A SPLENDID MADMAN.

As this narrative of adventure may possibly fall into the hands of some who will refuse to accept it as anything but a work of the imagination, I, Dick Warnock, the narrator (known to the Maoris as Wanaki), will begin by a slight description of myself, which will speedily disabuse sceptical minds of any doubts. I am, then, a very matter-of-fact individual, so ordinary in intellect that my enemies would without hesitation acquit me of the charge of inventing this strange history, even if they could prove that I was morally capable of such deception. So easily will it be guessed that I fall short of being a creative romancer, that, when the reader looks in vain in these pages for some exalted eloquence of diction, some graphic description of scenery, or some rhapsody on a flower, he will hesitate to cast the blame upon me, the prosaic, especially as here, at the very beginning, I distinctly state that if there is any kind of eloquence in my story, it is the eloquence of strange happenings—a thing which I have endeavoured to keep my pen from spoiling.

It was because I had been born and bred in Maoriland, because I understood the language and much of the ancient lore of the Maoris, that I was commissioned by a firm of solicitors in London to search for one, Miriam Grey. The person in question had sailed from the Old Country eighteen years before, and had joined her husband, William Grey, at Wakatu, in the northern part of the South or Middle Island of New Zealand, known among the Maoris as Te Wai Pounamou, or the Place of the Greenstone. One letter only had reached her relatives at home, and that, dated three days after her arrival, told how she and her husband were about to journey southward, overland, to Hokitika, where he owned a small farm. But that letter was the last, and all attempts on the part of her relatives to discover what had become of her and her husband were fruitless. That they had left Wakatu for Hokitika was easily proved; that they had never arrived at the latter place was also duly ascertained; but what had happened to them between these two points was a matter that had come to be set down among the inexplicables, where it remained, until it was discovered that Miriam Grey was the direct heiress to a large estate in Bedfordshire. Then it became necessary to find, at least, evidence of her death.

For this task I was selected for reasons already stated, and I began by making inquiries at Wakatu, a quaint little English settlement nestling in the hollows of the hills by the seashore. There, after many inquiries, I found a peculiar piece of evidence which excited me to a belief that Miriam Grey was still living. What that piece of evidence was I will not say at this moment, for, though it really constitutes the beginning of my story, its significance was not fully apparent to me until I chanced upon a certain splendid madman in the bush, and compared my fact with a far more extraordinary, though dreamlike, reminiscence of his own. Therefore I will simply state that in consequence of my discovery I left Wakatu and sailed across the bay to Riwaka, having as my destination a wild place called Marahau, the Valley of the Mighty Wind, where, on a high cliff by the seashore, so I was informed, stood the pa of a certain Te Makawawa. Concerning this aged chief report spoke with awe, for he was more than a mere tohunga, a priest—he was an ariki, an arch-tohunga; and some said that he was more than ariki—he was matakite, a seer.

This Valley of the Mighty Wind was some distance round the coast from Riwaka, and it was possible to reach it by boat, but on the day that I had planned to set out a gale was rising, and neither Pakeha nor Maori would put out. Consequently, being both restless and rash, I made the journey on foot across the hills, following some directions given me by an old settler, who had once been to Marahau.

Late in the afternoon, after a weary tramp over densely-wooded mountains, into a region that grew more wild and gloomy as I advanced, I came to a tremendous flax swamp running up between the hills from the seashore. As it was impossible to get through this I turned inland into the virgin bush to avoid it. This detour must have taken me many miles away from the coast, how far I could not tell, for the sound of the gale in the great trees overhead altogether drowned the roar of the sea. As I knew that Te Makawawa’s pa was at the opening of the lonely valley of Marahau, and that I was already too far inland to reach it before dark, I determined to push on as far as possible, and then camp as comfortably as might be under the circumstances.

Towards sunset, after having rounded the great flax swamp, I reached the summit of a line of high hills where the bush was somewhat sparse and stunted. Here, to take my bearings, I selected a tall, thin pine, and climbed to the head of it. By the sight that met my eyes I was a trifle disconcerted. Many miles away was the sea, white with the gale that now swayed me violently to and fro in the feathery top of the pine, while all around, in unending monotony, were the bush-clad hills, stretching away into the south towards the great snow ranges, and rolling on for ever into the west, where, beneath the ragged gold of a stormy sunset, lay the mysterious region of Karamea. But nowhere in the distance could I see the high palisades of Te Makawawa’s pa.

