Through South Westland/Part 2/Chapter 12

by A. Maud Moreland

CHAPTER XII.

FAREWELL.

O quiet valley, opening to the East,
How far from this thy peacefulness am I!
Ah me, how far! and far this stream of life
From thy clear creek fast falling to the sea!
Yet let me not lament that these things are
In that loved country I shall see no more;
All that has been is mine inviolate,
Lock’d in the secret book of memory.

D. Wilcox.

For the last time next morning I watched the blue and silver of my valley turn to gold and shining gems; for the last time listened to the merry singing of the river over its shingly shallows; for the last time heard the flutey bell-birds calling. There was a weight on my heart as I packed the sailor’s-bag, and when we sat down to our early breakfast we did not even revile the mangy cow who had paid her last visit in the night, and devoured the potatoes destined for our breakfast.

And then we tidied-up, swept our ungarnished chambers, and were getting the Berline dragged forward when Duncan came riding over the flat. Our now reduced stock was soon on board; the borrowed kerosene tin, tied on behind, clanged sympathetically to every groan of the Berline, as it lumbered its way across the uneven ground. We drove over the wide river-bed till we came to the ford, but it no longer had any terrors for us. We were nearly across when the wheels seemed to drive heavily, and a curious crackling from behind arrested us. “It’s the kerosene tin!” I exclaimed. It was jammed between the wheel and the side of the buggy, and the handle had come off. I grabbed at it desperately, but it got free and floated swiftly out of reach. Duncan, seeing it thus, kicked his horse in the ribs and rode after it, and we watched a wild chase down stream, sometimes he just had his hand on it, and the horse swerved or the river bore it away, and off they went again. At last we saw him jump into the water, and he returned triumphant and soon patched up another handle, and on we went once more.

We had just got to the Niger Hut, with its memories of bottomless beds and hungry cows, when a grinding crash came and the wheel jammed. The kerosene tin again!—but Duncan to the rescue; and this time, when with tugs and jerks and objurgations he freed it, we tied it in a better place, and forward good Berline once more.

And now we took farewell of Mr. Macpherson. He had been kindness itself, and we had learned to like and respect the Highland family up in their lonely home. We watched him ride away till he and his dogs were but moving dots on the wide stretch of grey stones; then we trotted gaily over the grassy track, and pulled up at Mrs. Ross’s: as usual a feast was ready—roast lamb, junket, and

gooseberries, and there was much laughing over our experiences.

The day grew cloudy, no wind stirred, and a sultry heat was in the air as we drove away from the hospitable house.

We next called on an ancient Dane of seventy-three, whom we had met on our way going up, and who had told us his parents were both living: “the old Dad” ninety-seven, and the old Mother one hundred and seven. A cheery old soul who acted cook at a station, and described himself as “a mere lad.” The lake lay perfectly still before us, a mirror of silver framed by blue hills, and as we drove round the curving bays on a road inches deep in dust, these bare hills looked parched to us after our forest-greenness in the Matukituki valley. The little houses in their barbed-wire enclosures looked tired and stuffy, and the hotel gardens had lost their freshness, and Pembroke seemed altogether too towny for our liking.

Great was the interest excited by our arrival, and all dinner-time we had to answer a fire of questions from less-adventurous tourists, who had got no further than the lake. We were glad to escape, and wander out in the moonlight along its shores. I thought with regret how the white moonbeams were lying across our lonely valley, left now to the rabbits and the cows. . . . The black falcon will perch unmolested on the tree before the door; the ducks won’t need to go through their pantomime for our benefit; no one will stand looking at the hurrying river, and in the blue and silver morning listen to its singing.

Beautiful, untrodden ways and silent mountains, we come no more; like Okuru and its placid lagoon, you are laid by for ever in the inner room of memories . . . for us it is enough to have seen “the great Silver Cone against the blue” . . . we come no more.