AND, in the joyous days of youth, the glorious, the immortal, the true,
the ever-adorable deity of the soul’s childhood, unheeding, careless of
the future, thinking, like charity, no evil, revelling in the purely
sensuous enjoyment of the fair present, which of the so-called pleasures
of the future can claim equality of richness or flavour, with those of
that unsurpassable period of the mysterious human pageant! “Carpe Diem!”
oh! fortunate heir of life’s richest treasure-house, is the true, the
only true philosophy. Enjoy, while the pulse is high, the vigour of
manhood untouched by Time, the spirit unsaddened by distrust of the
future.
For you, glows that cloudless azure; for you the streams murmur, the
breezes sigh, the good horse bounds freely over the elastic sward; for
you shine the eyes of the beauteous maiden with a fore-taste of the
divine dream of love. Thank the kind gods, that have provided so
bounteous a feast of soul and sense! Oh! happy thou, that art bidden to
such a banquet of the immortals; quaff the ambrosia, while the light
still glows on Olympus, and Nemesis is as yet an unimagined terror.
In the days which were to come, in the destiny which the Fates were even
then weaving for him, Valentine Blount told himself that never in his
whole life had so many conditions of perfect enjoyment been combined as
in that memorable riding party.
The sun rays prophetic of an early summer, for which the men of a
thousand shearing sheds were even now mustering, were warm, yet tempered
by the altitude of the region and the proximity of the snow fields. All
nature seemed to recognise the voice of spring. The birds came forth
from their leafy coverts, their wild but not unmusical notes sounding
strangely unfamiliar to the English stranger. An occasional kangaroo
dashed across their path, flying with tremendous bounds to its home on
the mountain side. A lot of half-wild cattle stood gazing for a few
moments, then “cleared,” as Miss Imogen expressed it, for more secluded
regions.
“I wonder if I could ‘wheel’ them,” she said, as her bright glance
followed the receding drove; “I see Ned and Paddy on the other wing; Mr.
Blount, you can follow, but don’t pass me, whatever you do;” and in
spite of Mrs. Bruce’s prudential “Oh! Imogen, don’t be rash!” away went
the wilful damsel, through the thickening timber, at a pace with which
the visitor, excellently mounted as he was, on a trained stock-horse,
found it no easy task to keep up. Directly this enterprising movement on
the part of the young lady was observed by the watchful Paddy, he called
to Mr. Bruce, “Miss Immy wheel ’em, my word. Marmy! you man’em this one
piccanniny yarraman, me ‘back up.’” Paddy’s old stock horse dashed off
at speed, little inferior to that of the young lady’s thoroughbred, and
appeared on the “off side wing” just as the fair Diana had wheeled (or
turned) the leaders to the right. Paddy riding up to them on the left
and menacing with his stockwhip, caused them to turn towards Imogen.
This manœuvre persevered with, was finally crowned with success;
inasmuch as the two protagonists, working together and causing the drove
to “ring” or keep moving in a circle, finally persuaded them to stop and
be examined, when with heaving flanks they bore testimony to the
severity of the pace.
Mrs. Bruce, with instinctive knowledge of the points of the situation,
had kept quietly behind her guest, who so far from passing his fair
pilot, found that it gave him enough to do to keep sight of her.
He did service however, if unconsciously, by keeping at a certain
distance behind Imogen, which prevented the cattle from “breaking” or
running back behind her. Mrs. Bruce had ridden quietly behind the rear
guard, or “tail” (as provincially expressed), and as Mr. Bruce, though
hampered with the cob, which he had caught and led along, kept his place
between Mrs. Bruce and Paddy, the disposition was theoretically perfect,
also successful, which in battles as well as in the lesser pursuits of
the world is _the_ great matter, after all.
