TOTARA-NUI.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume VI, Issue 30, 4 February 1871, Page 2

TOTARA-NUI.

AN ORIGINA L ' STORY. 4" (Written for the Australasian').

-o Chapter IXi

THE END. 'y^-^Jt^-^A i Poor Maggie ! for many mauy wee£s 4P she was delirious, and in her illness continually lived over that fearful night. After its closing scene she remembered nothing. " There had been a funeral, and there had been a long procession of wailing Maoris, j4 garlanded with green leaves and boughs, lfl headed by a man with a weary, heart- 1 broken look, the chief " Ngapu." The 1 curse of his son Tahaki fell upon him, and never more did a smile lighten the J darkness of that sombre face. In gloom, ,Jj and sorrow he passed his life,* until he, too, *j went, to" the land of- the hereafter. . - JR There had been grief, sorrow, and great 1 mourning, but in none of these' Maggie 1 shared. They carried her from the gar- J den that night insensible, arid from thaiE £ merciful oblivion she woke to delirium.** It was exceedingly pitiful to hear her m plead sometimes to be allowed to get up jl and dress for her wedding. " I must not 1 keep Mel. waiting/ she would say, and I again she would go over the last scene injM her love dream, and then those who heard^a stole away from her sight, and sobbed and 9 cried for very compassion. It seemed so M hard. I By and bye, though, when the fever left S her and she was weak, as a little .child, she dH awoke one day and knew it all, and turn-JH ing Her face to the wall, prayed, oh, SO W

Lard, to die. After weary months she grew strong again, and at the close of . summer, or rather autumn, sho could go and sit on the varandah. One day when she was alone, she tried her strength by ■walking up and down, aud the next day she was stronger still, and then came back very slowly some of the old earnestness, and concentration of purpose, and the old quiet firmness ; and after many days she went with weary steps to where they had laid him. There sho staid for a long time, and there the first little gleam of resignation came to her. By and bye she was able to go and plant with loving hands some ftowers upon his grave. Under the shade of a great fern tree, by the ford in the little stream, where their betrothal had taken place, and where in the early autumn the scarlet berries of the great " tetoki " tree fell like burning embers among the green grass, and the brown shells followed them, where in summer the snowy petals of the pikikiarero showered over him, — here she came every day, and in time her face grew ■ beautiful with a far-off look of hope ; not all at once,- but after many "weeks. It seems to me so beneficent that, however great the blow is, however deep the wound, sooner or later consolation comes. I -don't mean religious consolation, of that I can say nothing ; but another kind. Nature, that kindly mother, heals the sorFor remainder of News see Fourth page.

• row. After long mourning and utter desolation there comes a day when we cease to hate the sunlight : the song of birds and bright tinted flowers mock us no longer ; and softly, unconsciously, something we loved before this blank in our lives, some scent or flowers or song of birds, some brightness in the sky or tender lustre in the stars, creeps into our hearts, and the first step in the cure is begun. So slowly, with such gracious gradations, does our boon mother, Nature, nurse us back again from grief, hush our weary, useless sobbing so softly, fold the poor tired hands. So gently is it done, that we do not know the change ourselves, until at last, from vainly protesting against an inexorable fate, from grief and hopelessness we emerge into a state of resignation, and confess with the poet, — . " 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all." The stain of our little pettinesses, and crossnessesj our jealousies and heartburnings^ has passed away, but the elevating and purifying influences of our grief remain. So it was with Maggie. In the crushing blank that Melville's death brought to her, though she • tried with a noble unselfishness to so bear and hide her weakness as never to trouble those around her, still you saw in each mournful attempt to throw it aside for the time, that Maggie was hopeless. But now the dear earnest eyes are full of a sweet light of hope. She is trying to take Patty's place among them. To the oihers it hardly seems a year ago since that awful tragedy occurred ; but so it is, and Maggie walking noiselessly on her daily pilgrimage, her deep mourning dress trailing among the grass and leaves, thinks it must have been a thousand years ago. Kind and loving as they had all been in her trouble, and much as they had felt poor Melville's untimely death, they could not mourn as she did. How should they ? How can any of us mourn for another's loss as we can for our own ? The grief must be ours the deep shadow must fall on our own. hearts before we can realise it fully. It is more than a year ago since the wedding day that was so strangely robbed of its bridegroom. And now another wedding is at hand. Patty will be married this week. Maggie has begged so hard that she may be spared. Unselfish as ever, Patty is divided between her love lor Den and her many duties here, " But darling," says Maggie, " though I can never be as your are, still I will try and take your place as much as I can." Patty does not know the loss she will "be to the girl who says it so bravely. By every kind act and word that the most unselfish delicate sympathy could teach her, she has endeared herself to Maggie. Some one else there is, too, who has thought it the one thing worth thinking of, this comforting of Maggie, and that is Frank. This last year has done him good which will never be effaced. In Maggie's trouble all the better part of his nature rose to the surface. He devoted himself to her absolutely and unselfishly, knowing that words of love might never more be spoken, to her, for there is that about Maggie now which forbids the proffer of affection. But, all honor to Frank, his love was greater than he or we knew, for he was ready to sacrifice every selfish consideration in his chivalrous devotion to Maggie, and he did so. To-day is Patty's wedding-day. Who can tell the trial it is to poor pale. Maggie. She could not even remain in the house, so when all is done that she could do, she kisses Patty, and saying sadly with white lips. " Patty, I cannot stay," she hurries away to the mound under the fern tree. She sits there wearily, till by and bye she buries her face in the grass with a hopeless fit of sobbing. Leave her with her sorrow. These whispering leaves and snowyflowers of clematis (pikikiarero) that 'trail downwards and touch the golden head will caress and comfort her. * * * * When we see her again another year has passed. Maggie is still at Totara-nui, and here she will always be. -She has, indeed, supplied Patty's place in the household, though in a different way, for there is a quiet awed feeling in all their minds with regard to her, an awe inspired by her trouble and her bravery. Mab is still Mab Dumbarton, the golden dream is not; yet realised to the little lady of the red hair and dark eyes. Her old lover, poor Carrington, was so much " got in hand " by Lucy Arnott that he never got away again, for she married him, and now, having her sister always with her, she revels in the gaieties of a garrison town. Frank will soon be a captive, though he knows it not, to that same " loveliest girl at old SawbonesV he admired so long ago. . John is married, aud settled in a home of his own, with cosy little Carry for his wife. Patty is "just Patty," the same in her own home* as she used*to be at Totara-nui, only more prone perhaps to merry laughter. Here we leave them all to take one farewell look of Maggie. Under « the great 'fern-tree she stands with clasped hands,

the dying sun-gleams making a golden halo round the fair steadfast face, on which no sorrow lingers now. The wonderful eyes look but beyond the farthest verge of the blue sky, with a holy light in their calm depths. On her hand is the wedding ring which he placed there, her most sacred possession. Here we take our last look at the quiet black-robed figure framed by the green boughs, while the waning sunlight invests her with a softened glory, emblematic, it may he, of the heavenly peace and rest which have descended on her 3teadfast heart. She speaks softly, with the far-off look on her face. "Not lost, hut gone before." "It is very good to know it." THE END.