Chapter XVIII.
Love or Duty.

A certain French authoress says that “Love is but an episode in the life of a man, but that it is the whole life of a woman.”

Byron, too, before or since, I know not which, says the same thing in nearly the same words—

“Love is of man's life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's whole existence.”

Had she or he looked a little deeper into womankind, the assertion might never have been made, for woman is quite capable of exercising all the noble passions and sentiments which render humanity most beautiful and attractive, although it must be conceded that love is frequently the compass by which she steers through the ocean of life.

It was not until midday that Frank Burnett had an opportunity of meeting Hine-Ra. In fact, with the coyness of her sex, she had almost appeared to avoid him, although when she met him page 81 face to face, and he took her hand in his and pressed it gently, and withal so lovingly, her dark face flushed up with an inexpressibly beautiful tinge of joy.

“Dearest,” he said, in a voice thrilling with emotion, “are you not glad to see me again?”

She blushed rosy red, as she replied in soft accents, “You have brought Matariki, my brother, back in safety, and, therefore, I am glad to see you.”

“And for myself, have you not a word of welcome?”

“For yourself, my beloved one, I have many words of welcome, but why need they be spoken? It is the empty hake that gives out the most sound.”

“True. Still the words of welcome from your lips are like sweet music in my ear.”

“Why, then, E Paranaki, you are welcome as the flower to the bee, as the sunshine to the sea, as the water to the fountain, as the wind is to the mountain. Welcome are these to each other. They belong to one another. As thy heart comes into mine, mine goes out to welcome thine. Forgive my foolish child rhyme, love, but it was taught me by my mother who is dead years ago, and to me, save to you, the words are sacred.”

“Speak ever thus, sunlight of my soul,” was the murmured reply; “'tis as the song of the Kokoromako, sweetest singer of the grove.”

“Paranaki, you spoke to my brother, you told him of our love?”

“I did.”

“He has spoken to me about it, and intends to speak to my father.”

“I have spoken to my father, and have gained his consent. He, too, will speak to your father, and when his consent is obtained we will marry, for—no, I will never leave here.”

“Why, Paranaki, should you think of leaving here?”

“I do not think of it, dearest. I have already refused.”

“Refused!—what?”

Frank explained to her the nature of the offer that had been made to him, and she listened attentively. As he went on her face grew dark, and a hard look stole over her expressive features.

“And this is what the Pākehā chiefs have offered?” she said at length, when he had finished his explanation.

“Yes, and I refused to accept it,” he replied lightly.

“But you cannot refuse, you must not refuse,” she said.

“Cannot? Must not? Why not?”

“I am but a girl and do not understand these things, but I am a Māori, and I know that a man must fight for his race. He must. He must, or the women will spit in his face, and drive him forth with reeds. The Pākehās are of your race, they summon you to fight, and you must go. Yes, you must. It will break my heart, I know, but that matters not. Love is sweet, but duty is sweeter. Yes, you must go.”

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“But I will not go.”

“Yes, you will. What think you my brother would say? What would my father say? What would the men of our tribe say? They would kill you and me if I married a man who had refused to fight for his race.”

This was putting the matter in an entirely new light, and one Frank had not before thought of. He did not know what to say. He knew that, according to her view, she was right. The crime of refusing to fight for one's tribe when called on was of so heinous a nature as very rarely to be known, and to refuse to serve for no better reason that that he did not want to serve, or that he was in love, would have caused him to be the laughing stock of the country.

Then, again, the decided position taken up by Hine-Ra was not a little perplexing. She seemed so totally to subserve her feelings and wishes to the stern call of duty, so completely to accept the situation with its concomitant of, to her, a broken heart, that he was bewildered.

He knew—he felt that, according to strict Māori ethics, she was right. Man's first duty was to his tribe and race. That needed no argument. It was one of the laws on which their political organisation was built. As he was racking his brain for some suitable reply to make, he felt his mat twitched, and, turning round, faced a young Māori, one of the runners of the tribe famed for his fleetness.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Hake Hori wants to see you. He will meet you at a place where I will take you to-night, after sunset. He says, do not fail. Will you be ready to go with me?”

“I will be ready. At what time will you come?”

“At sundown I will be at your whare. It is not far.”

“Good. I will be there.”

Hake Hori, the mysterious Māori scout, he would be the man to consult in his present difficulty, and him he would consult. In the meantime he would see his friend Matariki, and impart to him the new complications in which he found himself involved.

He walked with Hine-Ra in the direction of the chief's whare, saying very little, for, to tell the truth, his mind was in a whirl, and he parted with her at the door, and went in search of her brother.

Soon he found him, and to him related the difficult position in which he was placed.

“Hine-Ra is right,” was the young chief's reply; “you must go.”

“But I do not wish to go.”

“Is, then, my brother—? No, I will not speak the word, for it is not true—but you must go.”

“Must?”

“Yes, must. You know our Māori laws. When once war is declared, the husband must leave his wife. He has no wife but his tribe. The lover must leave his beloved. He has no beloved, none, but his tribe. You are a Pākehā. The Pākehās are of your race, and you must fight for them.”

