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Part I

It was a summer evening. The high winds that blow so often, in summer, over the plains of Canterbury, New Zealand, were lashing themselves into a gale. A heavy bank of cumulus cloud, like vast heaps of snow resting on their own grey shadow, swept majestically along the sky over the Port Hills, catching the higher crests as it went by, and swathing them in its level folds. The tops of the hills were dark and purple in the shade it cast. Farther down, fitful gleams of sunshine chased the shadows over the great, bossy slopes, and touched the dark plantations and stretches of yellow tussocks on the plains below.

Through the district of Rakawahi (which means page 8'Sunny Corner') a little river winds its way towards the sea. In the distance it looked, then, like nothing but a winding bed of water-cress, so choked was it by that imported pest of New Zealand watercourses; but walking along its banks, you discovered clear pools and spaces where the obstreperous plant had failed to cover it. A little below the so-called 'township' (a few houses not quite as far apart as the rest were) the river flowed past a wilderness of Maori-heads. Over scores of acres, the ground was full of thick stumps of peaty earth, two or three feet high, each bearing a crown of long, coarse, drooping grass, like unkempt hair. The effect was that of a forest of oaks new-pollarded, standing deep in a lake of earth instead of water, wearing wild wigs. The stumps are like peat; the people cut them, and use them for fuel. The soil, when cleared, is rich in the extreme. I dare say that waste of Maori-heads has long been cleared and brought under the plough. Twenty - five years ago, their hard yellow locks streamed and rattled in the wind, a contrast to the mild weeping-willow on the other side of the stream, flinging its soft green leaves as the blast directed, with only a whispered remonstrance.

Not far from the willow, a little boy lay on the bank, in an agony of grief and rage. It was more page 9than a childish passion that transported him. Grief, such as sets its mark upon the rest of life, wrung out those heavy sobs convulsing the childish frame. Then he would lift himself, and tear handfuls of grass from the tussocks, kneading them on the ground in his impotent wrath.

'I'll kill him. I'll have it out of him, I will. I will. I'll serve him out—beast! Oh, mother—mother. Father!'

It was his birthday, and his father was dead. He was hired out for the summer — poor little man, only eleven years old that day; but workers were scarce in New Zealand then, and any bright boy of eleven had his price. This was a Saturday. He had been promised, ever since he came, that he should go home this evening and stay over Sunday with his mother, and the other boy on the farm had tricked him out of it.

It was a horrible thing to do, and it was done so cunningly. A good neighbour who was driving in to Christchurch that evening had offered to take him. Davie had been up at four o'clock to hurry his work, in a fever all day for fear of being late when Mr. Lawson came to the cross-roads. He could hardly pretend to swallow his tea. The clock had stopped; he had to ask Mrs. Foster what was the time by her watch, and on the third time of asking she was cross and said, page 10'Bother the child, you have lots of time. Just do the knives and fetch in another bucket of water, and then you can get ready. You'll be long before time, then.'

Davie had not been used to sharp words at home, and they frightened him very much.

'I'll mind the time for you — see,' said Ned, the other boy, two years older than Davie, who rejoiced in an old silver watch which went occasionally. He pulled it out now and displayed it, without saying that it was twenty - five minutes behind time.

'I'll do your knives. Come and have a bathe—there's lots of time,' he said.

Davie was surprised, for Ned was not usually inclined to do a stroke of work that he could avoid. But being very ready to trust his fellow-creatures, he fetched his Sunday clothes to dress in, after his bathe, and took up his bucket. Ned took another, and they ran down to the pump at the riverside, filled the buckets, and left them standing while they went a few hundred yards up the stream to a bend sheltered by willows, where was a stretch of water comparatively free from cress. Davie plunged in: he could swim like a duck, and though he meant to stay in only a minute, the cool water was so delicious that he lingered, plashing and swimming round a clear page 11space. He thought Ned was on the other side of a mass of water-cress.

'I'm coming out now,' he called. No answer. Davie swam to the bank and came out, shaking himself like a dog. Not a sign of Ned was to be seen, nor of his own clothes either.