It is strange what a sense of isolation comes to the traveller among these interminable hills and valleys. I was impressed by the wild gloom and solitude of the place, and descended the tree to find a suitable camping-ground by the side of one of the many streams that made their way down between the ridges. It was not the first time I had been compelled to spend the night alone in the bush, and I by no means disliked the solitary feeling of being the only man in a big wilderness. But it so happened that on this occasion I was not the only man there, as I was soon to discover.

I descended the range of hills in an oblique line towards the sea, knowing that among the lower slopes I should easily find a convenient camping-ground. After nearly half an hour spent in arguing with the aggravating creeper known as the prickly lawyer, struggling through interlaced roots up to my chin, and battling with occasional networks of supplejacks, whose one idea seems to be to string a man up by the neck until his natural life be extinct, I at last came into a somewhat broad and open gully, where a stream made its way through groves of white pines and tree ferns. The character of the bush here was totally different from that of the surrounding hills. Instead of thick underscrub I encountered broad spaces here and there, not unlike those of an English wood. Overhead at intervals towered the giant rimu and kahikatea, the monarchs of the bush, and they roared in the gale as such trees alone can roar; while under foot the kidney fern decked the ground and clumped upon the moss-grown tree trunks in profusion. It was while I was making my way through these ferns that I came, suddenly and to my great astonishment, upon a well-worn path.

Perhaps this might be the way to some digger’s hut, occupied or otherwise; perhaps the approach to the abode of some mad “hatter”; at all events it was more than a wild goat track, and I resolved to follow it. Before I had gone twenty paces I detected a slightly muddy patch, and conceived the idea that if these were any recent footprints they might help me to form some conclusion as to whether this path had been used by Maoris or Pakehas. Accordingly, I bent down and examined the ground. There were footprints, not of Maoris’ bare feet, but of someone with boots—long, well-shaped boots they were, such as would be found on the feet of a very tall man. One cannot always judge Hercules by his foot, but when there are two feet, or rather footprints, situated nearly two yards apart in stride, it is safe to say that they belong to a man considerably over six feet in height.

As I hurried along, the track became slightly wider, and here and there a marshy part was strengthened with a corduroy of tree-fern trunks. Up, on to a slight ridge, through a long grove of white pines on the top, with the wind shrieking and whistling among their clean boles, I pursued the path, then down into a valley, and through another dark grove of tree-ferns, where, losing it altogether on the soft bed of dry fern dust, I wandered on, thinking to pick it up on the other side.

I had not gone far in the grove when, between the bare trunks of the tree ferns, I caught sight of a light twinkling some little distance beyond. I made towards it, and on coming out into an open space, saw that it came from a square window in some small abode standing on a rising ground at the further end of the space. I could just discern the vague outlines of a log hut with a giant roof-tree towering above it, while beyond was a wooded hill, whose ridge, fringed with roaring pines, broke the fury of the gale. This was obviously some digger’s hut, and here I should certainly get shelter.

Cautiously I made my way over the small clearing towards this secluded abode in the wilderness, so as to peep in at the window and get a glimpse of the inmate before asking for a night’s rest. I took this precaution because solitary “hatters” are often so obviously mad that the wisest course is to let them alone. But, when I reached the window and looked in, I got a sudden surprise. By the light of the candle standing on a rough table near the window, I encountered the face of one who was surely as much out of place there as a rough digger would be in the House of Lords. As I looked I saw that the owner of the face was poring over a large, quaint-looking volume and making notes with pen and ink in the broad margin. Now, to ponder some point, he leaned back in his chair and gazed straight before him, so that, by the light of the candle and the glow of the fire, which touched the edge of his short, crisp brown beard on the cheek that was turned from me, I saw his face clearly. It was truly a striking one, with a mouth well moulded within the shadow of a short, thick moustache, a nose aquiline and strong, eyes lustrous, half passionate and full of dreams, and a forehead massive and high, from which the hair rolled back good-naturedly like a mane. This should be some Waring of Browning’s portraiture, who had disappeared from his circle to bury himself in solitude, probably leaving a gap behind him which no other could fill. If indeed he was mad—and it seemed that he must be to waste his powers in such a hidden corner of the earth—it was a gentle, poetical madness, if one might judge by the almost tender expression of his face, and, withal, of a methodical kind, for, having unravelled his knotty point, he returned to his broad margin and made certain emendations.

