Canto the Second. Miroa's Story.
1. Te Manu scouting. Native dainties. 2. News of Tangi's forgiveness
and the Magician's departure. 3. Story of Miroa's love. Children's
games. 4. Her secret. 5. Her song. 6. Previous love-symptoms.
7. Hopes for her. 8. Fine weather. The hut left.
I.
So in the glen three days had well-nigh passed;
The pelting rain seemed holding up at last.
Ranolf and Amo in their bark-built tent
Were busy; she, in sylvan arts adept,
With scraps of fern drybrown from where they slept,
And moss from underneath thick boughs, in spite
Of damp, preparing her quick fire to light:
But with grave brow half-puzzled how to glean
A savoury meal from viands well-nigh spent:
And he, in prospect of the brightening weather,
Intent, but leisurely, with loitering mien,
On ferreting with purple-glossed green feather—
The wild-duck's, moistened with its searching oil—
Into the fastenings of his rifle's lock,
The shining intricacies rust would spoil;
Still pausing in his task, with banter fond
Her over-anxious care for him to mock,
To which, no whit disturbed, she would respond
Her fixed conviction what to him was due:
Or, if a longer silence intervened
Wondering what strange wild tameness towards him drew
The large grey-coated robin—kinsman true
Of England's delicate highbred bird of home,—
So fine-limbed, full of spirit!—how 'twould come
After a little startled flight or two
And perch upon the very gun he cleaned.—
'Twas then, Te Manu—who, sent off to scout,
A cloak of perfect thatch about him thrown,
Had fetched a wary compass wide about
To a far village off their route—prepared
With preconcerted tale—was seen alone
Returning from the journey safely dared,
O'er the dim plain—a shadow: till as near
He drew, the triumph on his face was clear.
Laden he came—though nought for loads he cared
When self-imposed by fancy for good cheer;
Cray-fish; plump pigeons in their fat preserved,
Neat-packed in pottles of dark wood, adorned
With carvings arabesque so quaintly curved;
Store of that tiny fish like whitebait, dried
In sunshine on hot stones; with scraps beside
Of native dainties nowise to be scorned.
II.
And when his shoulders from the pack were freed,
With joyous face he told them news indeed:
How he had met a traveller newly come
From Rotorua, and from him had learnt the sum
Of all that there had happened; how at first
When missing Amohia's clothes were found
Upon the shore, all had believed her drowned:
Then what a wailing had ensued—a burst
Of genuine grief—no counterfeiting show;
What gashing of the breast with shells, and flow
Of blood had marked the matrons' gory woe;
How Tangimoana had torn his hair
And curst his gods in frenzy of despair,
And raved against the Priest whose scheming greed
His own too ready confidence had wronged,
And driven his darling to the desperate deed;
(From Miroa was that certain fact derived);
Then what a coolness rose between the two.
And how when Ranolf's absence so prolonged,
Begun that very day, had roused more true
Suspicions, fresh inquiry set on foot
Led to the knowledge that the pair had been
By accident upon their journey seen.
And then the Priest so hotly urged pursuit
His obvious spite provoked a new dispute;
For Tangi's heart such great revulsion swelled
Of rapture that his dearest Child survived,
It found no room for thoughts of hate and rage,
And all the vengeful Priest's advice repelled
Almost with scorn; whereat the other turned
Livid with sulky wrath that inly burned,
And no amends of Tangi's could assuage;
At which all wondered; (here in Amo's breast
An undivulged remembrance more than guessed
The jealous fury that his heart possessed:)
And how the Priest soon from the Island went,
None knew when, whither, or with what intent—
Went mutely maddening with his fancied wrong
Though muttering vengeance and return erelong;
At which in hardy confidence so strong
Stout Tangi only laughed; and longed to see
His hoary age's pride again, and press
Her brow against his own in fond caress;
Yearned for her home—companioned should she be
By husband, fair or tawny—what cared he!—
III.
“But what of Miroa?” Amo asked—“her friend?”—
Ah! there too he had tidings somewhat strange,
He answered, with a shrewd and prying glance
Eyeing the beauteous questioner askance:
“O'er Miroa there had come a curious change
Since Amo left, which none could comprehend
At first; for she—that merry maid—had grown
Sad, absent, sullen-seeming; given up all
Her favourite haunts and friends to muse alone;
Thrown all the sports and frolic games aside
Of which she was the leader, life, and pride;
The lively matches with the dangling ball
Struck at each other by the seated band;
The hunted pebble passed from hand to hand;
‘Káhu’ the ‘hawk’ of rushes she could weave
And coax with scarce-seen string to soar so high
That all the children said it must deceive
The living hawks they saw beside it fly;
The háka-dances where she shone supreme,
For gayer postures who could shape or dream?