“Upon my word, Imogen!” said Mr. Bruce, “you have given us a pretty
gallop, and as these bullocks are fat, it can’t have done them much
good. However,” riding round as he spoke, “it gives me a chance to look
through them, and, Hulloa! By Jove! it’s as well I came here to-day,
somebody has put a fresh brand on that black snail-horned bullock, J. C.
just over the E. H. B.; I never sold that beast, I swear! And who the
dickens has put those two letters on? Been done in a pen. You can see
it’s put on from above.”
“Me see um fresh brand on one feller cow,” stated Paddy, with gravity
and deliberation; “me thinkum might ‘duff’ bullock alonga Wild Horse
Gully, me seeum track shod horse that one day marmy shootem brumbie.”
“All right, Paddy,” said his master, “you lookem out track nother one
day.”
“My word!” replied Paddy, “me track um up jolly quick.”
Mr. Bruce seemed disconcerted by the discovery just made. It was not
unimportant. He had suspected that he was losing cattle at this “end of
the run,” among the ranges and broken country. He had not too good an
opinion of the honesty of the small parties of miners who worked the
gullies and creeks which led to the river. He supposed that they got a
beast now and then, but was loath to believe that there was any
organised system of plunder. Now, it was as plain as print that cattle
were yarded in small numbers and branded, before they were delivered to
the buyers, whoever they were. How many had been taken he could hardly
venture to guess at. Cattle being worth from eight to twelve pounds a
head, it would not take so many to be worth a thousand pounds. It made
him look grave, as he said—
“I’m afraid, after this pleasant ride of ours, that it’s time for these
ladies to get home. It will be past lunch-time when they sight Marondah,
and Mrs. Bruce has family responsibilities, you know. However, I’ll send
Paddy on with you till he puts you on a track which will lead to your
destination.”
Mr. Blount was profuse in thanks, and exhausted himself in statements
that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life, and had a
glorious gallop into the bargain; that it had given him quite a new idea
of Australia, that he had been slow to believe the romantic tales he had
heard about Australian bush-riders and their cross-country work. He was
now in a position to confirm any such statement made, and to declare
that Australian ladies, in science, coolness and courage, were equal to
any horsewomen in any country in the world. He should never forget the
hospitality he had received, nor the lessons in bushmanship. He trusted
to revisit Marondah again before long, when he might, perhaps, be
permitted to taste a more leisurely enjoyment of their fascinating
country life.
Dismounting, he took leave of the ladies, assuring Mrs. Bruce that he
should never forget her kindness and that of Mr. Bruce. If he was less
diffuse in his explanations to Miss Imogen, it may have been that there
was a warmth of his final hand-clasp, or an expression as their eyes
met, before she turned her horse’s head and rejoined her friends, which
was comparatively satisfactory.
The return stage was short, as Blount did not desire to take the
hawk-eyed aboriginal too near the claim, much less within tracking
distance of the stockyard. The fresh tracks of the unwilling cattle,
forced into a strange and small enclosure, would be like a placard in
large letters to the wildwood scout. Hence, as soon as he had land-marks
to guide him, he dismissed his Hiberno-Australian attendant, who handed
over the cob and departed with a cheerful countenance and a couple of
half-crowns.
Left to himself, Mr. Blount rode slowly and heedfully along what he
conceived to be the way to the claim, much exercised in his mind as to
his line of conduct.
Putting together various incidents and unconsidered trifles, the
conviction flashed across his mind that he had been involuntarily an
associate of cattle-stealers, and it might well be believed an
accomplice.
What position would be his if the whole gang were arrested, and he
himself included in the capture? Could it be, during that ride with
Little-River-Jack, that he had assisted to drive certain fat cattle
afterwards sworn to be the property of Mr. Bruce of Marondah, and
bearing his well-known brand “E. H. B.”? Could he deny that he had heard
cattle put into the stockyard near the “Lady Julia” claim late in the
evening, by John Carter (_alias_ “Little-River-Jack”), and taken away
before daylight?
