III

New Zealand papers (and it was perhaps the only subject on which they ever agreed) were going mad in efforts to express their opinions of Grey and their dread lest Wynyard—who couldn't be expected to know anything about government—should utterly destroy them. Grey, as every Tom, Dick and Harry knew, or ought to, had sacrificed the country's national advancement for his own, and then run for it. So now there was no pilot, said the gentlemen buttoning up their coats, and, damme, we will pilot it ourselves.

“Governor Wynyard will, do well to forget Grey's rulings,” said the Chronicle acidly. “In case it has escaped his notice we suggest that it would be well to give settlers possession of the land they have bought, instead of taking away what they already hold. Titles can never be cleared. A man's word must be the bond in both races, and since Grey has overruled that who can blame the Maoris for saying: ‘If a governor so juggles with his own race what will he do with ours?’”

That was unjust to Grey, protested John, who had come in for the parliamentary opening; to Grey who really had tried to arbitrate between angry chiefs who had sold rich pastures in the early days for an iron pot or two and chiefs who were now getting something like the real worth of it.

Providence, it appeared, had no sympathy with the first Parliament, which opened under avalanches of rain; with wet flags demoralized about their poles and letting their colours run anywhere; with booming guns muffled by the storm, and ladies' heads muffled by the shawls page 197 which persistently blew over them; with gentlemen doing Herculean things with umbrellas, making speeches, making enemies. There were sergeants-at-arms, maces, a speaker, and members from the other provinces, who might well have been denizens of another planet for all Auckland knew of them, or wanted to know. It was scandalous that such foreigners should presume to meddle with New Zealand's destiny, and Peregrine was not the only man determined that it must not be allowed.

“Of all man's miraculous mistakes this bears the palm'—Young,” declared Sir Winston, asking coldly, at sight of a breezy gentleman with a little beard and a large tie: “Who is this Fitzgerald of Canterbury?”

Soon everybody knew. He was not only authors of The Night Watch, but the most brilliant and argumentative of them all, slashing Peregrine's carefully prepared periods to ribbons, holding the Attorney-General up to derision on the point of his sharp lance.

“They'll agree like a basket of cats,” remarked Jermyn, seeing members take their places; and indeed quarrels soon smoked to high heaven and the very air smelt of burning. Each province, so widely dissimilar in its wants, fought fiercely for all it could get; although nervous ladies, inviting these strange wild Goths to parties, found them so charming that secretly they doubted the wisdom of their husbands more than ever. People passing Parliament House heard such repercussions that they halted in eager expectation of the collapse of those frail wooden walls, and the Southern Cross cried frantically:

“The long-expected storm has burst and there is worse to come.”

It was openly said that Wakefield—the scoundrel responsible for the New Zealand Company—wrote all Governor Wynyard's speeches for him; and there was no use in Sir John Lovel and other fools asserting that if Wakefield hadn't forced England's hand we wouldn't belong to her now. “Who wants to belong to England?” page 198 cried distracted members, who couldn't forget that they were provincial councillors first, needing special grants for tunnels in Canterbury, railways in Dunedin, wharves in Wellington, Auckland, and elsewhere.

When, after locking the doors against interruption, New Zealand's first Parliament prorogued itself in a furious climax of despair, Jermyn wrote for the Chronicle: “In order to constitute a session it is necessary that one bill should pass in both houses. After sitting two and a half months our Parliament as achieved this. It has produced a bill authorizing the sale of liquor within its own precincts.”

Peregrine was so mortified that he stayed at home, which made life very difficult for his family. But after some consideration members got under way again and, desiring to go home, passed a few bills in a hurry and decided to leave legislating alone for a year or two. It had been an embarrassing experience. Actually, thought these lusty pioneers, so eager for their own way since they never had been allowed it before, this fiasco indicated that if they really wanted a Parliament they must combine instead of engaging solely in shouting each other down.

After his first shocked surprise at this revelation Peregrine accepted it and prepared to trim his sails. He had learned a good deal that would be useful later, and (although still rather giddy) he remained lord of his own hearth. So he instructed Sally to prepare for Roddy such garments as would be suitable for farm life.

“I am sending you out to your Uncle John to learn about land and stock, Roddy. Then you shall go to Canterbury, where I have bought land upon the Plains, for I intend you to become one of New Zealand's greatest sheep-kings. There's a career for you, my boy,” said Peregrine with the air of conferring a crown.

Sally looked in terror on Roddy springing up from the window-seat where he had been dreaming; hearing, she page 199 knew, dim echoes of elfin horns, seeing faint and lovely visions such as only youth can know. Always she was afraid for Roddy, living in his own pure world of beauty, touching the life about him with finger-tips, with the edges of his glances. Now he was crying like a frightened child:

“Oh, I couldn't. Oh, please, sir, I don't … I'd hate it so.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Peregrine, suddenly tremendous. “Are you presuming to question my ruling?”

