The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature

by Jane Stafford

  ‘Eve! Eve! was the fault mine? Could I guess at a love that went masked in hatred? What made you disbelieve in the end?’

  ‘I learnt that he knew the charge was false; that he had known it all the time. But then—I was his wife.’

  ‘God help us!’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Has the law no mercy for us?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Is there any mercy in life?’

  He was silent.

  ‘In death?’

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, but still no word escaped him.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ she said softly, ‘even now, in the darkness, where no hope shows itself, and the shadows of eternity thicken around us, where life stands threatening on one hand, and death on the other, I believe that God exists, and that He has not forgotten us. Was it a blind chance that led me without volition from that man to you—that fated we should meet at the one point on the road where no choice was left to us? Then take my promise, since God has brought us thus together, that though I may not now be yours, at least no law nor force shall make me his. And if that be so in life, much more will it be so in death, when evil shall no longer have power against us.’

  Still he kissed her hand in silence.

  ‘Speak to me,’ she said. ‘Tell me what is in your mind.’

  He raised himself slowly from the shadows at her feet, and in his eyes, as they caught the fire-light, she saw only the dulness of despair.

  ‘What shall I say?’ he said. ‘How clumsy a thing is life if death be needed to repair its mischiefs. Yet each of us must believe according to his nature, and only death can prove who is right. If all that tremendous to-morrow shall be for us a silence, even as the tremendous yesterday is a silence, where then shall be the recompense for what life denies us? Hope, faith—what are they but shadows compared with the substance we shall have missed. Can I reconcile myself to die now, with the knowledge that you love me still beating in my blood? No, no; give me life with its chances, even though it part us for ever, rather than the risk of sleep and forgetfulness.’

  Orion passed out of sight. The Southern Cross, slowly turning in the black sky, appeared at the edge of the opening, leading up the glittering lights of Argo, the stars of the Centaur thrown off from its points like the spokes of a jewelled wheel. The night grew chill. He rose suddenly, and going out into the opening busied himself in replenishing the waning fire. When he returned, the girl had retired farther into the shelter, and after a moment he lay down in the fern at her feet.

  The night passed for him, as had the last, in a weird mingling of dreams and waking anxieties, and at the first sign of daylight he rose stiff and unrefreshed.

  During the darkness he had formed the idea of endeavouring to obtain a view of the country from one of the surrounding trees, and he now walked round the glade until he had found one suitable for the purpose. The strong lianas in which it was draped rendered the ascent of the lofty barrel possible, though by no means easy, and in his exhausted condition he found it necessary to rest for awhile in the fork before proceeding farther. Then branch after branch was scaled, until at a giddy altitude he was able to rise to his feet and look around him. In all directions rolled the billows of that great ocean of verdure; nowhere from horizon to horizon was a break or opening of any kind apparent. Beautiful was the scene, but terrible in its suggestion of loneliness; no bird sang, no breeze blew, no cloud was visible in all the expanse of sky. Black were the woods, save where at intervals a towering summit caught the beams of the rising sun and rayed them forth in sparkles of yellow fire.

  He gazed awhile, then began a cautious descent to the ground. Far below him he could see Eve, standing motionless in the opening watching his passage from bough to bough. Her form drew his eyes like a magnet, till in his divided attention his foot slipped, and he was saved from falling only by a miracle. That warning was sufficient, and he looked at her no more till he reached the ground. Then he found her white and trembling.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she said passionately.

  He endeavoured to smile away her fears. ‘It is a fact I am a bit out of practice, but it was necessary that we should endeavour to find out where we were.’

  ‘What does it matter where we are?’ she returned in the same tone. ‘What does anything matter now, if only—’ She checked the words on her lips and turned away.

  He was at her side in a moment and had taken her hand. ‘If only what?’ he asked.

  ‘We are together.’

  ‘To me—nothing,’ he said.

  After their frugal breakfast he turned to the shelter and suggested improvements with the object of more perfectly excluding the cold night air. ‘Some more nikau and a few fern fronds,’ he said cheerfully, ‘should render it quite habitable.’

  ‘Is it worth while?’ the girl asked.

  The question fell like a stone into a still pool.

  ‘It shall be,’ he said, and went resolutely to the work.

  In an hour’s time all the interstices between the stems had been plugged with stakes and rushes, and a large heap of dry bracken gathered for the floor of the hut. The collection of fuel was the next task, and when this had been sufficiently attended to, Geoffrey expressed his intention of making a search for water.

