# The Story of a New Zealand River/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
HAND in hand, Alice and Asia paused at the wooden gate outside the double wall of pines.
“Oh, Mother,” whispered the child breathlessly, clutching her hand.
Through the trees they saw hot masses of colour. They heard the deep hum of a billion bees. They sniffed a sensuous air heavy with known and unknown scents. Trembling with anticipation, they opened the gate and stole in a yard or two, only to stand again.
Some gardens, like great masses of complex machinery, arrest and fascinate the intellect, and satisfy one’s sense of arrangement, of clockwork management. They have no mysteries, however, no nestling places, no dream-compelling nooks. But inside that phalanx of pines above the river there grew a wonderful garden with all these things; a garden of dreams, a garden riotous with life; a garden of brilliant sunlights and deep shades; a garden of trees that hid the stars and of shy flowers barely peeping from the ground; a whispering garden full of secrets and suggestion; a garden where there was always something more to know.
Trees from England, trees from the semi-tropical islands, and trees from the native forest grew there side by side. There were creamy magnolias, pink and salmon lasiandras, sweet laburnum, banana palms, white trailing clematis, the scarlet kowhai and bowers of tree ferns. Azaleas and jasmine and lilac and mock orange bushes were dotted about at random on the lawns. There were beds and beds of stocks and geraniums, and roses and sweet-williams, and snap-dragons and larkspurs, and lupins and lilies, and late narcissi and anemones, and early gladioli. There were jonquils ​in the grass, and violets and primroses filling up odd spaces everywhere. There were honeysuckled summer-houses and ivy-wreathed stumps, and marble bowls on rough stone pedestals overflowing with creepers. Climbing roses arched the pathways; damp thatched pavilions sheltered fragile ferns. A natural spring bubbled up to form a trickling stream that flowed, hidden by ferns, through a corner and on down the hill in a little gully of its own making to the river.
Everywhere in that garden trees and plants and shrubs leapt at you from the earth, with a wild joy in living, in spreading, in grasping sunward.
In the midst of it, half smothered in creepers, stood a bungalow house, surrounded by broad verandas, every one of them a sweet-scented arbour calling one to pause and stay awhile.
Alice stood still, fighting back tears. She could not then or ever after put into words what that revelation had meant to her.
“Mother, don’t cry,” said Asia pitifully. “Are you afraid?”
“Sh!” she answered harshly.
Just then a piercing scream curdled their blood. But before they could move there stepped into the sunlight on the lawn a few feet away a peacock, with his tail outspread. He stood still as he saw them, proudly displaying his glory to their astonished eyes. A peahen who had followed, stopped too, regarding them curiously.
Asia felt queer. She was certain now that by some invisible magic they had been spirited off to Fairyland.
The creaking of a wheelbarrow on the path broke the spell. Mrs. Brayton came into view and saw them.
“Oh, there you are,” she called, dropping the barrow. “What is it? Oh, the birds. They won’t hurt you. Come on.”
She wore an old and grimy Holland dress, short to immodesty, her son declared, showing in full her frayed ​elastic-side boots and thin legs. Her little hands were lost in thick leather gloves, her head hidden in a straw hat tied under her chin. Anything more unlike the fairy godmother of the week before could not be imagined.
“I’m afraid we have come too soon,” began Alice.
“Indeed, you have not. I have expected you for an hour. Did you think to find me dressed up, and sitting in my drawing-room with my hands folded, wasting time waiting for you? Well, you were wrong, you see. Now, will you like to see my flowers?”
“Yes, please,” said Alice warmly.
The old lady saw they were overcome. It was one of the delights of her life to spring her house and garden upon the unwary. Many an unsuspecting curate, fresh from England, and sore at his exile into the northern wilds, had landed at that garden gate to be astounded, and humbled, and grateful, and stimulated and educated by turns. Many a derelict from a titled English home, driven by degeneration to the gum-fields, had strayed there, to get once more a glimpse of what he had left behind, to have self-respect for an hour again, and to learn what was happening in England from the lips of an Englishwoman, whose voice stirred up a horde of good intentions, destined only to pave hell as of yore, as well she knew. But none the less her house and her news and her time were for every one who, passing by, came in to beg a share of them.