The poor little fellow called and searched wildly, —in vain. He had soon looked into every place where clothes could be, on that side of the river. Then he remembered thinking, when Ned answered him — from the water, as he supposed — that he must have swum quite over to the other side. He could never have swum at all. With a sudden thought, Davie plucked up courage — glided between the willow-stems, and shot along an open bit to where a plank was laid across the stream—crossed it, and hid himself among the Maori-heads on the other side. The ground between them was soft, after recent rain. Davie spied a foot-step; he darted to it, his little bare feet hardly touching the ground, and tracked in and out among the stumps, in terror and despair, till a glimpse of white calico caused a bound of hope. He sprang towards it. There were his clothes all right, rolled together under the drooping grass on a low stump; and clothes are liberty! clothes are power!

With trembling hands he threw them on, page 12hindering himself by excess of haste—wiped his little feet with his soiled socks, and put on the clean ones. But he dared not stay to take the working clothes back to the house; the risks were too dreadful. He rolled them into a bundle and set off, plunging over the rough, uncertain ground, to where the high-road ran through the waste. This was his nearest way to the cross-road where Mr. Lawson was to pick him up.

The roads, in that level region, are more than Roman in their straightness. As the boy scrambled up the highway side he saw a buggy draw up where the roads crossed, hundreds of yards away. It was a moment of agony, yet of exultation also, for he was sure Mr. Lawson would wait for him. But scarcely had the buggy stopped, when a small figure sprang in. Mr. Lawson drove cheerfully away with the wrong boy, pleased to be doing a kindness, and Davie was left alone upon the bank.

He shouted and ran, but only for a moment; it was so plainly useless. Then, for a cruel half-hour, he waited at the corner, nursing a faint hope that that buggy was not the Lawsons'. He knew it was, all the time; he knew the make of it and the grey horse at any distance; and that must have been Ned who got in. Davie had not learned the language of swearing, but the spirit of page 13it was in his heart. He wished he did know any words bad enough to curse Ned with.

It was of no use to sit there. With a child's instinct for seeking help from his elders, Davie took up his bundle and toiled wearily back by the way he came. The wind rose higher and higher, and whistled through the tossing Maori - heads. They thrashed to and fro in the gale; so did the weeping-willow beside the plank. Davie liked the storm; it felt something like thrashing Ned.

But as he reached the farther side of the stream the anguish of his loss overpowered him; he threw himself on the ground and cried till he had no tears left. Then he sat up, shivering, and pressed his hands tightly to his throbbing head. What would his mother think if he did not come? She might think he had done something wrong, and was being punished for it.

Stung into new life, the child started up, determined to walk home. The distance was twelve miles; but someone might give him a lift. He had to do the knives, though, and to tell Mrs. Foster what had become of Ned. Mr. Foster had gone off on a long round, early that morning, to be absent till Monday, when Davie was to have returned with him.

The boy's knees trembled as he walked back to the house. He could not help knowing that he page 14was tired out; but he was going to walk home, none the less: the longing for his mother was unendurable.

'Why, Davie! Mr. Lawson will be gone by,' exclaimed Emmie Foster, as the weary child entered the kitchen carrying one of the water-buckets. How heavy it had grown!

'He is gone,' said Davie in a trembling voice. 'Ned hid my clothes away and went instead of me.' Somehow, as soon as he began to speak in the presence of Ned's aunt, fear took the place of indignation.

'What nonsense, child! Why, Ned was here only this minute,' said Mrs. Foster.

But on calculation it proved that the minute was a long one, and Ned had not been seen since he walked off with Davie.

'It was him, I know,' said Davie quietly.

'Then it was too bad of him,' Mrs. Foster admitted. 'But what a little silly you must have been to let him get off with your clothes!'

The child's pale face flushed crimson. It was what he had felt most keenly all the time—Ned had successfully made a fool of him.

'I'm going to walk home, Mrs. Foster,' he said.

'No, you're not,' she answered sharply. 'Who ever heard of such a thing? Why, you'd kill yourself, and never get there! Your mother page 15would be very angry if you tried, so just stop here and do your knives. Such a storm coming up too.'

A darker storm was gathering in one little heart, but it made no outward sign.

'Whatever have you been doing to your best suit?' exclaimed Mrs. Foster, discovering that he had it on. 'Why, look here, Emmie! Dirt all over it, before and behind. How ever did you get it like that? It'll never be fit to be seen again.'

