Alice Lauder/Part 2/Chapter 13

IF you have ever threaded your way, in dreams, along the water-path of a deep, narrow, winding gorge, where the river seems to drive a wedge into the very heart and secret of the mountains—a gorge so deep and narrow that the summer sunshine can hardly slip in through the crevices of sky above, but hangs midway down the ravine, caught in the impenetrable sheet of virgin bush; where the voice of the ever-mourning river, breaking its heart on the rapids, is the only sound in that immense silent wilderness, and has been the only audible voice for century on century; where no flower sparkles in the forest, and hardly a bird floats across the precipice; where the narrow reach of shining water is so closely folded in by the hills, that you seem to be shut up in a land-locked estuary, rather than on a rushing river—if you have seen this one beautiful monotonous effect repeated over and over again, league after league ​for a hundred miles, always changing, yet always “the same, the same, and every day the same;” if you have ever voyaged up the Dusky River, in short, either in dreams or on the white deck of the tiny river steamer, you will remember the strange drowsy spell that overpowers the traveller. It is not so much what he sees as what he feels, that moves his spirit. The little iron vessel creeps over the rapids and round the cliff corners like some grotesque water insect seeking its prey. The silence of centuries has settled down on the forest. The immemorial whisper of the woods, the endless complaining of the river, sounds in his ears like the music of a dream; while the impassable barriers of rock, the ever-green clouds of foliage, the stooping fern-trees, slowly unroll before his eyes much as if they were all the unfading scenery of sleep itself.

To one traveller, at all events, on such a blazing afternoon of late summer, the somnolent spell of that green wilderness spoke with irresistible power. The warm smoky air came in lazy breaths with the current, and as he leaned over the rail and repeated slowly to himself—

He looked dreamily at the passing landscape. ​Could that be a phantom flitting over the dense shadowed glades, dark as a mausoleum? Was that the face of the Erl-king’s daughter looking up from the whirling stream? No, it is only the green, green shadows of the woods in the water. This beautiful river has no history. The cloud and its shadows are the only visitors to the precipices, and so silent it is that one could almost hear the passing footfall of that white feathery summer-cloud, as it drifts for a moment over the abyss and is seen no more. Yet in spite of all this tranquil charm of scenery, Arthur Campbell was not altogether at ease, in the rôle of sole guardian to his pretty and erratic friend, on this expedition. He had naturally supposed, though without thinking much about it, that Mrs. Austin would be accompanied by one or two of her usual following and comrades in arms, if not by the whole party, and had felt rather taken aback that morning when she stepped on board, bright and blooming, and accompanied only by her maid—a pert little person rather younger and less judicious than her mistress, though without her personal attractions. Mrs. Austin, however, was in great form, and as jolly as a sand-boy, as she herself assured him on her arrival. She noticed his rather blank expression, too, and begged him not ​to get the black dog so early in the day, for that they were really going to have a good spree, and must make the most of it. She had attired herself with unwonted sobriety, in a solemn frock of black gauzy stuff, with casual flounces and furbelows (as men call them—no woman has ever had the slightest idea of what a furbelow really is) of vapoury black lace. A black plumed shady hat half hid her bright face, pink as sweetbriar blossoms in June, while her lips rivalled the coral of its berries in autumn. She looked so happy and so handsome that all the passengers stared at her as if she were indeed a “phantom of delight.” Fortunately, perhaps, these were few in number. There was a pretty country-girl, in white muslin, with a pocket full of bonbons, which she consumed incessantly like a ruminating animal. The young lady was evidently betrothed to a sad, prosperous, bushy-looking young man who sat next her, and on whose shoulder she reposed in a conventional stereotyped manner, as if she merely took up this attitude for the sake of appearances, and not in the least because there was any pleasure, forbidden or otherwise, in such a fashion of repose. Neither did the sad-faced young man take the slightest notice of her, other than tacitly supporting her weight without remon​strance. He conversed sparingly and at long intervals with a masculine friend of a similar appearance, in a melancholy high-keyed windbeaten sort of chant.

Another couple evidently belonged to a higher sphere. The husband was apparently an English tourist, self-important and wealthy; the wife a passée woman of fashion. The passengers amused Mrs. Austin immensely. “Look at that poor woman, how got up she is!” she remarked in her loud confidential whisper. “I am sure her hair is put on, and her complexion is very clever, but you can see through it. And her eyes, I do believe they are artificial, and that she takes them out of her travelling bag every morning and puts them on with her veil.” Arthur smiled guardedly and acquiesced with a man’s insincerity; in his secret thought he had a dreadful idea that the rejuvenated lady bore a certain faint uncomfortable resemblance to Mrs. Austin herself, as she might look in some very distant, disagreeable, middle-aged future.

About half-way the steamer stopped at a small clearing where a Roman Catholic mission had been established some years before. A pleasantlooking Sister, in the uniform of her religious order, with the elderly-youthful expression which ​one so often sees under the linen cap, came on board, and sat down near them.

