“DOWN, Jerry! Down, Driver!” said the bushman, “that’ll do, you’re
making row enough to frighten all the cattle in the country.” By this
time the guardians of the outpost had left off their clamour, and one of
them, by jumping up and fawning on Blount, showed that he had gained
their friendship. The older dog, not so demonstrative, had stains of
blood on his mouth and chest. “Ha! Driver, you old villain, been behind
those cattle yesterday? Now lie down, and let’s see if we can raise a
fire and get some tea under weigh, before the boys come in.”
After unsaddling, and turning out their horses, they entered the hut,
which, though not differing materially from the bush structures which
Blount had already visited, was seen to be neater than usual in the
internal arrangements. “Little-River-Jack” proceeded at once to
business. By lighting twigs from a store of brush-wood, laid ready for
such an emergency, and adding another to the smouldering logs at the
back of the huge chimney he secured a cheerful blaze, calculated to warm
through his shivering companion, and to provide him speedily with the
comforting, universal beverage. Opening a rude locker, he took from it a
tin dish containing corned beef and “damper,” also a couple of tin
plates with knives and forks of democratic appearance, and a butcher’s
knife which did duty for a carver.
“You see your dinner, Mr. Blount,” said he. “I daresay you’ve got an
appetite this cold day; I know I have. Help yourself, the billy’s
boiling, I’ll put in the tea.” Suiting the action to the word, he took a
handful of tea out of a bag hanging by a nail in the wall, and placing a
pannikin of sugar on the table, invited his guest to help himself and
fall to.
“It’s not quite up to the breakfast we had this morning,” he said; “but
I’ve had worse many a time; tucker like this will carry a man a long way
when he’s on the road or at regular work.”
This statement, more or less correct, was confirmed by the performance
of both wayfarers, Mr. Blount plying a remarkably good knife and fork,
besides disposing of a wedge of damper, and washing the whole down with
a couple of pints of hot tea.
The fire was by this time in steady glow. Stretching his legs before it,
and indulging in a luxurious smoke, the tourist expressed his opinion
that he had known more artistic cookery, but had never enjoyed a meal
more.
Mr. John Carter, the while, had washed and replaced the plates and
pannikins; also rearranged the beef and bread with a deftness telling of
previous experience. This duty concluded, they awaited the return of the
gold-diggers.
“They don’t come in while there’s light to work by,” he explained; “the
days are that short now, that unless you’re at it early and late there
ain’t much to show for it.”
The twilight had faded into all but complete darkness when the dogs
growled in a non-committal way, as though merely to indicate human
approach without resenting it. “It’s my pals comin’,” the bushman
observed; and, closely following the words, footsteps were heard, and a
big, bearded, roughly-dressed man entered the hut. “Hullo! Jack, you’re
here, and this is the gentleman from England,” he continued, fixing a
bold, penetrating glance upon Blount. “Glad to see you, sir! This is a
rough shop; but we’ve got fair tucker, and firewood’s plenty. We’ll soon
show you the ins and outs of gold-digging, if that’s what you want to
see. Jack got you a feed, I expect; fill up the billy, old man, while we
get a wash.”
Seizing a handful of rough towels, and a bag which hung near the head of
the bunk in the corner to the right of the speaker, he went out into the
night; while certain splashing noises told that face and hands’ cleaning
was in progress.
Little more than ten minutes had elapsed, when the speaker, accompanied
by three other men, re-entered the hut, and after an informal mention of
names to the stranger, sat down to the table, where they went to work at
the beef and damper, with strict attention to business. Mr. Blount had
an opportunity while they were thus engaged of a complete inspection.
Though roughly dressed, there was nothing unpleasing to the educated eye
about their appearance.
They wore red or blue woollen shirts, rough tweed or moleskin trousers,
and heavy miners’ boots. All had beards more or less trimmed, and wore
their hair rather short than long.
Three of the party were tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular; the fourth
was middle-sized, slight and active-looking. He wore only a fair
moustache, and seemed younger than the others. Commencing to make
conversation at once, he was evidently regarded as the wit of the party.
“So you’re back again, Jack, old man!” he said, addressing the guide
with a half-humorous, half-cynical expression. “Goin’ to and fro on the
earth, seekin’ what you might—well, not devour exactly, but pick up in a
free and easy, genteel sort o’ way, like the old chap we used to be so
frightened of when we were kiddies. Don’t hear so much about him now, do
we? Wonder why? He ain’t dead, or played out, what d’ye make of it?”
“You seem to take a lot of interest in him, Dick,” said the guide. “Been
readin’ sermons, or beginnin’ to think o’ your latter end? Lots of time
for that.”
“Well, not so much that way, but I’m seriously thinkin’ o’ clearin’ out
o’ this part o’ the country and tryin’ another colony. It’s too dashed
cold and wet here. I’m afraid of my precious health. I hear great talks
of this West Australian side—Coolgardie, or something like that—where it
never rains, hardly, and they’re getting gold in buckets’ full.”