He had received his share of the money for which the gold won in the
claim where he had worked was sold, or _said to be sold_. How could he
prove that it was not a part of the price of the stolen cattle? And so
on. He felt like many another man innocent of evil, or thought of evil,
that, with absurd credulity, and want of reasonable prudence, he had, to
a certain degree, enmeshed himself—might, indeed, find it difficult, if
not impossible, to get free from the consequences of a false accusation.
Perhaps it might have been his duty, in the interests of justice, to
have acquainted Mr. Bruce with the circumstances of his sojourn at the
claim with the O’Haras and Dixon (otherwise Lanky); also of the
suspicious cattle-dealing. This would have simply amounted to “giving
away” the men whose bread he was eating, and who were, however
unfortunate the position, his “mates” and comrades. Mr. Bruce would,
naturally, lose no time in setting the police to work. Then,
Little-River-Jack had certainly saved his life on the “Razor-Back”
ridge; another second or two and the cob with his rider would have been
lying among the rocks below. One such accident _did_ happen there, when
man and horse went over, and were found dead and mangled. As for the two
O’Haras and George Dixon, he had no sort of doubt now of their being
mixed up with the taking of Mr. Bruce’s cattle—possibly of those of
other squatters in his neighbourhood. Of the men who brought the cattle
to the yard, he, of course, had no knowledge, and could have none. In
the half-darkness of the winter dawn he could only dimly discern a
couple of horsemen, one of whom appeared to ride on with Jack Carter,
the other returning.
He was glad now that he had not seen them near enough for
identification. He was close to the claim now, having hit upon the
track, which he remembered was only a few miles distant.
What was he to say to his late companions, and what would be their
feelings towards him, if they heard of the police being after them so
soon after his trip down the river? Would they be persuaded that he had
not betrayed, or at any rate attracted suspicion towards them, which
came to the same thing?
He was in their power, he could not but feel that. What chance could he
have against three determined men, with perhaps as many more who might
be members of the outside gang, the men who were heard, but not seen,
for now he remembered to have heard the lowing of driven cattle more
than once, and the guarded voices of drovers. There was, of course only
one thing to do. He must face the position squarely and tell the truth,
whatever might be the consequences. He would warn them that Mr. Bruce
suspected the miners in the locality of being in league with
cattle-stealers, who were selling his fat cattle to the butchers on the
smaller diggings, of which there were not a few between the heads of the
rivers and the foothills of the mountain range. They knew Mr. Bruce, a
determined, fearless man, who would show them no mercy. They had better
“clear,” to use one of their own expressions, before the pursuit was too
hot.
Revolving these thoughts in his mind, he rode briskly on. He had
remounted the cob, now very fresh, and led the borrowed horse, who, as
he thought, deserved all reasonable consideration. When within half a
mile of the camp he saw a man walking along the track towards him. It
was Phelim O’Hara, the big miner, whom he had always admired as a fine
specimen of an Australian. He was a good-natured giant, possessing also
a large share of the rollicking, reckless humour which is the heritage
of the Milesian Celt. Phelim was a native-born Australian, however, and
on occasion could be sufficiently stern, not to say savage. Now he did
not look so pleasant as usual.
“Safe home, Mr. Blount,” he said. “I see you’ve found that cob of yours,
bad cess to him! I’ve lost a day through him, and maybe more than that.
But I’m dealin’ with a gentleman, lucky for all consarned.”
“I hope so, Phelim,” said the Englishman; “but what’s the matter, the
camp seems deserted?”
“The meaning’s this, Mr. Blount.” Here his voice became rough, if not
menacing. “The police are after us. There’s some yarn got up about
Little-River-Jack and us duffing cattle and selling them on the small
diggings. Pat and Lanky have cleared. I stayed behind to get this horse
of mine and give you the office. There’s some says you gave us away to
Mr. Bruce, and we know what _he_ is when he thinks he’s being robbed.”