  ‘I will not go beyond the reach of your voice,’ he said; ‘and if you feel anxious as to my where-abouts, cooey to me and I will answer you.’

  After some demur the girl consented, and he made his way into the forest.

  A two hours’ scramble proved profitless of results. Only slight undulations deflected the land from a dead level, and apparently neither creek nor spring existed. The part of the forest to which they had attained presented indeed some of the features of a skilfully constructed trap. Solid miles of cane-bound trunks surrounded them, offering here and there tortuous passages like blind rat-holes in the wall. The kiwi alone, the hair-feathered representative of a genus of wingless birds, appeared to possess the key of the jungle. These creatures, as they subsequently discovered, abounded, becoming visible at twilight, uttering their weird notes throughout the night, but frustrating any efforts at capture by their unceasing vigilance and rapidity of movement. The season for berries was not yet, but at one spot Geoffrey found a number of large purple drupes, with which he filled his pockets. There was not a sixteenth of an inch of rind on the woody kernels, but they were not unpalatable. At another bush, laden with black, grape-like berries, he looked askance, but subsequently returned and marked the spot with some care. Why he did so was not clear to his mind, yet he was aware of some significance in the action. The labours of the morning, from the perilous ascent of the tree to this culminating struggle through the canes, combined with privation of food and sleep, had clouded his mind, and only the magnetism of the girl’s voice drew him with many dull pauses from the chill gloom to the warm sunshine of the glade.

  ‘Then it is to be without water,’ Eve said quietly when he had reported his failure.

  ‘We may have better luck next time. The water we have will not last over to-day however we economise it. Then comes to-morrow and to-morrow.’ He stood looking drowsily down upon her.

  ‘Drink now,’ she said pityingly. ‘You look utterly exhausted.’

  ‘What—I! No. I have been feeding on the fruits of the forest. “And He bringeth forth His fruits in due season.”’ He let the berries rain into her lap.

  ‘I have often eaten these,’ Eve said speculatively, ‘but is there life in them?’

  ‘Surely—an abundance. Where was life more vigorous than it is here? Life, life everywhere, and for us—no life at all.’

  Eve looked up, startled at the dull voice, and met the gaze of a pair of smiling, drowsy eyes. Even as she looked the man swayed on his feet.

  She sprang up in concern, and catching his hand sought to lead him into the shelter. He raised the hand to his lips, but the lids of his eyes fell lower.

  ‘Geoffrey! Geoffrey! Did you have no sleep last night?
Ah, how cruel I have been to you! And you on the cold ground! Geoffrey.’ She put her arms round him.

  ‘Sleep!’ he said thickly. ‘No, not for ages. Yes, I will come with you. Gently, my darling, or the boat will upset. Could I sleep while you were cruel? But now that you are—kind—see, I will kiss your feet.’

  He made a motion to stoop, and in the attempt sank into the couch of fern, her arms still round him. For a few seconds he held her, then the weary muscles relaxed, and she was free to release herself if she chose.

  In the darkness he awoke refreshed and with a clear mind. The fire burnt cheerfully, but the wind had veered into the south, and an Arctic chill was in the air. For moments he lay still, endeavouring to recall the events of the day, but for him one-half of them had no existence. He remembered dimly returning from the bush; that was the last fact which could be definitely separated from his dreams. The cold air bit into his limbs, causing him to change his position.

  From the other side of the shelter came the sound of frequent movements, now slight rustlings, now louder, as of one tossing from side to side. He lay still listening, his heart beating painfully. There was a long-drawn sigh.

  ‘Eve,’ he called softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it the cold? Let me put my coat over you.’

  ‘Come then,’ she said after a silence.

  He moved to her, and she drew him down, encircling his neck with her arm. ‘Would you kill yourself to save me pain?’ she whispered.

  ‘A thousand times.’

  Her lips sought his. ‘Will love endure through the torments? Will he be with us there, when the trouble is done and we stand at the gates of death?’

  ‘Even then.’

  ‘Lie down beside me. Put your arms round me. Oh, my beloved, whom I have tortured and killed! I would give you life if I could—life and love if it were possible. But for us there is only love in death.’

  Outside the fire roared, eating into the heart of the night. The shadow of its drifting smoke swept across the spectral flare, moving upwards, aslant, in endless procession over trunk and bough. The deep monotoned ko-ko of the abounding morepork came with a profound significance, breaking the silence as it were the opening of a tragic door.