“You’re doin’ middlin’ well here, Dick,” said one of the other men in a
dissuasive tone of voice. “The lead’s sure to widen out as it gets
deeper and junctions with the Lady Caroline. Why don’t you have
patience, and see it out?”
“Well, haven’t I been waitin’ and waitin’, and now I’m full up; made up
my mind to sell out. If any one here will give me twenty notes for my
fourth share of the claim after this divide, I’m up to take it.”
“I’ll buy it,” said Mr. Blount impulsively. “I should like to have a
turn at real mining, and this seems a fair chance.”
“Done with you, sir; we can write out an agreement here now. You’ll have
a fourth share in the hut and tools, won’t he, mates?”
The men nodded assent. “Going cheap, Jack, isn’t it?”
“Dirt cheap, and no mistake. Mr. Blount never made a better bargain.
I’ll cash his cheque on Melbourne, so you can clear to-morrow, Dick,
though I think you’re a fool for your pains. We’ll witness the agreement
here, and he can hold your miner’s right till he gets a transfer from
the Registrar at Bunjil.”
This transaction, concluded with ease and celerity, seemed to meet with
general approbation. Mr. Blount was charmed with his business insight,
which had enabled him to seize upon an opportunity of joining a “bona
fide going concern” in regular work.
“How’s the ‘Lady Julia’ been behaving lately?” inquired Jack Carter.
“Well, here’s the fortnight’s clean up, close on twelve ounces, I should
say. Might be better, but it’s more than tucker, three ounces a man, say
£40 for two weeks’ work. The month before it was £60, and of course,
there’s a chance of a nugget, or a make in the lead, any day!”
“A nugget’s a lump of gold, isn’t it? What size are they?” queried the
new partner.
“Any size from a pound to a hundredweight. A Chinaman turned up one
worth £230 just after we came, at Back Creek,” answered the big miner;
“in old ground, too. Of course, they’re not everyday finds. But there’s
always a chance. That’s what makes digging so jolly excitin’, a party
can always keep themselves if they work steady, and then there’s the
off-chance of a big slice of luck comin’ their way.”
“I should think it did,”, assented the stranger, heartily. “A free life,
perfect independence, healthy occupation. It will suit me down to the
ground.”
“Early to bed and early to rise is another of the advantages given in
with the honest miner’s business,” said the young man called Dick. “A
feller’s so jolly tired if he’s been amusin’ himself with a pick and
shovel all day, or even the cradle, that by the time he’s had tea, and a
smoke, he’s glad to get to his bunk for fear he should go to sleep, like
a trooper’s horse, all standin’. So Mr. Blount had better collar my
bunk, which I hereby make over to him, along with my share of the ‘Lady
Julia’ claim and tools, cradle, and one-fourth interest in the perlatial
residence, as the auctioneers say. I’ll doss near the fire along with
Jack. Mr. Blount’s got his own blankets, so that’ll be all right.”
Suiting the action to the word, Dick dragged his blankets and a few
articles of attire from the bunk indicated, including a weather-worn
leather valise into which he stuffed the smaller matters.
Arranging his blankets near the fire, he made a pillow of the valise,
and removing his boots and coat, lit his pipe, and lay down on the
earthen floor, pulling the blankets over him, and apparently quite
prepared for a sound night’s rest. “Good-night all!” were his parting
words.
“I’ll say good-night, too,” said Little-River-Jack, undoing the swag,
which he had carried in the front of his saddle during the day’s
journey, and which seemed chiefly composed of a pair of serviceable blue
blankets. “Dick and I’ll take the claim by the chimney. I’ll put on a
back log, to keep us all warm, and do to boil the billy to-morrow
morning. So I’ll say good-night, Mr. Blount, and wish you luck now, as
I’ll be off before daylight. I’d not get up, if I was you, it’s
shivering cold till the sun’s up.”
The three men who were now Mr. Blount’s “mates” (or partners) in the
claim lost no time in depositing themselves in their separate sleeping
places, removing only the more necessary articles of clothing.
Mr. Blount sat before the fire for half an hour, lost in thought, before
arraying himself in a suit of pyjamas, which would have excited the
admiration of his companions had they been awake. Their regular
breathing, however, denoted that such was not the case, and he, too,
after a decent interval, abandoned his unwonted environment for the land
of mystery and enchantment which men call sleep.
Next morning the clatter of tin plates, and other accompaniments, upon
the literal “board” which stood for the table and all appurtenances,
aroused the new partner from a profound slumber.
The dim light of a cloudy dawn was struggling with the smoky flame of a
tallow lamp of rude shape. The “billy” full of hot tea had just been
placed upon the table by the acting cook, who had previously disposed a
tin dish containing fried beef steaks beside it.