She had the child by the shoulders, turning him round and exclaiming. Davie's throat swelled. He nearly choked with his efforts not to cry, but the big tears rolled down in spite of him. They softened her.

'Well, don't fret, child,' she said. 'You shall go home another day, I promise you; and you shall stay up to supper to-night, for you hardly ate a bit of tea. I don't know what you'll have to go in, though,' she added, with a hopeless look at his clothes. She would have said more, but for a lurking fear that their condition might be owing to Ned.

'Never mind, Davie. It will brush off when it gets dry,' said Emmie kindly.

Davie made no answer. It was a climax to this day's humiliations, to have spoiled his Sunday page 16suit—the clothes his mother had made for him, and put in his box with so many tender counsels about taking care of them, for she could not afford to get him any others. He had never once thought about having them on, when he rolled on the ground in his fierce distress.

He went quietly to the room he shared with Ned, and changed to his working suit again, seeing with a sinking heart the ample cause there was for Mrs. Foster's observations. Anger was quiescent now; he was crushed under that utter despair of self which makes the griefs of childhood so intolerable. And he could not get to his mother.

It was no small thing to him that this was his birthday — the one proud day in a child's year when he is the centre of attention in his home. It was the first birthday without his father, and his mother had asked, as a special favour, that he might come home for it, as it fell on a Saturday. Again, the fear of her thinking he was in disgrace cut his heart. Or she might be afraid something had happened to him.

That was the first thought which turned his mind from his own overwhelming grief. She had trained her children never to sit down and fret over a trouble, if anything could be done to mend it; and now, at the thought of her anxiety, his page 17fainting energies revived, and he made a little plan. He came out of his room—cleaned the knives and brought up Ned's bucket of water— then stole out across the paddocks to the high road. There were often pleasure-parties riding or driving back to Christchurch about this time on a Saturday evening. Somebody might be going down the Coxley Road who would take a message to his mother. The post went out from Rakawahi only twice a week in those days, and he wanted her to hear that very night. He was much too eager to feel any fear or shyness about stopping a stranger. This was like a matter of life or death to him.

First came a man on horseback; he was not going to Christchurch: then a buggy full of lads and girls; they were going by another road. The darkness gathered fast, under the brooding storm. Davie's last hope was beginning to fail him, when a pony-carriage came in sight, with three little girls in it — a dark-bearded gentleman driving. They were going quickly. Davie stepped forward in the wide road, and held up his little hand, saying, 'Hi.'

'Hallo, my little man. Have you lost your way?' said the gentleman, pulling up.

'Are you going to Christchurch?' asked Davie.

'Yes, we are.'

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'Down Coxley Road?'

'No, quite another way.' But the great distress in the child's face moved the gentleman to say, 'What is it you want, my man?'

'I want somebody to tell mother I can't come home. I couldn't help it,' said Davie, his voice quivering.

'Is she expecting you?'

'Yes. It's my birthday,' said little Davie; and breaking down altogether, he sobbed out, 'And they said I should go home, and now—I can't.'

Not for worlds would he have owned the shameful reason why. With a quick movement, the gentleman drew him up into the low pony-carriage and held him between his knees. Davie laid his head upon the kind shoulder and sobbed there, pride forgotten in the luxury of having someone to cry to, at last. All the little girls were crying too.

'Could you come if I take you?' the stranger asked.

'No, I mustn't,' said Davie. The law-abiding habit of his life constrained him; and he had remembered, too, that there was no one else to milk the cows, now that Ned was gone.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm on a farm.'

'What does your father do?'

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'He's dead,' said Davie, with another burst of sobbing. The father drew him closer.

One of the little girls had a great bunch of roses in her hand. She held it out to Davie: it was all she had to offer. He looked awkward, not knowing what to do.

'Who is your mother?' asked the gentleman.

'Mrs. Marriott,' and Davie added a somewhat confused address.

'We'll drive round there and tell her,' said the gentleman. 'Do you see my little girl wants to give you her roses? Take them.'

Davie obeyed, doubtfully.

'Now they are yours,' said the gentleman.