“You must have flowers to take home,” said Mrs. Brayton, “all you can carry, and you can pick them yourselves, anything in the garden.” Detaching a pair of scissors from her belt, she handed them to Asia. “There, my dear, you cut them off, nice long stalks, but don’t pull at them to disturb the roots.”
“Oh, she won’t———”
“Yes, she will do it quite rightly. She can’t hurt anything. My garden belongs to everybody. I am particular about my conservatory. I don’t give things out of it, and I notice that it's always getting blights and insects. I sup-​pose that’s a judgment on my selfishness. You are not picking anything.”
“I can’t believe that I can. It doesn’t seem real,” said Alice nervously.
“Oh, nonsense! This isn’t a public park. Help yourself. Asia, show your mother hbw to pick flowers.”
The child got the spirit of it first. She rushed about in ecstasy, pointing at things she wanted, and looking at Mrs. Brayton for approval. The approval never failing, she began to believe it was all true, and helped herself. Alice followed more timidly, not taking the biggest and best things, as Asia did, till her arms, too, were full.
“Oh, Mother, isn’t this lovely?” Asia ran up to her with as many kinds of flowers as her arms would hold.
Mrs. Brayton’s eyes grew misty as she looked at them. It was obvious to her that life for them had lacked many simple joys.
“What can we do with them all? We have nothing to put them in.”
“You have bath-tins and buckets,” said the old lady. “Use them.”
Alice smiled into a cluster of tea roses.
Mrs. Brayton led the way to the front veranda.
“Asia, rub your boots well,” said her mother fearfully.
“You can take them right off, my dear, and keep them off till you go, if you won’t catch cold. I love children in their bare feet.”
This was another shock to Alice, who began to realize that her notions of propriety would never be any use here. Asia took her boots off on the veranda mat, and then fearfully, reverently, as men tread before the shrines of their gods, they entered by a wide-open French door a large library and music room, which opened through an archway upon a rose red drawing-room.
Before they had time to get more than a first blurred vision, Mrs. Brayton rang a little bell, and there appeared ​in the doorway a prim and aged maid in a black dress, with a spotless cap and apron,
“Tea, please, Mary. And will you help me to carry out these flowers and put them into water.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Instantly Alice felt as if she were back in London. It could not be a dream. She must be there. That particular kind of “Yes, ma’am” in the wilds of New Zealand was absurd, a figment of the imagination. She did not know that many a man from the gum-fields, that even Bruce, had felt as she did about it.
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Brayton, “and excuse me for a few minutes. I must clean myself.”
Left alone, Alice and Asia stared in wonderment about them. Facing them, on a pedestal in a corner by the archway, stood a cast of “The Winged Victory” of Samothrace. Round the walls, above the rows and rows of books, hung engravings of the great cathedrals of Europe. An open fireplace in plain brick took up a quarter of the wall opposite the drawing-room. On the mantelpiece was a row of old brass candlesticks, and on the hearth heavy old brass irons. Set straight before it was a deep faded lounge, on which a whole family could doze and dream. A grand piano filled in one corner. Bowls of flowers, and bronzes, and busts of great musicians stood upon the top shelves above the books. There were well-worn Persian rugs upon the dark, polished floor.
The drawing-room was an old-fashioned, over-crowded treasure house of things dear to the searcher after the choice and the antique. Rare engravings and quaint water-colours, in tarnished gilt frames, hung on the faded pink walls. There were cabinets full of china and glass, of old silver and jewellery, of enamelled and metal snuff-boxes, of fans and curios. Valuable Chinese and Japanese porcelain vases stood in corners and against the walls. Elaborate beadwork fire-screens hung from the white marble mantelpiece, upon which stood four great silver candelabra.
​An alcove made a little gallery for a group of Apollos and Venuses and Muses. There were polished inlaid tables, with slender legs, and graceful chairs covered with silk and tapestry. Two spider-legged lounges looked comfortable with an abundance of cushions. The floor was completely covered with a crimson carpet. Three French windows, hung with rose silk curtains, opened out on to the veranda and a gorgeous bed of stocks.
Everything glowed with the voluptuous light that filtered through those hangings. The white Venuses were toned to a delicate pink, there were luminous splashes on the Oriental vases, and deep red lights waved over the beaded screens.