After my brief glimpse of the remarkable man within, I had no hesitation in asking him for a night’s shelter. Accordingly I knocked gently at the door, and a deep voice answered, “Come in!”

I obeyed, and entered the hut.

“Ah!” said my host, rising from his seat and looking down at me—his dark eyes smiled genially as they met mine—“you’ve lost your way, I presume.”

“Yes; I started out to find Te Makawawa’s pa, but missed it, saw your light, and ventured to look you up.”

“Quite right. You’re welcome.” He extended his hand and gripped mine without cracking all the bones as most men who stand six and a half feet high love to do.

I now had a better view of this recluse, and recognised him again from his footsteps. He was a man of magnificent build, and his bush shirt, bush trousers, bush leggings, and, still more, bush boots, hid neither the fact that he was of good breeding, nor that his limbs were in perfect proportion, even to the point at which a man might wear a dress suit successfully. His strong, but sensitive face, with its deep, passionate eyes, which lighted up when he smiled, appealed to me as no man’s face has ever done before or since. In the space of time which it took him to get a chair for me, I had recognised a man who in every way could carry about three editions of myself under his arm, and yet in his courteous smile as he addressed me, I saw the gentlest man alive.

“Come, sit down then, and get out your pipe and tell me how the outside world’s getting on.” I had refused his offer of supper, as I had already supped on cold duck and biscuits in the bush.

In a few moments, when he had turned a log on the fire, we sat one on each side of the hearth as if we had been old friends.

“The outside world,” I said, lighting my pipe with a glowing ember, “has lost a woman, and I am looking for her.”

“A woman?” he laughed. “Rather a strange place in which to search for a woman, isn’t it?”

I returned his laugh. “Yes,” I admitted; “but the whole story, or such of it as I have gleaned, is strange enough for anything.”

“Oh! a romantic story, is it?” His eyes fell from mine to the bowl of my pipe, from which rings of smoke curled and wreathed irresistibly. “Wait a minute,” he added after a pause. He rose from his chair and reached up among the rafters overhead, searching for something. At last he found it, and, returning to his seat, showed me what had once been a well-coloured meerschaum which, by the dust and cobwebs on the case, had evidently lain undisturbed among the rafters for years.

“If you will oblige me with a little tobacco,” he said, “I will keep you company, though I haven’t smoked for many a long day.”

Presently, when the necessary conditions of storytelling were established, he turned to me and said: “Now for your romantic story, if I may be permitted to hear it.”

“The story is a long one,” I replied; “but I am merely in possession of detached points of it. These I am only too anxious to lay before anyone I meet, on the chance of their being able to strengthen some point or add another from their own experience in this neighbourhood. My own part in the affair is uninteresting. I am merely Dick Warnock, or, as the Maoris call me, Wanaki, employed by a firm of solicitors at home to find a more important person named Miriam Grey, or to glean evidence of her death.”

“Now that you have given me your name,” put in my host, “I must give you mine. The Maoris, with whom I get on very well, call me Kahikatea—that is more my real name than any other.”

I saw by his manner that he did not wish to give his English name, and, realising that it was no business of mine, I forbore from asking it. Kahikatea was certainly a good name, for, from a life spent mostly among the Maoris, I was able to see in their quaint way that this man was as a great “white pine” among the forest trees. Hence his name was good, and I called him by it.

“Good, O Kahikatea!” I said easily; “I will continue the story, such as it is. To put things briefly, a large estate in Bedfordshire has been left to a certain Miriam Grey, who has been missing for many years. On instituting inquiries, however, it was found that she had sailed from England and landed at Wakatu, across the bay, some eighteen years ago, to rejoin her husband, who came up from Hokitika to meet her. They set off together on the return journey towards Hokitika, but never arrived at their destination. It is supposed that they were captured by the Maoris.”

“In which case it is exceedingly unlikely that either of them is alive at this day,” replied my host.

“Wait a moment,” I replied quickly. “I have an extraordinary piece of evidence which tends to prove that Miriam Grey was alive and a prisoner among the Maoris as late as three years ago. When I was making inquiries in Wakatu I was almost giving it up as hopeless, and was on the point of starting for Hokitika, when the old curator of the little museum came up to me one day with the gleam of the clever discoverer in his eye, and drew me aside.

“ ‘Did you not say that the woman you were looking for was named Miriam?’ he asked.

“ ‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘Miriam Grey.’

“ ‘Come with me then. I’ve got something which may be a clue.’

“He led me on through the streets until we came to the little museum, and there in a lumber room of uncatalogued curiosities, he showed me this bit of carved akeak, which he said had been discovered on the sea beach two years before.”

I drew a small piece of carved wood from my pocket and handed it to Kahikatea, who took it in his hands and inspected it carefully.

“This is not Maori carving,” he said at once, “it is too delicately done for that. But it is the work of someone who understands Maori art—look at this double-spiral work round the border. But what are the letters? They are almost worn away.”

“Yes; by the scratches on the thing it looks as if it had found its way down some rocky mountain stream. Ah! you’ve got it upside down, I think. That way—there now—it’s plain enough. This word is clearly ‘prisoner’; and these are ‘Te Maka,’ which, with the space left after it, must once have been ‘Te Makawawa.’ ”

“Yes, and this is ‘mountain,’ ” he ran on, spelling in advance of me; “and this is meant for ‘Table Land.’ ”

“Quite right; and here is the date fairly clear, showing that this was done three years ago.”

“But by whom?” he asked quickly; “that is the point.”

For answer I pointed to some marks in the corner below the date. “What do you make of that?” I asked.

He scrutinised them carefully for some minutes, then, turning to me said: “I can certainly make nothing else than ‘Miriam’ out of it.”

“Nor I,” I replied; “and, if you notice, there is an obliteration after it which, from the length of it, might once have been ‘Grey.’ ”

“That is true, but the conclusion that ‘Miriam Grey’ is held a ‘prisoner’ of ‘Te Makawawa’ in a ‘mountain’ near the ‘Table Land’ is weak in many parts.”

“True, but I can strengthen it,” I hastened to reply. “Do you see anything in that carving which points to superior talent in the person who did it?”

“Indeed I do,” he replied with certainty; “this is the work of no ordinary carver. I should be inclined to say it was the work of a genius. There are signs of delicate execution about it which no one could mistake.”

“That is precisely it. Miriam Grey, so said the solicitors, showed extraordinary signs of genius as a sculptress.”

At the last word my host stared at me with a dreamy look in his eyes. Had I touched upon the peculiar point of his madness?

“A sculptress!” he said slowly, and gazed for a full half-minute into the fire, while I watched him. Then, as I did not break the silence, he resumed: “Yes, there is a Te Makawawa, I know him well; there is a Table Land not far from here and a mountain near it; and, from what you have shown me, a woman who is a sculptress is held a prisoner there.”

He rose from his chair and paced up and down the small hut with his brows let down in deep and perplexed thought. “Strange—very strange. But she must be a sculptress of very great genius if——” He paused abruptly in his pacing the floor.

“Look here!” he said, casting off his abstraction, “if you will accept my poor hospitality I can put you up for the night, and then, in the morning, I will go with you to old Te Makawawa’s pa.”

I saw from his manner that he knew, or thought he knew, something about the matter, and asked simply, “Have you an idea?”

He looked down at me, then passed his hand over his brow in perplexity; finally, smoothing back his wayward mane, he faced the question and said frankly:

“My idea is a dream that I had a year or more ago—a very absurd dream, but, nevertheless, one so vivid and clear in all its details that it had, and still has, a strange effect upon me. That dream sometimes appeals to me as if it were the raison d’être of my existence in this solitude. And yet again, sometimes I think that my dream was an actual experience, but I have no proof that it was. Wanaki! all men who live alone in the bush as I do are more or less mad. But that word of yours, ‘sculptress,’ has given me an idea that after all I may not be as mad as I thought. If, to-morrow, old Te Makawawa can throw any light upon what has long perplexed me, then I will discuss my dream with you, as it may possibly have some bearing on the whereabouts of the woman you seek; to-morrow, not now, for, uncorroborated, it would appear to you so wild and strange, so obviously the vagary of an unhinged mind, that you might hesitate to accept my hospitality.”

As he fixed his fine eyes upon me and smiled, I realised that the fact of his being puzzled by the strangeness of his dream argued for his sanity; and if, indeed, his mind was really unhinged, it was upon some sublime point, some noble idea, having an uncommon object, full of the deep poetry that burned in those eyes.

As I returned his gaze and his smile I felt drawn towards him with feelings of a sudden friendship, and it was in accord with these feelings that in my mind I wrote him down a splendid madman.