Snatching up his towel and sponge bag, the stranger made a rush for the
creek bank, where a rude stage permitted him to indulge in a copious
sluicing of his head, neck and shoulders.
Ice-cold as was the water, he achieved a glow after a vigorous
application of his rough towel, and dressing in haste, was able to
dispose of his share of the meal more or less creditably.
With more consideration than might have been expected, the dish of
steaks had been put down by the fire and kept warm in his absence.
“I shall not over-sleep myself another morning,” he said,
apologetically, “but I suppose the long day _did_ tire me a bit. It was
awfully slow too, stumbling over those rocky tracks. I shall be in
better trim shortly.”
“Expect you will,” said the big digger, “a man’s always soft for the
first week, specially if he hasn’t been used to the life. We’ll start
for the claim, soon’s you’re through with breakfast; Jack and Dick’s off
hours ago. There were cattle to take back, left here for the butcher.”
He now remembered as in a dream having heard a dog bark, and a whip
crack, in the middle of the night, as it seemed to him.
“Early birds,” he remarked sententiously; after which, finishing his
second pannikin of tea, he expressed himself as ready for the road.
The mists were clearing from the mountain-side, which lay dark and
frowning between the little party and the East, but ere long the curving
shoulders of the range became irradiated. A roseate glow suffused the
pale snow crown, transmuting it gradually into a jewelled coronet, while
the mountain flanks became slowly illumined, exhibiting the verdant
foot-hills, in clear contrast with the sombre, illimitable forest. As
the sun’s disc became fully apparent, all Nature seemed to greet with
gladness the triumph of the Day-god. The birds chirped and called in the
dense underwoods through which the narrow path wound.
Flights of water-fowl high overhead winged their way to distant plains
and a milder air. A rock kangaroo, cleared the streamlet with a bound
and fled up the hillside like a mountain hare. A cloud of cockatoos
flitted ghost-like across the tree-tops, betraying by an occasional
harsh cry the fact that a sense of harmony had been omitted, when their
delicately white robes were apportioned to them. As the sun gained power
and brilliancy, Mr. Blount found the path easy to follow and his spirits
began to rise.
“How far to the claim?” he asked.
One of the miners pointed to a hillock of yellow and red earth by the
side of which a rude stage had been erected, and a rope wound around,
from which depended a raw hide bucket.
Moving up, he was aware of a shaft sunk to a depth of fifty or sixty
feet; from appearances, the precious metal had been extracted by rude
appliances on the bank of the creek, still running briskly through the
little flat.
“I’m the captain of this claim,” said the big miner, “elected by a
majority of the shareholders, so, till I’m turned out, I’ll have all the
say.” The other diggers nodded. “You’re new to the game, mister, so I’ll
give you the easiest show to begin with. Later on, you can tackle the
pick and shovel. We three go below, one at a time, you see how it’s
done, and be middlin’ careful: there’s a man’s life on the rope every
time, and if you let the windlass run away with you, out he goes! Next
man in.”
Sitting down on the “brace,” the miner took hold of the hide rope above
his head with both hands, while one of the others at the windlass began
to lower him slowly down, a short strong piece of pointed timber,
referred to as the “sprag,” being inserted into the roller, through
which the hide rope ran, in order to check its velocity, and give the
man at the windlass control.
Blount looking down, saw him gradually descend, until the bottom of the
shaft was reached. The second man was lowered. When the third with his
foot in a bight of the rope prepared to descend, he felt a little
nervous, which the miner was quick to observe. “Don’t be afraid of
killin’ me, mate! just hold on to the windlass-handle like grim death.
It’ll come easy after a bit.” He laughed as he commenced to descend,
saying, “When you hear this tin arrangement clap together, it means
‘haul away.’”
Mr. Blount was most careful, and finding that he could manage the
windlass easily, with the help of the “sprag” aforesaid, became more
confident. The next excitement was when the clapper sounded, and he
began to haul up. But the weight below seemed to be too great. The rope
refused to draw up the bucket. Then he noticed that the “sprag” was
still in the roller.
Smiling at his mistake he took it out, and immediately began to haul up.
Though a good pull it was not a difficult task for an athletic young
man, in high health and spirits. So he bent his back to the work, and
presently the hide bucket, filled with yellow and red clay, came to the
surface; this he drew on one side, and tilted over on to the “tip” or
“mullock” heap, having to that extent been instructed. Lowering it again
he continued the somewhat monotonous work, without cessation, till noon,
when a double note on the clapper warned him that his mates desired to
revisit upper air. This ascent accomplished safely, the billy was
boiled, and dinner, so called, notwithstanding the early hour, was
disposed of.
“My word! you’re gettin’ on fine, mate,” said the big miner, “and that
reminds me, what are we to call you? You needn’t trouble about your real
name, if you want to keep it dark. Many a good man’s had to do that
hereabouts. Anyway, on a goldfield it’s no one’s business but the
owner’s, but we must call you somethin’!”
