Tussock Land; a Romance of New Zealand and the Commonwealth/Chapter 32
XXXII
Aroha Grey walked slowly toward the ridge of hills that separated her valley from the next in this interminable welter of hills.
Above her, dazzlingly white clouds flecked a deep blue sky. The wind was bitter and keen.
And as she slowly trudged toward the tussock-clad saddle she did not look up. Her memories held her busy. She had come back from Dunedin the day before; and this afternoon, giving way to the stirring of an old, long-dormant impulse, she had come up to look once more idly down the wide valley that allowed her that futile glimpse into the world beyond.
She recalled the last day she had seen Will, the utter surrender of herself she, in the perilous greatness of a woman’s love, had made to him. And it did not seem to her now that she could ever bring herself to hate him for his betrayal of her trust. She felt too proud of the strength of her womanhood. She in her ignorance had been to blame. She should not have trusted him so utterly. And after the first great shock of grief she had grown more tolerant. It was true that Will had forsaken her; but perhaps he, too, had his problems to solve. It might have been a greater renunciation for him to leave her than to have come back. She did not know. Only she was sure that he would never love the woman he had afterwards married—a Melbourne girl with an income—as he had loved her. That was her crown of consolation—that her woman’s pride.
And now for the first time the image of Will was not paramount in her mind. Another personality had obscured it—as once it had obscured that personality. Her mind now vividly envisaged King. He was an older man now—not old in years, but not young in life. His eyes had lost their old fire; but his glance had in it now a serene directness, an unquestioning assurance that she greatly liked. He had surrendered to life, given up all his ambitions, emerged from the veil of dreams to her sight—a mere mortal. He had stepped down from his mountaintop—and she found him at her side! And yet—she recognised the contradiction—King was not a failure. He had compromised with life; and even the greatest, the strongest, have to compromise. He had recognised his nature and stooped to the blow that life had dealt him. But had risen up the stronger, unshaken and ready again for the fight. He had been hardened by the blows of the mêlée. And though he no longer yearned for a star, he knew its worth. He had set out on the splendid quest of art—and he came back bearing a book of law. Yet he had not altogether failed; he was waging a worthy fight. He had stamina, a quiet, malleable strength. Those last five years of life in Waiatua—of which she had heard from other sources—formed no unworthy record. He was doing his duty. Perhaps there was a career for him—a solid and permanent success—in law... perhaps in Parliament....
And she had a moment’s vision of King, the man of the people, the man who had fought life and been conquered, the man who understood and had learnt the wide need for tolerance. She saw him relinquish his personality, wholly absorbed in the stirring life of the self-conscious community. She saw him identify himself with his district. She saw him but the splenddid spokesman of an inarticulate nationhood. She saw him triumphantly elected for the House, rising to be the leader of a new party, swayed by no mere party fanaticism, moving in a sane and temperate way to the attainment of some indispensable and moderate goal, aiming at no star, yet with eyes upon a star. She could trust him—the people of the colony could trust him—with his future and theirs. It was no unworthy ambition, It would be no unworthy task to help him toward such an attainment.
And how her lonely heart leaned out toward him! How he drew her, almost unwillingly, by that mere strength of his! How swiftly and unerringly their paths had led to this common goal! How utterly the circle had come complete!
And with a pang Aroha remembered. She had put him for ever beyond her reach. She had vindicated her sincerity by a sacrifice that was almost beyond any woman’s strength, almost beyond hers. But she had been true to her ideal of him. She knew that he would respect her for that tremendous truth. And yet, was it his respect she so wanted? Some strange force had been at work within her heart since she had left him on that bush-path; and now her heart, that had once been so strong, so self-assured a thing, seemed transmuted into a mere helpless longing for his love. She remembered that once she had dared to judge him, to hold his love in the balance. And now all her heart was one great yearning for the strength of his love. The change had been so incomprehensible, so sudden. And so irremediable!
Yes, she was glad that she had told him. There must be no deception between them ever more. Only it left her so lonely—and lonely women lived so long!
She looked up. She was nearly at the summit of the tussock-ridge. She paused, as she had always paused, at that point. Beyond her, so her swift fancy ran, lay the wonders of the unknown!
Ah, no!
That was her childish dream. Beyond lay the known, the sordid, the inevitable. Life was the same everywhere. The same troubles, the same obstacles, the same defeats, the same despairs, the same separations, the same loneliness. Life was the same for all—here in the sheltered solitude of the tussock land, over that summit of the ridge in the great world beyond, the same imperturbable current of life flowed and flowed.
No; there was nothing beyond.
And yet it was over the brow of that ridge that once she had cheated herself with the gallant hope that some day her fairy prince was triumphantly to come! She laughed tolerantly at the thought.
She hastened her steps. As she rose toward the summit the wind struck her freshly on the face, flinging back a tress of her loosely-bound, luxurious brown hair. Her strong, firm, lithe limbs repulsed the persistent attack of the steady breeze. Her grey dress streamed back, outlining her splendid bosom, her tall and graceful body. Undeterred by the gusts she trudged sturdily toward the top of the ridge. The spirit of serene conflict spurred her pulse, swept the rich blood to her cheek, lit her eyes with the fire of youth. The instinctive gladness of health and maturity glowed within her. Life had used her sore, had broken and buffeted her, even as this keen wind rained its persistent blows upon her; and yet she was unconquered. The tussock land had sheltered and nursed her. Her heart was young yet; it craved, demanded its meed of happiness; hope flowed in every vein, spoke in every tingling nerve. In every inch of her body she felt the superb conviction of her blossoming womanhood.
She reached the top of the ridge and, leaning against the wind, gazed into the valley beyond.
Across the tussocks, so near that they were almost face to face, came the fairy prince.
She paused, breathless with a tremendous surmise.
King spoke.
“I could not let you go like that. It was horrible of me to let you go. But I could not move. I could not think. But now I have come to tell you―”
“Ah, no!” she said, reaching her hands to his, “don’t tell me anything. I know.”
And she gave herself to his arms, and he kissed her.
Then hand in hand, like little children clinging tremulously together before the terrible enigmas of life, hand in hand they turned and went slowly down the darkening valley.
THE END
EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COY. LIMITED
PRINTERS