  (1905)

  Katherine Mansfield, ‘Millie’

  Millie stood leaning against the verandah, until the men were out of sight. When they were far down the road Willie Cox turned round on his horse and waved. But she didn’t wave back. She nodded her head a little and made a grimace. Not a bad young fellow, Willie Cox, but a bit too free and easy for her taste. Oh, my word! it was hot. Enough to fry your hair! Millie put her handkerchief over her head and shaded her eyes with her hand. In the distance along the dusty road she could see the horses—like brown spots dancing up and down, and when she looked away from them and over the burnt paddocks she could see them still—just before her eyes, jumping like mosquitoes. It was half-past two in the afternoon. The sun hung in the faded blue sky like a burning mirror, and away beyond the paddocks the blue mountains quivered and leapt like sea. Sid wouldn’t be back until half-past ten. He had ridden over to the township with four of the boys to help hunt down the young fellow who’d murdered Mr Williamson. Such a dreadful thing! And Mrs Williamson left all alone with all those kids. Funny! she couldn’t think of Mr Williamson being dead! He was such a one for a joke. Always having a lark. Willie Cox said they found him in the barn, shot bang through the head, and the young English ‘johnny’ who’d been on the station learning farming—disappeared. Funny! she wouldn’t think of anyone shooting Mr Williamson, and him so popular and all. My word! when they caught that young man! Well—you couldn’t be sorry for a young fellow like that. As Sid said, if he wasn’t strung up where would they all be? A man like that doesn’t stop at one go. There was blood all over the barn. And Willie Cox said he was that knocked out he picked a cigarette up out of the blood and smoked it. My word! he must have been half dotty.

  Millie went back into the kitchen. She put some ashes on the stove and sprinkled them with water. Languidly, the sweat pouring down her face, and dropping off her nose and chin, she cleared away the dinner, and going into the bedroom, stared at herself in the fly-specked mirror, and wiped her face and neck with a towel. She didn’t know what was the matter with herself that afternoon. She could have a good cry—just for nothing—and then change her blouse and have a good cup of tea. Yes, she felt like that!

  She flopped down on the side of the bed and stared at the coloured print on the wall opposite, ‘Garden Party at Windsor Castle’. In the foreground emerald lawns planted with immense oak trees, and in their grateful shade, a muddle of ladies and gentlemen and parasols and little tables. The background was filled with the towers of Windsor Castle, flying three Union Jacks, and in the middle of the picture the old Queen, like a tea cosy with a head on top of it. ‘I wonder if it really looked like that.’ Millie stared at the flowery ladies, who simpered back at her. ‘I wouldn’t care for that sort of thing. Too much side. What with the Queen an’ one thing an’ another.’ Over the packing-case dressing-table there was a large photograph of her and Sid, taken on their wedding day. Nice picture that—if you do like. She was sitting down in a basket chair, in her cream cashmere and satin ribbons, and Sid, standing with one hand on her shoulder, looking at her bouquet. And behind them there were some fern trees, and a waterfall, and Mount Cook in the distance, covered with snow. She had almost forgotten her wedding day; time did pass so, and if you hadn’t any one to talk things over with, they soon dropped out of your mind. ‘I wunner why we never had no kids ….’ She shrugged her shoulders—gave it up. ‘Well, I’ve never missed them. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sid had, though. He’s softer than me.’

  And then she sat quiet, thinking of nothing at all, her red swollen hands rolled in her apron, her feet stuck out in front of her, her little head with the thick screw of dark hair drooped on her chest. Tick-tick went the kitchen clock, the ashes clinked in the grate, and the venetian blind knocked against the kitchen window. Quite suddenly Millie felt frightened. A queer trembling started inside her—in her stomach—and then spread all over to her knees and hands. ‘There’s somebody about.’ She tiptoed to the door and peered into the kitchen. Nobody there; the verandah doors were closed, the blinds were down, and in the dusky light the white face of the clock shone, and the furniture seemed to bulge and breathe … and listen, too. The clock—the ashes—and the venetian—and then again—something else, like steps in the back yard. ‘Go an’ see what it is, Millie Evans.’ She darted to the back door, opened it, and at the same moment someone ducked behind the wood pile. ‘Who’s that?’ she cried, in a loud, bold voice. ‘Come out o’ that. I seen yer. I know where y’are. I got my gun. Come out from behind of that wood stack.’ She was not frightened any more. She was furiously angry. Her heart banged like a drum. ‘I’ll teach you to play tricks with a woman,’ she yelled, and she took a gun from the kitchen corner, and dashed down the verandah steps, across the glaring yard to the other side of the wood stack. A young man lay there, on his stomach, one arm across his face. ‘Get up! You’re shamming!’ Still holding the gun she kicked him in the shoulders. He gave no sign. ‘Oh, my God, I believe he’s dead.’ She knelt down, seized hold of him, and turned him over on his back. He rolled like a sack. She crouched back on her haunches, staring, her lips and nostrils fluttered with horror.