“Call me Jack Blunt. It’s near enough for the present.”
“All right, Blunt; now you’re christened,” said the big miner. “Phelim
O’Hara’s mine, and these other chaps are my brother Pat and George
Dixon; we’re all natives, only as he’s Lancashire by blood we call him
‘Lanky’ for short; we may’s well go down now, and you can do a bit of
pick and shovel work for a change.”
Mr. Blount considered it to be a change in the fullest sense of the word
when he found himself dangling between earth and sky, with his leg in
the loop of a rope, having a great inclination to turn round and round,
which he combated by thrusting his leg against the side of the shaft. He
realised a feeling akin to that of being lowered over a cliff, which he
had read of in boyhood, reflecting, too, that he had no more _real_
security than a man in that embarrassing position. Still the narrow
shaft had an appearance of safety, which in his case prevented vertigo.
The pick and shovel work was not hard to comprehend. He did his best,
though easily outpaced by his mates.
In a week’s time he found himself quite _au fait_ at the work, while
improving daily in wind and muscle. “Capital training for a boat-race,”
he said, “only there’s no water hereabouts, except this little brook,
but we don’t seem to be getting rich very fast, do we, George?”
George was sententious. He had been a navvy. The best worker of the
party, he was slow of speech, and disinclined to argue on abstract
matters.
“Forty or fifty pound a fortnight for four of us ain’t so bad,” he
growled out.
Not only was Mr. Blount himself becoming accustomed to this unfamiliar
mode of life, but his cob, though he did not take kindly to the
mountaineering work, as we have seen, became familiarised to being
turned out with the claim horses and foregathered with them amicably.
However, one afternoon, when they were brought in for a ride, as it was
too wet to work, the cob, now fat and frolicsome, was reported missing.
His master was much annoyed and alarmed at this state of affairs.
However, Phelim O’Hara volunteered to stay at home, and moreover to lend
him his horse on which to search for the defaulter. Mr. Blount eagerly
accepted the offer, and lost no time in going off to hunt for “John
Gilpin” as the cob was facetiously named. Unlike a bushman, he rode
hither and thither, not troubling himself about tracks, or keeping a
course in any given direction.
The consequence was that towards nightfall he found himself several
miles from camp, or indeed any landmark which he had passed in the early
part of the day. He was, however, sensible enough to follow a creek,
which eventually led him to the river; between which and the hilly
country he had been traversing, he saw a piece of level country on which
several wild horses were grazing.
He was attracted by the appearance of a handsome grey stallion, who
appeared to be the leader and, so to speak, commander of the “manada,”
around which he trotted or galloped, driving in the mares and colts, and
indeed, with open mouth and threatening heels, forcing them to keep
within bounds.
Suddenly there was the sound of a rifle shot from the side of the forest
nearest to the troop. The leader gave a sudden bound forward, then
dropped on his haunches. He made several unavailing attempts to rise.
Struck in the region of the spine, he was evidently paralysed. He reared
himself on his fore-legs but was unable to move forward, more than once
neighing piteously. The mares and foals had fled like a herd of deer at
the sound of the gun, but following the habit of these steeds of the
mountain parks, though “wild as the wild deer, and untamed,” came
timidly back, and stood near their lord and master. As the hinds and
fawns are unwilling to leave the death-stricken stag, so these
descendants of man’s noblest servant refused to quit the spot where the
monarch of their kingdom lies wounded to the death. They circled around
him until another shot from the invisible marksman pealed forth, and a
fine black mare, with a young foal, dropped dead near the wounded sire.
They scattered afresh at this new stroke of fate; Mr. Blount wondering
much whether they would return. But the grey whinnied from time to time,
making frantic efforts to reach the dead mare—all vainly. He swung round
on his fore-legs but was unable to do more.
His struggles became tremendous, his agonised distress piteous to
behold. Bathed in sweat and foam he seemed ready to succumb with terror
and exhaustion, as he sunk sideways till his head, lying prone upon the
grass, nearly touched that of his dead mate. Then again the deadly
weapon rang out, and another victim, this time a frolicsome chestnut
filly, fell to the unerring aim of the marksman, as before, invisible.
Mr. Blount felt a disinclination to move from his position, not knowing
exactly how near he might be to the concealed hunter’s line of fire.
At length, as nearly all the “mob” were down, a tall man in a Norfolk
jacket of tweed with knickerbockers and gaiters to match, walked forth
from behind an immense eucalyptus. He was plainly dressed, though Mr.
Blount discerned a distinction in his air and bearing which convinced
him that the man was no stockrider. He carried a Winchester magazine
rifle, from which he sent a bullet into the head of the wounded horse,
thus putting an end to his sufferings, and leaving him lying dead amid
the females of his court.