“I’ve heard your story, Phelim, now for mine. I met Mr. Bruce, who’d
been shooting wild horses. He asked me what I was doing _on his run_—he
spoke rather shortly. I told him I was looking for my cob, and that I
believed it was Crown land, open to all. He then asked me to describe
the cob, and telling me it was in his paddock, invited me to stay at
Marondah all night, where I was most hospitably treated. He proposed to
ride part of the way back with me, and for Mrs. Bruce and his
sister-in-law to accompany us.”
“That’s Miss Imogen,” said O’Hara. “Isn’t she the beauty of the world?
And ride! There isn’t a stockrider from this to Omeo that she couldn’t
lose in mountain country. Mrs. Bruce rides well too, I’m told.”
“Yes, indeed; we rounded up a mob of cattle. Miss Imogen ‘wheeled’ them
at the start. Black Paddy, who had been brought to lead the cob, was on
the other wing. After that they began to ‘ring,’ and stopped. Then Mr.
Bruce, looking through them, unfortunately saw one of the ‘E. H. B.’
bullocks with a strange brand newly put on. ‘That bullock’s been
yarded,’ he said, ‘and the brand “J. C.” has been put on in a crush.’ I
said nothing. Paddy came with me as far as the cattle track, by the
creek that leads to the claim. I remembered that. Then he gave me the
cob, and I came on. Now you have the whole story. I did not say where I
had come from, nor did Mr. Bruce question me. Of course I put two and
two together about the fat cattle. But I said nothing. I have eaten your
salt, and Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life.”
“Then you didn’t give us away,” said O’Hara, “or say where we was
camped, or tell our names? O’Hara’s not a good one, more’s the pity,”
and here the big mountaineer looked regretful, even repentant over the
past.
“No! not by a word. As luck would have it, Mr. Bruce did not ask me
where or with whom I had been living.”
“And what brought you back here? Wouldn’t it have been easy enough to
clear away down the river, and get shut of us, for good and all?”
“Easy enough, and to have gone down river by steamer. But I wanted to
warn you in time. I knew Mr. Bruce suspected that there were diggers
hereabouts that knew about the fat cattle he missed. So I came to give
you fair warning. Where are the others?”
“They’ve cleared out. I don’t think they’ll be seen in a hurry, this
side anyhow. They’ve packed all they wanted, and sent word to some of
their pals to come and collar the rest. They can’t be pulled for that.
There’s a few ounces of gold coming to you, and the ‘clean up’ was the
best we’ve had. Here it is.” And suiting the action to the word, he
pulled out from a leather pouch a wash-leather bag which, for its size,
felt heavy.
“Keep it, Phelim, I won’t take a penny of it. I learned a good deal
while I was with you, and shall always be pleased to think that I worked
with _men_, and could hold my own among them.”
“You’re a gentleman, sir, and we’ll always uphold you as one, no matter
what happens to us. We’re not bad chaps in our way, though things has
gone against us. What’ll you do now? Camp here to-night? No? Then I’ll
ride with you past ‘Razor Back’; you’ll have light then and the road’s
under your feet. You’d better take my horse till we pass ‘Razor Back.’
_He_ won’t boggle at it if it was twice as narrow.”
It did not take long to pack all that was strictly necessary, which
alone Mr. Blount decided to take with him. After which O’Hara boiled the
billy, and produced a decent meal, which Mr. Blount, having tasted
nothing since breakfast, did justice to. No time was lost then, and
O’Hara leading off with the cob started at a canter, with which Blount
on his horse found no difficulty in keeping up. The contract was
performed, they safely negotiated the perilous pass, the mountain horse
treading as securely and safely as on a macadamised high road, and the
cob going very differently with a different rider. He was then
bestridden by his lawful owner, who prepared to make good time into
Bunjil. The moon was rising, when the men—so strangely met, and
associated—parted. Blount held out his hand, which the other grasped
with unconsciously crushing force. Then the mountaineer quitted the
road, and plunging down the steep into the darksome forest, disappeared
from sight.