  He was not much more than a boy, with fair hair, and a growth of fair down on his lips and chin. His eyes were open, rolled up, showing the whites, and his face was patched with dust caked with sweat. He wore a cotton shirt and trousers, with sandshoes on his feet. One of the trousers was stuck to his leg with a patch of dark blood. ‘I can’t,’ said Millie, and then, ‘You’ve got to.’ She bent over and felt his heart. ‘Wait a minute,’ she stammered, ‘wait a minute,’ and she ran into the house for brandy and a pail of water. ‘What are you going to do, Millie Evans? Oh, I don’t know. I never seen anyone in a dead faint be
fore.’ She knelt down, put her arm under the boy’s head and poured some brandy between his lips. It spilled down both sides of his mouth. She dipped a corner of her apron in the water and wiped his face and his hair and his throat, with fingers that trembled. Under the dust and sweat his face gleamed, white as her apron, and thin, and puckered in little lines. A strange dreadful feeling gripped Millie Evans’ bosom—some seed that had never flourished there, unfolded and struck deep roots and burst into painful leaf. ‘Are yer coming round? Feeling all right again?’ The boy breathed sharply, half choked, his eyelids quivered, and he moved his head from side to side. ‘You’re better,’ said Millie, smoothing his hair. ‘Feeling fine now again, ain’t you?’ The pain in her bosom half suffocated her. ‘It’s no good you crying, Millie Evans. You got to keep your head.’ Quite suddenly he sat up and leaned against the wood pile, away from her, staring on the ground. ‘There now!’ cried Millie Evans, in a strange, shaking voice. The boy turned and looked at her, still not speaking, but his eyes were so full of pain and terror that she had to shut her teeth and clench her hands to stop from crying. After a long pause he said in the little voice of a child talking in his sleep, ‘I’m hungry.’ His lips quivered. She scrambled to her feet and stood over him. ‘You come right into the house and have a set down meal,’ she said. ‘Can you walk?’ ‘Yes,’ he whispered, and swaying he followed her across the glaring yard to the verandah. At the bottom step he paused, looking at her again. ‘I’m not coming in,’ he said. He sat on the verandah step in the little pool of shade that lay round the house. Millie watched him. ‘When did yer last ’ave anythink to eat?’ He shook his head. She cut a chunk off the greasy corned beef and a round of bread plastered with butter; but when she brought it he was standing up, glancing round him, and paid no attention to the plate of food. ‘When are they coming back?’ he stammered.

  At that moment she knew. She stood, holding the plate, staring. He was Harrison. He was the English johnny who’d killed Mr Williamson. ‘I know who you are,’ she said, very slowly, ‘yer can’t fox me. That’s who you are. I must have been blind in me two eyes not to ’ave known from the first.’ He made a movement with his hands as though that was all nothing. ‘When are they coming back?’ And she meant to say, ‘Any minute. They’re on their way now.’ Instead she said to the dreadful, frightened face, ‘Not till ’arf past ten.’ He sat down, leaning against one of the verandah poles. His face broke up into little quivers. He shut his eyes and tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘Nothing but a kid. An’ all them fellows after ’im. ’E don’t stand any more of a chance than a kid would.’ ‘Try a bit of beef,’ said Millie. ‘It’s the food you want. Somethink to steady your stomach.’ She moved across the verandah and sat down beside him, the plate on her knees. ‘’Ere—try a bit.’ She broke the bread and butter into little pieces, and she thought, ‘They won’t ketch him. Not if I can ’elp it. Men is all beasts. I don’ care wot ’e’s done, or wot ’e ’asn’t done. See ’im through, Millie Evans. ’E’s nothink but a sick kid.’