The accost of the hunter was not markedly cordial as Mr. Blount stated
that it was a lovely morning, and that the scene before him reminded him
of a battlefield.
“Indeed!” he replied, with a certain amount of hauteur. “May I ask the
favour of your name? and also what you are doing on this part of my
run?”
“Your run! I was led to believe that I was on the area of Crown land,
open, as such, to all travelling on lawful business. My name is Blount.
May I ask in return for yours? As to my business, I am at present
looking for a strayed horse.”
“Was he a bay cob with a short tail and hogged mane, a letter and number
on the near shoulder?”
“That is his exact description.”
“Then he is safe,” said the stranger. “He had joined the station horses
and was run in with them this morning. He is now in my paddock, as I
assumed that he had strayed from his owner, and was making his way down
to the river. My name is Edward Bruce of Marondah, which is not more
than fifteen miles distant. You had better come home with me; I shall be
happy to put you up for the night, and you can take your horse back in
the morning.”
The day was drawing to a close. It was a long way to the claim, and
Blount was by no means sure that he could find his way back or even pick
up his own tracks.
“I think,” he replied, “that I can’t do better than accept your offer,
for which I feel most grateful.”
“There is no real obligation, believe me,” said Mr. Bruce.
“But where is your horse?” said Blount, looking at the stranger’s
serviceable leggings.
“Not far, you may be sure, and in safe keeping; my gillie is pretty
handy.” Putting two fingers to his mouth, he gave the drover’s whistle,
with such volume and shrillness that it might have been heard at a
considerable distance. After a short interval, a high wailing sort of
cry (the Australian aboriginal call) came floating through the forest,
and a black boy galloped up, riding one horse, and leading another of
such superior shape and action that Blount thought it criminal to run
the risk of injuring him in such rough country.
The black boy led the horse to his master, but did not offer to
dismount, or hold the stirrup, as an English groom would have done. Nor
did such attention appear necessary, as Mr. Bruce mounted with alacrity,
and motioning the boy to ride ahead followed at a brisk trot through the
forest and along the rocky cattle tracks, which, though occasionally
running in different directions, converged, and appeared to lead almost
due south. All the while, the son of the forest sitting loose-reined and
carelessly on his horse, never deviated apparently from his course, or
was in doubt for a moment.
In less than two hours, when the light was becoming uncertain, and the
chill evening air of these Australian highlands apparent, a chorus of
baying dogs of all ages, sizes and descriptions announced the vicinity
of the homestead. At the same time, the winding course of a full fed
mountain stream was revealed.
On a promontory which seemed to have dissociated itself from the forest
glades, and been arrested just above the broad river meadow, stood a
roomy bungalow protected by wide verandahs from sun and storm.
“This is Marondah!” said Mr. Bruce, not without a certain air of
dignity—“allow me to welcome you to my home.” A black girl came running
up at the moment, who showed her enviably white and regular teeth in a
smile of greeting, as in a matter-of-fact way she unstrapped the guest’s
valise, and led off his horse.
“You put ’em yarraman longa stable,” commanded the squatter—for such he
was. “Your horse will be all right. Polly is as good a stable hand as
Paddy—a turn better, I sometimes think. She’s a clever ‘gin’ all round.
Ah! I see Mrs. Bruce.”
As they walked forward, a lady came through the garden gate, and met
them—receiving the guest with cordiality—then turning to her husband.
“You’re rather late, Ned! What kept you? I’m always nervous when you’re
out at that end of the run!”
“Well, if you must know, I found the grey horse’s mob, which I’ve been
tracking for some time—and got them all—a real bit of luck. Then I fell
in with Mr. Blount, who was looking for that smart cob that came in with
our horses this morning. Luckily for him, as it turns out.”
“So it was. Did you shoot the poor things? I always feel so sorry for
them.”
“Of course I did; they’re more trouble than all the other ‘brumbies’ on
the run, galloping about, smashing fences, destroying dams, and wasting
grass, for the use of which I pay the Crown rent.”
“Yes, a farthing an acre!” laughed the lady. “All the same, it’s very
cruel—don’t you think so, Mr. Blount? What would they say in England of
such barbarous work?”
“It would raise a scandal, Mrs. Bruce; but everything depends on the
value of the animal, apart from the sentiment.”
Thus conversing, they walked through the garden, which was encompassed
by an orchard of venerable age. It stretched to the river bank, along
which a line of magnificent willows partly over-arched the stream with
graceful, trailing foliage, while the interlaced roots performed
valuable service in supporting the banks in time of flood.
Passing along the broad verandah, vine and trailer-festooned, they
entered a hall, of which the door seemed permanently open.