“I … I don't want to go on a farm,” said Roddy, feeling sick just to think of the lusty smells of sheep, of cows, of pigs. With his head up like that he was near as tall as Mr Lovel. But oh, his dear young limbs were so slender and unset. Not a fair fight, thought Sally, flinging herself desperately on the spears.

“Oh, please, Mr Lovel, isn't there anything else … ?”

“Are you defying me, Roddy?” asked Peregrine, not even hearing Sally. By his expression he might have been seeing life as an excellent oil-painting and suddenly discovered it to be an oleograph.

“I loathe sheep,” said Roddy helplessly. Oh God, what could he say, with the earth so sliding away under his feet? Life was such a delight of little paths. Riding to school like Lancelot on the Quest of the Holy Grail; lying in the fern-gully where the warmth and the bird-twitter and Tiffy singing soft Maori waiatas lifted him on the shoulders of the world to enchanted horizons; calling with his flute to the sea which answered with a song stranger, more compelling than the song of the sirens to Ulysses….

“Go to your room,” said Peregrine coldly, “and thank God that you have a father with common sense, even if you have none. Probably you will inherit the title. Eventually—through my unwearied efforts—you will be a very rich man. There is a future before you which most young men would give their heads for … and you tell me you page 200 hate sheep,” he cried, abandoning dignity for righteous fury. “You damned empty-headed young imbecile! By the Lord, I'll hammer that nonsense out of you! Go to your room.”

“Oh, please,” cried Sally, quite reckless for Roddy, “isn't there … Jermyn thinks Roddy has genius, perhaps …”

She could not have said anything which revolted Peregrine more. Lovels, whatever their faults, had always been gentlemen.

“Do you wish to drive me mad? My son a long-haired stroller always in ladies' pockets? My son? I'll tell John to put him with the working-men in the whare. That will make a man of him, perhaps,” declared Peregrine, marching out. What, he felt almost passionately, was Providence about to afflict him with such a family? Not an ounce of sense in the lot of 'em, except Brian with his quick black eyes and long clever head. And that oaf Roddy had to be the head of the Lovels and hold the result of all Peregrine's long years of labour in his silly hands….

“Where the devil are you going, sir?” demanded Peregrine, whose great strides had carried him fast over the windy hill into Commercial Bay and bang into Major Henry. Here's another fool, thought Peregrine, bitterly aware that the world held far too many.

The Major (who had had a few at the Empire tavern) stopped with the puggaree on his tall hat blowing in the wind, the shawl blowing on his shoulders. An agitated Major, seemingly going to pieces in all directions and crying out to Peregrine:

“So your boats are landing smuggled goods all along the coasts, sir. You should cushion the matter better. This won't teach your Punch-and-Judy Parliament to respect you.”

“In what harbour-side brothel did you hear that?” asked Peregrine, becoming calm in the face of danger.

“I can give you the names of the shipmasters. You page 201 don't drink enough with anyone to find out anything,” declared Major Henry, proudly conscious that nobody could accuse him of that lack. “Your friend Flower has been arranging the matter for you.”

“Come in here,” commanded Peregrine. Flower was a continual pea in Peregrine's shoe, thought the Major, following into the low tavern, where the sanded floor smelled of tobacco-quids and stale liquor. Peregrine ordered brandy in a private room and produced his notebook. “Now, sir?” he said.

That was exactly Peregrine—disassociating himself from murky knowledge, pinning a man down to facts. But the Major had 'em … one or two anyway. A sailor who didn't consider he was getting his share of the loot had talked, and half the shady side of Auckland was diligently spreading the news.

“Afraid the murder's out, boy … unless you can get Jermyn to whitewash you in the Chronicle….”

But this, it appeared, was quite the wrong word. Whatever Peregrine needed—and he did look as though needing something—it was not whitewashing. Nor, he implied, would any amount of it save Nick Flower now.

“Kindly bring the man to my office at once, Major … if he is sufficiently sober,” said Peregrine, always with that thin edge of a sneer. Again, thought the Major, going away deflated, his Omnipotence carried off the honours. It was pleasant to remember some of the things they had done to him in the Parliament.

Up in Peregrine's house Sally, beginning to cry, had put her tender arms round Roddy's neck.

“Roddy dear … it may be only for a little while, Roddy.”

“Yes, mamma,” said Roddy tonelessly. He kissed her with cold lips, walked off with his thin shoulders squared. What could old old persons who had no sorrows know of the anguish in his heart? Even Tiffy couldn't understand, page 202 for she loved animals. But to Roddy they were all Circe's pigs looking at him with captive haunted eyes….