It was not a room to talk in. It was too swamping, too luxurious. If you sat in it for long you wanted to get back into the library, where you got the fascinating suggestion of it. It was an enervating room. It affected you like an overhot bath. It made you want to lie down and doze and dream among the cushions. But, seen from the cool, severe library, with its restrained tones of cream and brown, the red room was stimulating and alluring, like a Mephistophelian vision of a forbidden feast.
Alice sat half dazed. It was too incredible to be at once believed.
Thinking her mother absorbed, Asia gradually wriggled off her chair, stood up, and stole cautiously towards the drawing-room.
Alice came back to reality with a start. Her nervousness made her unusually sharp.
“Asia, come back at once. You must not move, or touch anything, or make a remark about anything. You hear me?”
“Yes, Mother,” said the child, sitting down sadly. She was craving to explore and ask questions about everything she saw.
In a few minutes Mrs. Brayton returned, the fairy godmother again, in black velvet and lace. She was followed by the maid with the tea.
​“You did not expect to get a real English tea within a fortnight of your arrival, I’m sure,” she smiled. “Do you know Oscar Wilde? Now don't look horrified. He writes awfully clever things, and people will all be talking of them in ten years’ time. He says that to expect the unexpected shows a modern intellect. Now if you had had a modern intellect, you would not have suffered half as much as you have about coming to these wilds, for you would have known that something surprising would turn up. I’m always preaching. You will get used to it.”
The maid handed Alice and Asia their cups of tea, and then retired.
“You have been living in Auckland boarding-houses for some time, I believe?”
“Yes,” answered Alice, wondering how much of their private life Roland had told her.
“Ah, a sort of fifth-rate Bloomsbury atmosphere, with everything, from your soul to your washing, under the eyes of the landlady. I know. Demoralizing! It would take the sense of adventure out of anybody. And I should imagine that a New Zealand boarding-house without English service would be like a bed without a mattress.”
Alice laughed.
“I cannot say that I enjoyed the life. But it was convenient. And as my husband did not decide for some time where he would buy bush, we could not settle down in a house.”
“No, of course not. How long have you been in New Zealand?”
“A little over five years.”
“And before that you were in Australia?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I was born, wasn’t it, Mother?” broke in Asia. Then she knew by the look in her mother’s eye that she had broken one of the commandments.
“Yes,” replied Alice forbiddingly.
Mrs. Brayton saw that Alice froze at the approach of ​personal questions. To divert attention from the subject she turned to Asia.
“My dear, you needn’t sit up like a statue all the time. Give me your cup. You may get up and look at my things.”
Asia looked at her mother, obviously perplexed.
“Oh, I see,” went on the old lady, “you have been instructed not to. Well, your mother only meant till I gave you permission. I know you won’t touch anything. And be careful not to bump against things.”
Wild with delight, and with her hands carefully folded behind her, Asia trod as if she were in a room full of people with headaches. She was too overcome to speak. She stole about, standing, rapt, in front of things that attracted her. Once she put out her hand to pat a luxurious chair, but drew it back fearfully, and looked to see if she had been observed. Mrs. Brayton, who had been conscious of her impulse, gave no sign.
Soon afterwards, forgetting the laws of behaviour and all the accumulated “don’ts” of her past experience, Asia whirled round, bursting with excitement.
“Mother,” she whispered loudly and feverishly, “come and look.”
Mrs. Brayton was quicker than Alice.
“You go and look,” she commanded almost fiercely. “Don’t you ever refuse that request in my house.”
Alice was too astonished to be offended. She felt that something personal and tremendous lay behind the old lady’s tone and flashing eye. Without a word she rose and walked to the archway, and took the impulsive hand that Asia thrust at her.
“I couldn’t help it, Mother,” said the child sadly, suddenly remembering.
“Never mind,” said Alice gently. “What is it?”
Asia pointed through one of the French windows at the peacock, who stood there looking as if he were about to walk in.
Mrs. Brayton, following, shook her fist at him.
​“Will he come in?” asked Asia excitedly.
“Quite likely. I found him gazing at the piano one day last week.”
Asia gave a little shriek.
“Oh, do let him,” she said.
“I don’t know, my dear. I don’t want him to develop the habit. He will knock things over. You can shoo him away gently. And then you can run about the garden for a while. But don’t go near the bees.”