With half her archness give each new grimace
Or shake the quivering hands with saucier grace?
The skipping-rope she never had to hold,
For who could ever trip her nimble feet?
Maui, the string she could dispart and fold
With dextrous fingers into forms complete
Of all things 'twas your fancy to behold—
Canoes, men, houses, wonders new and old—
Great Mother Night producing all her train
Of Gods—or cutting with swift snap in twain
Even Maui's self—inventor of the game,
For daring to invade that darksome dame:
All these poor Miroa had discarded now
And moped and slunk about with moody brow.
IV.
“Well, all believed it was for Amo's loss
The shadow lay upon the damsel's heart;
Till recently they saw her one fine day
Alert and brisk, preparing for a start,
It seemed, to visit some one far away:
For she was with a studied neatness drest,
Her curling locks smoothed to their brightest gloss—
And striving spite of grief to look her best;
A light food-kit was o'er her shoulders slung:—
When questioned, she declared she meant to make
Her way to Roto Aira's distant Lake,
Where welcome she could always find among
Near relatives that loved her; and you know
Where'er she pleased the Maid could always go—
For who would check her movements—interfere
With one that Amohia held so dear?
But she by accident was overheard
That morning when she thought none near her stirred,
Plaintively crooning o'er an artless song
(While to and fro her form impatient swayed),
That told what secret on her spirit weighed;
The more, that from her bosom she was seen
To draw some finery—woven flowers or braid—
That there it seemed she must have cherished long,
And press them to her brow with passionate mien
And many tears—redoubled as she gazed
Awhile upon these tokens of desire
How vain! then flung them on her matin fire:
But when they quickly shrivelled up and blazed,
Gone like her dream for ever! she arose
Passing her slender hands with gesture swift
Across her brows and sweeping back the drift
Of streaming tresses, as she waved her head
And tossed her arms out wearily once—like those
Who brush aside a troublous dream:—so she
Seemed in that act to shake herself quite free
From that entangling coil of memory.
Then started on her journey as I said.
But these proceedings and the song combined,
And most that wreath—the withered flowery string,
Red feathers from the parrot's under-wing,
And scarlet band—that shining foreign thing—
Told them 'twas for the Stranger that she pined.”
Scarce had the word been uttered, ere with eyes
That flashed a sudden fire, fair Amo threw
Her arm round Ranolf as if danger near
Were threatening to despoil her of her prize,
Her heart's whole treasure; then withdrew it too
As swiftly—blushing at her foolish fear,
And asked, her bright confusion to disguise,
More than from any wish the lay to hear,
What song it was made Miroa's love so clear?—
“‘E tangi—e—te ihu’—what comes next
I'm sure I quite forget, although I heard:
At waiatas I always was a dunce.
'Twas all about a girl or some one—vexed
At scandal—full of wants and whims absurd.”
V.
But Amo recognized the words at once,
And knew the song of course; and at request
Of Ranolf, with an accent that expressed
Compassion mixed with somewhat of disdain,
Recited in sweet tones the childish strain,
Whose meaning this loose version may explain:
1
“Alas, and well-a-day! they are talking of me still:
By the tingling of my nostril, I fear they are talking ill;
Poor hapless I—poor little I—so many mouths to fill—
And all for this strange feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
2
O senseless heart—O simple! to yearn so and to pine
For one so far above me, confest o'er all to shine—
For one a hundred dote upon, who never can be mine!
O 'tis a foolish feeling—all this fond sweet pain!
3
When I was quite a child—not so many moons ago—
A happy little maiden—O then it was not so;
Like a sunny-dancing wavelet then I sparkled to and fro;
And I never had this feeling, O this sad sweet pain!
4
I think it must be owing to the idle life I lead
In the dreamy house for ever that this new bosom-weed
Has sprouted up and spread its shoots till it troubles me indeed
With a restless weary feeling—such a sad sweet pain!
5
So in this pleasant islet, O no longer will I stay—
And the shadowy summer-dwelling, I will leave this very day;
On Arapá I'll launch my skiff and soon be borne away
From all that feeds this feeling, O this fond sweet pain!