* * * * *
Bunjil township was reached before midnight. There had been the local
excitement of an improvised race meeting, the head prize being a bridle
and saddle; the Consolation Stakes boasted a silver-mounted whip,
generously presented by the respected host of the Bunjil Hotel. So that
Mr. Blount, whose train of thought for the last hour or two wavered
between encouragement and depression, as he dreaded the inn being shut,
the ostler asleep, the fire out and the girl gone to bed, felt reassured
as he heard voices and saw lights, indicative of cheery wakefulness. By
good luck, too, the best bedroom and the parlour were unoccupied. Sheila
promised a fire in the latter apartment and tea ready in less than no
time. The ostler took the cob to a loose box, just vacated, while Mr.
Blount having deposited his “swag” in the bedroom and made all ready for
a solid meal, and a royal toasting of his person before the fire of
logs, felt quite a glow of happiness.
On re-entering the parlour he was warmly welcomed by Sheila, who indeed
was so unaffectedly cordial in hailing his safe return, that the guest
concluded that there must have been reason for conjecturing that the
reverse might have occurred.
As she greeted him with natural unstudied welcome, he could not resist
taking both her hands in his, and shaking them with a warmth
corresponding with her feeling of gratitude at his safe return from
apparently unknown and mysterious dangers. The girl blushed and
disengaged her hands, but showed no discomposure as she said, “We didn’t
know but something might have happened to you, out in that wild place,
and Little-River-Jack said you had a narrow escape on ‘Razor Back,’ as
your cob got frightened and might have gone over the downfall like Paddy
Farrell. Then Dick came along, he sold out his share to you, didn’t he?
And he got on the spree for a day or two and let out a few things that
he’d better have kept to himself. So taking it altogether, we’re all
glad, Mr. Middleton, the missis, and me too, that you’re back safe and
sound.”
While the latter part of this dialogue was proceeding, Mr. Blount had
seated himself at the table with his back to the fire, and made a
frontal attack upon a broiled steak flanked by a dish of floury
potatoes, which told of the sharpening effect on the appetite of a long
day in the saddle, and the stimulation of a night journey with two
degrees of frost.
“You had better take away these dishes, Sheila, or I shall never stop
eating. I think, however, that I can hold out till breakfast, now we
have got so far.”
About this time the landlord appeared, blandly apologetic for delay, but
pleading the necessity for being in the bar while there were so many
“gents” round anxious to go home on good terms with themselves.
“More likely to run against a fence, or the bough of a tree,” said
Sheila, who had now rejoined the party, “that’s the sort of ‘good terms
with themselves,’ that’s the fashion, Bunjil way. I wonder there’s not
more legs and arms broken than there are.”
“Why, it’s a good month since you left us, Mr. Blount,” said the
landlord, cheerily unheeding the maid’s moral reflections. “The Sergeant
was here a day or two back, and asked after you—Little-River-Jack came
last week, and talked of going away unless things mended. He billed
Stubbins for a quarter of beef he owed him, and they had a row, and got
to fighting over it.”
“How did that come off?” queried the guest, dallying with his second cup
of tea, and a plate of buttered toast. “Jack’s rather a light weight.”
“So he is—but he can use his hands, and he’s that active he takes a lot
of beating. Well, the butcher at Green Point is a couple of stone
heavier, and fancies himself a bit. He says, ‘You’d better summon me,
Jack!’ We all knew what that meant.”
“You’re takin’ a mean advantage,” says Jack, “it’s a cowardly thing to
do. But I’ll tell you what, if you’re man enough, I’ll fight you for
it—it’s a matter of four notes—five and twenty shillings a hundred—are
you on?”
