Her father, an underpaid Government official, was of pioneer breed, and her mother was gentle both by nature and blood, being come of ancient Irish lineage, though impoverished.
Margaret was second eldest of six children, therefore she had to work. Her father’s scant salary spelt want as the children, four boys and two girls, grew up.
She had not wanted to leave town exactly. She liked her parents and loved little Billy, the baby. She loved best, though, the town itself, on the winter evenings when the thin mist hung low and the full moon watched over the bay; on the wet winter evenings when the streets were like shining glass casing a myriad lights.
She had not wanted to leave the library. Every hour snatched from household cares had been given to those loaded, precious shelves. But it was necessary that she earn something. Since leaving school at fourteen years of age she had been trained by her mother in housewifery. Neither money nor time had been available for more refined pursuits, so in woman’s “natural sphere” alone could she look for employment. Her parents, sensible, and fully alive to the dangers to the young of the post-war jazz spirit, would hear of nothing but domestic service for her, but Margaret rebelled hotly against such disposal of her labour-power, as she had heard quite a lot about the semi-slavery of domestic service from girl friends. Then she had herself seen Mrs. Curdy’s advertisement in the daily paper for a housemaid for Maunganui Station, and of a sudden had decided to apply for it as being the best of a bad choice. It was disagreeable to leave the town and her parents and little Billy and the library, but anyhow it was a plunge into the unknown. It would be sort of adventurous. She had never been farther into the country than the Hutt Valley, and the thought of station life was exhilarating. She had read about station life in dozens of cowboy books, and even though she knew how impossible these stories were, still—a station was a station. There must be an awful lot of land, broad spaces and numbers of animals. Maunganui was a sheep station, she knew (everybody that read the papers knew of the big stations), so in early summer there would have to be shearing done. She grew a little excited at the prospect. She shut her eyes and pictured the pens of excited animals waiting for the blades.
Her parents had rather inclined to the idea, too. They saw no romance in station life, of course. What they sensibly thought of in connection with their daughter was the pure air of the up-country, and the effect it must have on the health of a girl in her adolescent years.
Margaret had secured the position easily enough, so they saw her off to Taihape with the kindest of farewells and much good advice on just the right subjects from her mother.
This girl in her eighteenth year, then, was just about as fine a type of young womanhood as one could happen across anywhere. She came of clean, good stock; she had had the best of home influences; nature had endowed her with a mentality far above the average; also with a purity of mind to which the soilure of everyday life simply could not cling; also with a love of the wonderful so all-pervasive that her recognition of the wonderful in natural life and human all around her painted every lack-lustre happening with a touch of its magic brush. She was studious of disposition, ever searching for the why and the wherefore of things, yet bright and gay and pleasure-loving as youth should be. She had sufficient human frailties to make her one with her fellows, too, being hot-tempered, careless, and not always exactly truthful in lesser matters. She talked too much, too.
She was a rarity in womankind. Young manhood not seldom can boast of her type, but among woman it is a rare efflorescence. She was a combination of mental and physical beauty. Her physical beauty was a source of great pleasure to her. She used often to think and say how she would hate to be ugly. She admired pretty women intensely, and could never forbear staring when encountering one on the street.
A peculiar incident had happened to her when she was fifteen through this habit of hers. She was lunching, alone, in a restaurant when a couple seated themselves at an adjoining table. The back of the man was towards her, and the woman faced her. Margaret fairly gulped at her beauty. She had sat there staring and staring until the other became first uncomfortable, then seriously annoyed. At last her companion turned sharply round and demanded of the girl: “What are you staring at?”
Margaret jumped, then, realising her rudeness, she rose and said simply: “I beg your pardon. She is so lovely I could not help it.”
The couple looked at each other in amazement. “By Jove! Some compliment that, Iris,” said the man; and then the woman slipped an enamel bracelet off her arm and said impulsively: “Here! Take this, little girl. That is the sweetest compliment I have ever been paid.”
Margaret took it and walked out of the restaurant amazed, looking back at the two, who kept smiling at her until she reached the door. That very night her mother took her to hear a famous prima donna, and Margaret was profoundly stirred with girlish emotion to find that the singer was the lady of the restaurant. That bracelet thereafter remained her choicest possession.
She had not yet settled down to the station routine. On her arrival at Taihape Station at eight o’clock of a rainy winter’s night she had been met by Mrs. Curdy and
hurried to a motor-car waiting outside the station. Tutaki and Messenger were both seated in the front seat of the car and the engine was running. She saw the two men but dimly. There had been an exceptional rainfall, and flood had caused a blockage with debris at the intake to the turbines which generated the power for the lighting system of the town, so the station and streets were unlit. They did not notice her, except that Tutaki got out and lifted in her bags, and she gave them no thought, being very tired with the long train journey as well as cold and hungry.
The car had turned swiftly and ran for some distance, she could not tell where, but evidently along a street, for it had shortly drawn up alongside a small restaurant, and Messenger had turned to Mrs. Curdy and asked her to take the young lady in and get her something to eat. He handed her a note, too, Margaret saw. This roused her curiosity a little about him. She knew, of course, that the station was owned by a bachelor, but whether he was old or young or anything else about him she did not know. So when she was seated in the warm restaurant with a plate of hot meat before her she asked the older woman in her straightforward way: “Who are the two men in the car?”
“The driver is Mr. Messenger, your master. (Margaret winced and knew at once that the lady was not long out from the Old Country.) The Maori is Mr. Tutaki, one of Mr. Messenger’s men.”
Margaret had not noticed the racial difference in the two. “The Maori!” she exclaimed. “Are there Maoris working on the station?”