The walls were garnished with whips, guns on racks (where Mr. Bruce
carefully placed his redoubtable Winchester), the great wings of the
mountain eagle, the scarlet and jet tail-feathers of the black macaw,
and the sulphur-coloured crests of his white relative. These, and other
curios of the Waste, relieved the apartment of any appearance of
bareness, while avoiding incongruity of ornamentation. Passing into a
large, comfortably-furnished room, where preparations for the evening
meal were in evidence, the host pointed to a spirit-stand on the
sideboard, and suggesting that a tot of whisky would not be
inappropriate after a long day, invited his guest to join him. This
offer Mr. Blount frankly accepted, as, besides being tired with a long,
dragging ride, he felt nearly as cold as if he had been deer-shooting in
the Scottish Highlands, instead of this southern mountain land.
He had donned the riding-suit in which he had arrived at Bunjil, and had
also packed necessaries of travel in his valise, in case he might have
to stay a day at a decent house. This sensible precaution (never
needless in the wildest solitudes of Australia) now stood him in good
stead. And he felt truly thankful, after being ushered into a
comfortable bedroom, that he had resisted the temptation to start off
without them. He was enabled, therefore, to issue forth reasonably
fitted for the society of ladies, and the enjoyment of the hospitality
of the period. So that, when shown into another room smaller than the
first he had entered, but more ornate as to furniture, he felt
comparatively at ease, notwithstanding the roughness of his late
surroundings.
Mrs. Bruce was already there, and, rising from a sofa, said—
“Allow me, Mr. Blount, to introduce you to my sister Imogen.”
A tall girl had at this moment arisen, not previously referred to by his
host or the lady of the house.
It was not an introduction—it was a revelation, as Blount subsequently
described the interview. Mrs. Bruce was a handsome woman, tall and
stately, as are many Australians, possessing, withal, fine natural
manners improved by travel, and she might reasonably have been expected
to possess a good-looking sister. For so much Blount stood prepared. But
this divinity of the waste—this Venus Anadyomene—was above and beyond
all expectation, all imagination or conception. He gazed at her, as he
confessed to himself, with an expression of unconventional surprise; for
Imogen Carrisforth was, indeed, a girl that no man with the faintest
_soupçon_ of taste or sentiment could behold without admiration.
Mrs. Bruce was dark-haired, with fine eyes to match, distinctly
aristocratic as to air and carriage; her sister was fair, with abundant
nut-brown hair shot with warmer hues, which shone goldenly as the
lamplight fell across it. It was gathered in masses above her forehead
and around her proudly-poised head, as she smiled a welcome to the
stranger with the hospitably frank accost which greets the guest so
invariably in an Australian country home. While looking into the depths
of her brilliant hazel eyes, Blount almost murmured “O, Dea certe!”
while doubting if he had ever before beheld so lovely a creature.
Mrs. Bruce attributed his evident surprise to the fact of his not having
been informed of the fact of a second lady being at the house. “Ned
ought to have told you,” she said, “that my sister was staying with us.
She has just come from town, where she has been at school. She is so
tall that really it seemed absurd to keep her there any longer.”
“You forget that I am eighteen,” said the young lady under observation.
“My education should be finished now, if ever.”
“Indeed, I’m afraid you won’t learn much more,” said her brother-in-law,
paternally, “though I’m not sure that another year under Miss Charters
would not have been as well.”
“Oh! but I _did_ pine so for the fresh air of the bush—the rides and
drives and everything. I can’t bear a town life, and was growing
low-spirited.”
“How about the opera, balls, the Cup Day itself, at your age too?”
interposed Blount.
“All very well in their way. But society in town seems one unmeaning
round with the same people you meet always. One gets dead tired of it
all. I must have gipsy blood in me, I think, for the gay greenwood has a
fascination, which I feel, but can’t explain.”
During dinner, Blount found Mrs. Bruce most agreeable, and, indeed,
entertaining. He learned something too about the neighbours, none of
whom were nearer than ten miles. Some, indeed, much farther off. It was
also explained to him that the region of the Upper Sturt was not all
rock and forest, swamp and scrub, but that there were rich tablelands at
“the back,” which might be north or north-east. Also that the country
became more open “down the river,” as well as, in a sense, more
civilised, “though we don’t call ourselves _very_ barbarous,” she added,
with a smile.
“Barbarous, indeed!” repeated the guest, with well-acted indignation.
“You seem to me to have all the accessories, and more of them than we in
that old-fashioned country called England. Here you have books, papers,
all the comforts and many of the luxuries of the Old Land, besides a
free, unfettered existence, independence, and no earthly annoyance or
danger.”
“I am not so sure about the last items,” said Mrs. Bruce. “Ned has been
worrying himself lately about a gang of men who call themselves miners,
but are more than suspected to be cattle-stealers. He has missed
valuable animals lately.”
“You surprise me!” replied Blount, with a shocked expression. “The bush
people whom I have come across have appeared to be such simple,
hard-working fellows. But surely Mr. Bruce doesn’t apprehend danger from
gold-diggers or drovers? They are so civil and well-mannered too.”