6
I'll go and see dear Rima—she'll welcome me I know,
And a flaxen cloak—her gayest—o'er my weary shoulders throw,
With purfle red and points so free—O quite a lovely show—
To charm away this feeling—O this sad sweet pain!
7
Two feathers I will borrow, and so gracefully I'll wear,
Two feathers soft and snowy for my long black lustrous hair;
Of the Albatross's down they'll be—O how charming they'll look there—
All to chase away this feeling—O this fond sweet pain!
8
Then the lads will flock around me with flattering talk all day—
And with anxious little pinches sly hints of love convey;
And I shall blush with happy pride to hear them . . . I daresay . . .
And quite forget this feeling, O this sad sweet pain!”
VI.
So with much grief for Miroa's fond distress,
The pair recalled full many a sign that might
Have helped them read her simple heart aright,
Had both not been too much pre-occupied
With fancies of their own at hers to guess:
And they remembered with what eyes—how wide—
Of eager wondering gladness she had seemed
To feed and fasten on all Ranolf's ways
And looks and movements, when, those two first days,
They met at Rotorua; how they beamed
When with such giggling blushes of delight
She bent her head as carelessly he tied
The ribbon round it he declared less fair
And tasteful than the wreath already there,
Of crimson feathers and the snowy rays
Of clematis—while all might see she deemed
The present of less value than the praise.
And then it flashed on Amo's mind, as sped
Her memory back, with such a cue supplied,
How artfully and oft the Maid would guide
Their talk the way that to the Stranger led;
And when that theme was reached, how glibly ran
Her tongue, unceasing when it once began
In Ranolf's favour mostly, or would raise
Some point against him—find some fault—aver
Some blemish—that she, Amo, might demur
More warmly—more unguardedly be brought
To sound his dear deserts for whom she fought,
And his light-jesting enemy upbraid:
All which the unsuspecting Amo thought
She did to humour, not herself but her—
The foolish Mistress, not the foolish Maid;
(With an arch glance at Ranolf this was said:)
And then she recollected once, when turning
Suddenly, with what surprise she caught
Poor Miroa's bloodshot eyes fixed on her, burning
With envy, almost hate; with what swift check
She changed that look to one of passionate yearning,
And wildly flung her arms round Amo's neck
And burst into a flood of tears, and cried:
“My good, good Mistress—O how good and kind
And always dear—O do not mark or mind
The passion of your worthless slave—too bad
For such a mistress—O too false and mad!
Kill, kill me if you will—you should—you may—
But tear this blackness from my breast away!”—
“And then she lavished on me little acts
Of kindness and attention all that day.
And I, still blind to these so patent facts,
Thought 'twas the memory of her home afar
And friends, from whom long years ago in war
She had been torn—a captive, that oppressed
Her fancy then, with fond regrets distressed;
Although I rather wondered she was moved
By that so deeply—scarcely could ascribe
Such passion to such cause; for she had known
Nothing but kindness, since, so terrified
That day she came she shuffled to my side,
And I scarce older, set her numbed limbs free
From bonds, and said she should belong to me.
But since that day so merry had she grown—
She, sprung too from a chief of good degree—
That all our people looked upon and loved
The Child as a true daughter of the tribe,
I always as a sister of my own.”
VII.
Well, so they grieved for Miroa: yet no less
Perhaps, and shall we blame her if 'twere so?
This very feeling for poor Miroa's woe,
Though Amo's love for her was true indeed,
In her unconscious heart could not but breed
A secret feeling she would not confess
Of greater joy in her own happiness.
And cheering up, she said—“You may depend
On this—from what Te Manu says, our friend
Has overcome and shaken off her pain;
That song would tell it—but still more the power
To burn the keepsake—what was it? the flower
Or ribbon you bestowed in luckless hour.
And she has lovers, O in plenty—she!
And there was one on whom she always smiled,
I thought; a lad who lives or I mistake,
A fine good lad, beside that very Lake
And near the friends shemust have gone to see;
She will be happy soon—dear merry Child!
Though how she could get o'er such love”—the rest
Was hidden with her face on Ranolf's breast.
VIII.
Then, as they marked the sky still growing bright
The distant mountains visible once more,
Black-blue, with smothering fleeces flattened o'er
Their ridges—sprawling harpies snowy white
With claws that clutched their summits hid from sight
Or like a sudden foam-sea, o'er each brow
Arrested in its branching overflow;
The pair made ready for a happier start,
Free to obey each prompting of the heart,
Go where they list—all apprehension flown—
And give themselves to Love and Joy alone.