The Sister had a bright cheery face. Her simple dignity of mien and utter unconsciousness of “what is worn now” formed a pleasant contrast to the over-dressed tourist lady. Lizzie felt drawn to her and shyly began a conversation, not knowing whether the rules of this religious order would permit any intercourse with strangers. The Sister responded, and they were soon talking together, more like old friends than passing strangers. No one—not even a tourist—could maintain a proper conventional reserve in the midst of these mountain solitudes. The wooded cliffs slipped past, the afternoon grew more golden and more silent every moment. The good Sister produced a basket of small sun-burnt grapes, and handed them round as gracefully as if she were still doing the honours of her Paris salon. There was a charming air of worldly polish still showing in her well-bred French voice and genial manner.

She spoke of her life and the mission work, its hardships and adventures, the joy and happiness she had found in her self-renunciation; and Lizzie listened and looked with all her beautiful childish eyes on the speaker. Presently Sister Agnes glanced at the wedding-ring on the girl’s ​ungloved fingers, and then at Arthur Campbell, standing a little apart, and remarked in her pretty old-fashioned manner, “Ce beau monsieur is your husband, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps even this is your honeymoon journey?”—“No, oh no. He is only a friend,” Lizzie murmured with crimsoning cheeks. Sister Agnes looked surprised, and there was a moment’s silence, in which she doubtless commended the young couple to the protection of her patron saint; then with French tact she spoke of other matters, but something seemed to trouble the sweet harmonious afternoon, and Lizzie began to look weary and distrait.

“We shall soon come to anchor for the night,” said Campbell, coming up to her later on. “I wonder if there is a road anywhere about here. It looks like the end of the world.”

“Not a road, but a bridle-track. How I wish I were a man! what fun it would be!”

“What would you do, par exemple?”

“I would get a horse here and ride ‘over the hills and far away.’ There is a track leading far into the island, and you can get out on the sea-shore, and find your way to a port. You pass by the great snow-mountains and hear the avalanches thundering down all night. There are some deer in the valleys, too, and they have ​a legend about a great red stag, with huge antlers, who is always seen and never shot. Why don’t you go, Mr. Campbell?”

“I’ve a great mind to.”

“I think you should. It is a great chance to see the interior. Do you see that sandy, bushy sort of a man with the dog? He is going, I know. I heard him talking about it at dinnertime.”

Arthur took a sudden resolution. “I will see him, and get him to let me hang on to his party. But what will you do?” he added in a lower key.

“Oh, I shall stay on the steamer, and we will get back to-morrow night. I shall be home by nine. I told them to meet me with the brougham at the wharf, so no one will be anxious. Don’t you bother about me.”

She looked out at the passing cliffs with her usual unconcerned gaiety, but her lips were firmly pressed together, and the colour that usually lighted up her face with its morning sparkle had quite disappeared.

When he came back the sunset was fading over the woods, and that look of tragedy which is never long absent from the wild southern landscape was settling down with the shadows.

“Well, I must say good-bye soon, worse luck,” ​he said presently. “We shall have to walk five miles to the nearest settlement, where they tell me we can get horses and a guide.”

“Yes; it is good-bye now, and for a long time. I don’t suppose we shall meet again.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I shall not be here when you come back. We are going to Europe immediately. Mr. Austin has arranged it all. This is positively my last spree.” She spoke carelessly, but in short, detached sentences, as if she had learned a lesson, and was repeating it by rote.

Arthur stood still, quite confounded for the moment. He wished to say a great many things, but could not remember any one of them. He tried to begin something, but she went on, “Yes, it is horrid saying good-bye. But I shall often think of you. We have had a good time together, and I think our friendship is a real one. It will wash, won’t it? This has been a pleasant trip, too, and I’m glad we are here in this wild lonely place, and not at home with gossips all over the shop. This is just the place to say good-bye for ever!”

“But I can’t go like this,” he stammered.

“You must not turn me off at a moment’s warning. Your kindness, your sympathy has been so much to me. Surely we need not———”

​The steamer came to a full stop close to a bank, and was secured by the simple expedient of tying a rope round a tree. The passengers all jumped ashore. The little Sister smiled and waved her adieu. The men on board began to disembark the small cargo, and a crowd of Maoris stood on the bank and superintended the proceedings with their usual air of unemployed dignity.

“I can’t leave you like this,” he said at last.

“Yes, indeed you must. Look! they are beckoning to you.” He had seen Lizzie in many phases, but this was a new mood altogether. She might have been a princess graciously dismissing him from audience, and he felt that there was no appeal from her decision. All at once he seemed to realize how lonely she was, and understood something of the sadness that underlaid her brilliant life. A sudden tenderness brought the tears very near his eyes, but she looked at him with the same calm, unfathomable expression, and silently held out her hand. He kept it for a moment—for an instant held it to his lips—and then, turning away, disappeared into the forest. Lizzie remained standing motionless for some long moments, looking into the shadows and listening, if perhaps a footstep might be returning. Then with an irresistible ​sob of loneliness she hid her face in her hands, and leaned over the rushing water, feeling terribly alone and forsaken.

When she looked up, darkness had set over the landscape. The Southern Cross streamed over her head, and a shallow crescent moon sailed above the great mountain-shoulder. Only the river seemed alive in that solitude, as it fled past and far through its green-roofed wilderness. It might have been a river of tears flowing from its secret birthplace in the everlasting hills, and hurrying onwards through the darkness to the unknown ocean, ever murmuring as it ran the same far-heard inconsolable lament over “something that is gone,” that it has repeated since the beginning of the world.