“Their manners are good enough; better, people tell us, than those of
the same class at home. But they are not always to be trusted, and are
revengeful when thwarted in their bad practices. Edward has more than
once been warned to be more careful about riding alone near their haunts
in the ranges, though he always goes armed.”
“But surely none of the ‘mountain men,’ as I have heard them called,
would lie in wait for Mr. Bruce, or any other proprietor, even if he was
unpopular, which I feel certain Mr. Bruce is not?”
“There is no saying. Blood has been shed in these mountains before now,
peaceful as they appear. However, Edward never stirs out in that
direction without his rifle, and you have seen him shoot. He has no
fear, but I cannot feel free from anxiety myself. And now I think we
must go into the drawing-room, or wrap up and sit in the verandah while
you men smoke; what do you say, Imogen?”
“I vote for the verandah. There’s no wind, and the moon is nearly full.
It’s tolerably cool; but dry cold never hurts any one. Indeed, it’s said
to be the new cure for chest ailment at Davos Platz, isn’t it, Edward?”
“They say so. Doctors are always changing their theories. I prefer a
climate that’s moderately cosy myself. But we must have our smoke, and
you girls can talk to us, if you keep to low tones and modulated
expressions.”
Blount would have vowed to renounce tobacco for the rest of his natural
life if but Miss Imogen would sit by him. The moon had risen, flooding
the dark woods and river pools with silver radiance. Could they but
continue to listen dreamily to the rhythmic murmur of the stream, the
softly-sighing, complaining sound of the trailing willows as from time
to time the river current lifted them—what had life to compare with such
sensations? However, this idyllic joy was in its nature fleeting, as it
became apparent that the frosty air “was really too keen for reasonable
people who had colds to consider and babies.” So Mrs. Bruce, thus
remonstrating, arose, and with two words, “Come, Imogen!” made for one
of the French windows which opened from the drawing-room to the
verandah. When they entered that comfortable, well-furnished apartment—a
handsome Blüthner piano stood open, with music conveniently close—Mr.
Bruce quasi-paternally ordered Imogen to sing, in order that he might
judge what progress she had made during the half year.
So they had a song, another, several indeed to finish up with. Mr.
Blount admitted a slight knowledge of music, and even took a creditable
second in one of Miss Carrisforth’s songs. The night wore on, until just
before ten o’clock, a neat maid brought in a tray with glasses, and the
wherewithal to fill the same. The ladies declining refreshment, said
good-night, and left Mr. Bruce and his guest to have their final smoke,
hoping that they would not sit up too late, as they must feel tired
after their long day’s ride.
The night was glorious, the moon, nearly at its full, had floated into
the mid-heaven. The cloudless, dark blue sky seemed to be illumined with
star clusters and planets of greater lustre than in ordinary seasons. As
they smoked silently, Blount listening to the river gurgling and
rippling over its pebbly shallows, the sharp contrast of his
surroundings with those he had so lately quitted, indeed even with those
during the penultimate sojourn at Bunjil, struck him so forcibly that he
could hardly repress a smile.
However he merely remarked—“Australia is certainly a land of wonders—my
friends in England will not believe half my adventures when I tell
them.”
“I can quite understand that,” replied his host. “When I returned to my
native place, after ten years’ absence, mine showed signs of utter
disbelief in my smaller experiences, while hazardous tales were
swallowed without hesitation.”
* * * * *
Mr. Blount rose early and was rewarded by a view of the dawnlight
suffusing the eastern horizon with pale opaline tints, gradually
increasing in richness and variety of colouring. Roseate golden clouds
were marshalled around the summit of the snow-crowned alp, and even the
darksome forest aisles responded to the divine informing waves of light
and life.
He was aroused from reverie as he gazed upon the wondrous apparition by
resounding whips and the roll of hoofs, as the station horses were being
run into the yard. The cob was easily distinguished by his cropped tail
and mane, while, refreshed by rest and freedom, he galloped and kicked
up his heels, as if he had been reared in the bush, instead of in a
suburban paddock. Mr. Blount also witnessed his being caught and
conveyed to the stable, in company with Mr. Bruce’s favourite hackney,
and another distinguished-looking animal. With respect to the
last-named, Paddy said that one “belong’n Miss Immie,” volunteering
further information to this effect.
“My word! that one missy ride fustrate.” Storing this encomium in his
mind, Mr. Blount repaired to his apartment, where he made all ready for
departure, resolving not to remain longer away from his associates in
the “Lady Julia,” however great the temptation.
This came at breakfast time, when Mrs. Bruce invited him to stay a few
days, when they would show him their best bits of scenery and otherwise
try to amuse him. There was a muster of fat cattle coming on, which was
always held to be an interesting spectacle to visitors from the other
side of the world. Mr. Bruce was convinced that he would acquire more
colonial experience in a week at this particular time, than half a year
would show him at a different season. A few neighbours would come
over—very decent fellows, and fair specimens of Australian country
gentlemen. It would be a regular “house-party,” as they say in England.