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“But supposing Te Namas should cast in their lot with the Hau-Haus, and therefore be pitted against the whites, how could I, how can I lift my hand against you, my friend, my brother—against the tribe that has sheltered me and my father, against her—Hine-Ra? How could I?—how can I? No; it is impossible.”

“You do not understand. Were it merely a war by the Pākehās against the Māoris, then Te Nama would be among the first to oppose the pale faces. But it is not so. The tribes are at variance, bitter variance among themselves. We have a long score to settle with the Pateas, and—and—some others, and our revenge on them shall be terrible. I say, and my father says, it shall. Believe me, it will. Had we only our own interests to serve, I know what we should do at once. But there are other interests to consider. Fraud must be met with fraud, cunning with cunning. With you it is different. Your plain line of duty lies straight before you. You must go.”

“And lose, it may be, my friends, the only friends I have. More, cast aside my heart's fondest hopes, and all for this miserable quarrel about which I care nothing! Oh! Matariki, do you then cast me off?”

“Friendship is nothing. Love is nothing. To the Māori, fealty to his race is everything. Again, I say, you must go.”

“But, my friend—”

“Enough. My friend, my brother, dear to me as you are, if it must be so, it must. Ere two suns have set all will be known. The Tutungarau will have been danced, the Ngeri will have been sung, the Teawhakari will have been dug, the Keretohi built, and the Pitau launched. You will be far away. Farewell. Haere atu ra,” and, so saying, Matariki turned on his heel, with a warm clasp of Frank's hand, and left him to his own disquieting thoughts.

Frank Burnett felt himself in a dilemma from which he could not see the way to extricate himself; love on the one hand pointing in this direction, plain duty on the other in that. As men sometimes do in such circumstances, he felt angry, and still angrier because he knew that his anger was alike unreasonable and unreasoning. He was angry with everybody—his father, the British commander, Matariki, Hine-Ra, and, not least, with himself. He was angry because he knew his anger was wrong, and more, that it was of no avail.

There was no mistaking what both Hine-Ra and her brother had said. Love, so far as she was concerned, lay right at the other end of the line of duty, and by no other course could it be attained. The fiat had gone forth. The sentence had been recorded. His country called him; he must go. Hard and unsympathetic as that sentence was, he felt there was something noble in it. He had never been taught the virtue of patriotism, and yet he knew instinctively that his duty lay in the direction indicated, and even felt the amor patriæ glow in his bosom. Yes, he would go, and at once.

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His preparations did not take long. In the Māori bush, and living a Māori life, one is not overburdened with what is very properly called impedimenta. Food may be had, such as it is, from almost every thicket of the grove and tree of the forest, a sleeping-place found under yonder clump of Veronica, or amid the yielding fern that clusters under the leafy Pohutukawa, whose flowers glow richly red against the sombre foliage of the bush. As for washing, why the next stream will answer all requirements in that respect, so that to travel a la Māori, it will be seen that one does not need a portmanteau. A skin rug or a flax or feather mat, either worn cloak fashion or carried swagwise, a sharp knife, a hatchet, a gun, plenty of powder and shot, and a flint and steel, and the wayfarer who “knows his way about” need not fear lack of food, drink, and shelter.

Of course, the first step was to inform his father of the sudden change in his resolution, and, although Mr. Burnett could not, or would not, see the matter of duty to his race from the same standpoint as the Māoris had, still he said nothing to cause him to forego his intention of joining the British forces.

On the contrary, he gave him a letter to the commander-in-chief in answer to the one he had received from that exalted functionary, and supplied him with a sum of money, an old-fashioned but valuable gold watch, and a Colt's revolver, a kind of firearm which Frank had never before seen. With the latter he gave him a stock of ammunition, and with all a stock of advice and instructions how to act and conduct himself in the, to him, new world in which he would soon find himself.

The parting with Hine-Ra and Matariki was brief; not much was said. The former shed some bitter tears at sending her lover away, it might be to death, but was none the less fixed in her purpose. They separated with many kisses and the sweet vows of constancy which young lovers exchange at these

“partings such as press
The life from out young hearts; and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated;—who could guess
If e'er again should meet those mutual eyes?”

The parting with Marutuahua the Rangitira, and the Arikis, Tohungas, and other chief men of the Hapu, was more lengthened and ceremonious. Frank was generally liked in the tribe, and had, of course, to submit to the prolix and verbose speeches usual on such occasions with what patience he might.

Shortly after sunset, then, all preliminaries being settled, and farewell visits of ceremony paid, he sought out the young Māori who had spoken to him that morning, and, with him as a guide, left the kainga of Te Nama amid loud shouts of “Haere atu ra” from the men and the Tangi of the women.

Hine-Ra, standing near the doorway of her father's whare, saw him descend the open slope, pause for a moment as he gained the page 85 margin of the bush, turn round and wave his hand to her in fare-well, and the next instant disappear in the gloomy forest; and then she passed into her own room, and wept as though the light had gone out of her life for ever.