'Wouldn't you like to give them to your mother? I'll take them to her, if you would.'

Davie opened his eyes wide with sudden pleasure; but as his extremity abated selfconsciousness returned; he hid his face again on his new friend's shoulder, overwhelmed with shyness.

The stranger friend held him close again for a moment, and kissed him.

'Now you must jump down,' he said, releasing him. 'Good-bye, my little man. God bless you! We'll be sure to find your mother and give her the roses.'

He drove off, the little girls waving their hands page 20to Davie. The boy watched them out of sight, and turned slowly back again to 'Fosters',' a wondrous thrill of comfort in his heart. He had not found his mother, but he had found love— drunk deep of it, for those few minutes; and the sweetness would linger long.

The clouds swept lower and lower down the hills. With a howl and a rush the storm broke, and rain came down in torrents upon the umbrellas in the pony - carriage. The little girls were in terror lest their father should take them home before he drove on to Davie's mother. He passed the homeward turning, and all their hearts leaped up. Long before they reached Coxley Road it was quite dark. The father drove slowly, trying in vain to make out any of the landmarks Davie had given him.

A door opened, and a woman's figure stood out dark against the light behind her, peering into the gloom.

'That's his mother looking out for him, depend on it,' said the gentleman. 'Jump out, Millie, and ask her if she is Mrs. Marriott.'

Millie dashed through the rain, carrying the roses under her umbrella. With a sudden 'Ah,' the watchers saw the nosegay change hands. The mother was found, and three much-relieved little people were driven home to another anxious mother.

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When Davie awoke next morning, the first thing he saw was his Sunday jacket, all streaked with mud. He slipped out of bed, stiff and sore after yesterday, and gently rubbed the cloth together. The mud turned to powder, and fell on his bare feet.

'It does rub off!' he thought joyfully. 'She said it would, when it was dry.'

It was quite a discovery. Hope revived once more. Davie dressed himself and went out to light the fire and milk the cows. Emmie spoke kindly to him when she appeared; and after breakfast they gave his clothes a good brushing, and the 'clean dirt' all came off, leaving hardly a stain upon them. Davie was able to go to Sunday school in the afternoon looking respectable, and with no Ned to tease him.

'Ned will catch it when Mr. Foster comes home,' he thought with satisfaction.

But when Mr. Foster drove up, on Monday, there was Ned beside him, as cool as possible. He had told his uncle that Davie did not care about going home, and went away to bathe, so he went instead. It happened that he had had reasons of his own for wishing particularly to be in town on that Sunday. He had counted on going in with his uncle, and was much disgusted to find his plans frustrated on Davie's account. The plot to page 22supplant him had not been premeditated: it was suggested first by Davie's innocent acceptance of the wrong time, and the hiding of his clothes was an afterthought, to complete the business.

Mr. Foster blamed both the boys for not obeying orders, but was most displeased with Davie. Davie was too much astonished to say a word, but Emmie spoke up for him, and described how Ned had made off with his clothes.

'Ha, ha!' Mr. Foster had laughed heartily before he was aware. Then he hastily pulled a grim face, and told Ned he was a rascal, and if he ever carried on like that again he should hear of it; but the laugh had sunk too deep into the minds of both boys for the rebuke to make any impression. Ned walked off triumphant, though with enough prickings of conscience to make him vicious towards Davie. Davie bore away a bitter, burning sense of injustice, mingled with his intense, helpless mortification and abasement.

'Sharp chap, Ned,' said Mr. Foster to his wife. 'It was too bad of him, though. I'd give him a flogging, if it wasn't that he would only take it out of Davie.'

And Mrs. Foster, who had no son of her own and was very fond of Ned, agreed in any view of the case likely to spare him punishment. The consequence was that Ned actually mounted the page 23high horse, and twitted Davie for having been so easily 'done.' He found himself armed with quite a new power to hurt the little boy; a safe one too. He might have been punished himself for using bodily violence, but he could wound and lacerate the spirit with impunity.

Davie endured in silence, too proud to complain. When Ned imposed upon him, he did the work without shirking one stroke; but all the time a burning sense of outrage and wrong consumed his little heart. He was to go home for Christmas, and he laid fierce plots how he and his brother would devise to serve out Ned.