The opportunity should not be lost.
Miss Imogen did not join in the endeavour to tempt Mr. Blount from the
path of duty, but she looked as if such a deflection from the narrow way
would meet with her approval. After his very courteous, but distinct
expression of regret, that he was compelled by a business engagement to
decline—with how much reluctance, he could hardly say—their most kind
and flattering invitation, the request was not pressed, and the
remainder of the breakfast passed off in a lively interchange of the
pleasantries proper to the occasion.
“We are going to speed the parting guest, if he will not honour our
abode any longer,” said Mrs. Bruce, playfully; “but we must do it after
our own fashion. My husband, Imogen and I, will ride with you for part
of the way—indeed nearly as far as where you met Ned yesterday, if you
don’t mind?”
“Mind,” replied the guest, with a look of surprised gratitude, which
caused Miss Imogen to smile and blush. “Nothing could possibly give me
greater pleasure.”
“So that’s settled,” said Bruce. “I’ll order the horses round; we’ll
take Paddy with us, who may as well lead your cob till we part company,
and I’ll mount you on one of the best hacks in this district, or any
other. It will save your horse, and as you’re likely to have a long day
that’s a consideration.”
“How you are adding to my load of obligation; I shall never be able to
repay half the debt.”
“Time enough when we meet again,” said the host, “but we’ve none to
spare at present. So, Imogen, ten minutes and no more to put on your
habit.”
“Five will do,” said the girl, as she laughingly ran out of the room, to
reappear gloved, hatted, and turned out in a most accurately-fitting
habit as the horses were led up.
Her brother-in-law put his hand under her dainty foot, and lifted her
lightly into the saddle, while the bright chestnut mare sidled, and
arched her neck, as she felt the lightest of hands on her bridle rein.
Mr. Bruce guaranteed that the hunter-looking bay detailed for his
guest’s use was “prompt in his paces, cool and bold” like Bevis, upon
whom the spectre knight’s night-ride had such an unfortunate effect,
while he himself mounted the favourite steed which his guest had
remarked at their first meeting, saying: “You don’t often see a
better-looking lot together; as good, too, as they are good-looking.”
Mr. Blount was convinced of the justice of this valuation, and thought
that the statement might even be applied to the riders. Paddy, on a
veteran stock horse, brought up the rear leading the cob, whose short
tail and hogged mane excited Polly’s unmeasured ridicule: “Mine thinkit,
that one pfeller brother belongin’ to pig,” and seized with the
comicality of the idea, she exploded in fits of laughter, as casting
lingering looks of regret at the receding cavalcade, she walked soberly
back to the huts.
“These two horses are the fast walkers of the party, Mr. Blount,” began
the fair Imogen, as the clever hackney she rode started off at so fast a
pace as to incur the suspicion of ambling. “Ned and his henchman, Paddy,
will go rambling ahead or on a parallel, looking for strange tracks,
denoting trespassers on the run, strayed cattle, indeed found sometimes
before they are lost, that is by the lawful owners. The life of the
owner of a cattle station is often ‘not a happy one.’ It is surprising
how many kinds of annoyances, risks and anxieties, he may suffer from.”
“Mr. Bruce doesn’t look as if he suffered from any of the ills of life,”
said Blount, gazing at his fair companion, as who should say, “How
_could_ any man be unhappy who has such a charming sister-in-law, not to
mention a delightful wife and a nice baby?” However he did not wish for
a catalogue of his host’s annoyances. He wanted to hear his companion’s
appreciation of the grand scheme of colour, tone, light and shadow, just
opening out before them, as the “glorious sun uprist” amid clouds which
had recently rolled away, leaving full in view the forest-clothed
uplands, the silent gorges, and the glittering summit of the majestic
alp.
Right joyous are the pastimes connected with horse and hound in the
older land whence our fathers came, amid the wide pastures, the
hedge-bordered fields of green England.
With the hog-spear and rifle on the dusty plains and sudden appearing
nullahs of Hindostan, Arab and Waler, by riders of world wide fame, are
hard pressed in rivalry. In equestrian tournaments, in the polo
gymkhana, and other military contests, there are trials of skill and
horsemanship, with a suspicion of danger, to stir a man’s blood. But a
gallop through the glades of an Australian forest, in the autumnal
season of the year, or even in the so-called mid-winter under the
cloudless skies and glowing sun of the southern hemisphere, yields to no
sport on earth, in keenness of enjoyment or the excitement generated by
the pride of horsemanship.
When the company is illumined by a suitable proportion of dames and
demoiselles, right royally mounted, and practised in the _manège_, the
combination is perfect.