Alice returned with her to the library.
“Don’t try to dominate that child. Reactions from domination are inevitable. And they are very painful things. And think less of behaviour and more of being human.” Mrs. Brayton squeezed Alice’s arm.
With a sick feeling of inadequacy, and hating to feel she was in the wrong, Alice sat down. It had never occurred to her to doubt her method of training her children. No one had ever dared to criticise her management of them. But she could not resent Mrs. Brayton’s words. She only felt hurt to think she fell short in the eyes of the old lady, who had already gained a strong foothold in her affections.
Mrs. Brayton ignored her change of manner.
“Now, I want you to play to me,” she said.
Emotionally charged, and determined to make the most of her one accomplishment, Alice went to the piano. Her delight at the beautiful tones of the old instrument helped to kill her nervousness. After a few bars she felt herself alone. As she played the Appassionata and the Pathetique it seemed to Mrs. Brayton that the spirit of Beethoven walked about that lonely house set in the pines, that the music in his soul mingled with the hum of bees in the garden and the sigh of the winds in the trees.
Asia stole in from the garden and stood silent by a doorway.
Alice played to a world of her own, to something in herself that had no other means of expression. She played with delicacy and with passion, with unerring feeling for ​balance, for light and shade. Mrs. Brayton felt that her music was the result of more than natural gifts.
When she had finished Alice sat looking helplessly at the keys. She knew she had revealed capacity for feeling, and she wondered why she hated having people know how she felt.
“Oh, my dear, what a treat!” said the old lady hoarsely.
Alice turned, and was overjoyed to see what her playing had meant.
Just then they heard whistling in the garden.
“That is your husband.” Mrs, Brayton rose to meet him.
Alice was annoyed that he should arrive at that moment. Then she realized that he had been asked there to dinner several times, on his own merits, before he could possibly have gained any glory by exhibiting her as his wife. And he had dared to whistle familiarly to announce his approach through that garden.
Tom Roland entered boisterously, a hurricane of vitality. The Venuses and the Apollos seemed to sway as he passed.
“Well,” said Mrs. Brayton gaily, “how’s the bush?”
“Oh, pretty good. Tramway’s begun. Soon you’ll see the logs coming like greased lightning down that slope to the bay. Things’ll hum, I tell you.”
“I’m sure they will,” she laughed, sitting down quickly, lest he should do so first, and be a fresh cause of humiliation to his too-observant wife.
In his rough tweed suit, hardly clean, he dropped into a tapestry chair, his reddish head against a background of “The Winged Victory.” He stretched out his legs, and beat a tattoo on the chair arms, his green eyes roving.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Brayton to Alice, with a twinkle in her eye, “your husband has turned us all upside down. Men from the gum-fields and boys from the farms are all flocking to his standard. He’s a born leader. But he is wasted here. He should have been in the army.”
Tom Roland laughed shortly.
​“Oh, she don’t appreciate me. She ain’t interested in the bush.”
“Well, she has never seen one. I was not interested till you took me through those wonderful trees that day. And you know I think you are a vile Vandal for cutting them down.”
“Pooh! If you thought of things like that you’d never do anything.”
“Quite true. The race is not to the delicate. It’s to the ruthless and the strong.”
“Don’t know anything about that. But I do know that if you are a ninny you never get anywhere, and you never get anything done.” He poked a finger into one ear, and tapped with his feet upon the carpet.
Mrs. Brayton laughed.
Alice, who had moved into a low chair, sat back, watching them. In that incredible afternoon this seemed the most incredible thing of all.
Ever since her marriage to Tom Roland she had avoided bringing him near the few friends she had made. She saved herself the pain of contrasts. His long absences had made this easy. Now she was face to face with the most vivid contrast she could have imagined. And it was not working altogether as she had expected it would work. She could not help seeing that the fastidious English lady tremendously admired the unpolished colonial.
She was glad when Harold Brayton came in. He represented things she was familiar with, manners she expected, responses she wanted. And he knew what she stood for in life, and appreciated her. She did not mind that he was a mild person who would never get anywhere, that he was not an empire builder. He was an English gentleman. That was his password to her esteem.
But she saw her husband in rather a different light before the evening was over, and as they walked home, with their arms full of flowers, she told him she would like to see the bush.