“All right!” says the Green Point chap; “so they stripped to it, and had
a regular ding-dong go in. The butcher seemed to have the best of it at
first, but Jack wore him out, hittin’ and gettin’ away, and dancin’
round him—all them tricks. At last he bunged up his eyes and nearly
blinded him, they say. Then Jack went in and finished him; what with
loss of wind, and the punishment he got, the butcher was clean knocked
out afore the tenth round. So he didn’t come to time, and the referee
gave it against him. Jack got the four notes and cleared—the butcher
paid up honourable—but he couldn’t show outside the shop for a fortnight
afterwards.”
“A capital stand-up fight, I’m sure. I should like to have been there to
see it. And now, I think I’ll turn in. I’m a bit tired, and dead sleepy.
Good-night, Mr. Middleton, good-night, Sheila! I’ll have breakfast at
nine o’clock, please, bacon and eggs is my present fancy. I’ll stay in
Bunjil a few days and loaf for a change.”
* * * * *
If there is anything in life more conducive to happiness than waking at
dawn in the country, assured of comfort, free from anxiety and relieved
from duty, few people have experienced it.
And nowhere can the rare luxury of the conditions be more fully savoured
than in Australia. Mr. Blount was firmly of this opinion, as in virtue
of his late habitudes, the birds’ wild melody awoke him, as the first
dawnlight tinged the grey, reluctant East.
However, on reflection he decided to take another hour’s repose, while
all things were favourable to such indulgence.
Then, between sleeping and waking, he dozed deliciously until half-past
seven, when he sallied forth, towel in hand, to the creek bank. In the
garden was a rude, but competent bath-house, from which he was enabled
to plunge into the ice-cold stream.
Truth to tell, he did not make a lengthened stay therein, the mercury
being little, if anything, above freezing point, but devoted himself to
a complete and conscientious scrubbing with the rough towel, at the
conclusion of which, he found that a delicious glow had rewarded his
efforts, and the praiseworthy self-denial of the cold-colder-coldest
bath he had taken as a daily custom, ever since he could remember. It is
the after taste, which, as in other matters, is so truly luxurious.
Running back to the house, he saw that his expectation of a full-sized,
first-class fire in the breakfast room had been realised. After warming
himself at this, he attacked the serious business of dressing for the
day, which he pursued with such diligence that he was ready for the
bacon and eggs, before referred to, as nearly as possible at the
appropriate hour.
“Got you a good fire, you see,” remarked Sheila, who, smiling and rosy
as the morn, stood in attendance. “Hope you slept well. My word! we got
an awful start, didn’t know what was going to happen, when Senior
Constable Moore came here the day before yesterday to get warrants for
Little-River-Jack (_alias_ John Carter), Phelim O’Hara, his brother
Patrick, and also a man working in the claim, known as Jack Blunt, and
one ‘Tumberumba Dick.’ Asked me and Mr. Middleton a lot of questions.”
“And what did you say?”
“We didn’t know much, or say much either, if it comes to that. Yes! knew
that Little-River-Jack passed through here now and again. Where he went
to—couldn’t say—hadn’t seen him lately. Heard the O’Haras were working
miners from Queensland or Gippsland—only seen them once. Tumberumba Dick
stayed a day or two here last week, and got on the spree rather. Said
he’d sold his share to Jack Blunt, and was clearing out for West
Australia. Little-River-Jack was a butcher, and supplied the small
diggings.”
“What did they ask about Jack Blunt, eh?”
“Oh! a lot. What was he like?—how was he dressed?”
“Tall and dark” (I said), “not bad-looking.” Here Mr. Blount bowed.
“Dressed like any other gentleman travelling for pleasure. Rough tweed
suit and leggings. Left a few things here. Went away a month ago, with
Little-River-Jack.”
“What for—did he say?” the Senior Constable asked.
“Yes! he talked quite free and open. Said he wanted to see the
country—what gold-diggings were like, and all that. Jack promised to
show him a regular mountain claim—the ‘Lady Julia.’ Tumberumba Dick when
he came by, said ‘he’d sold his share to him for £20. He was full up of
mountain claims, was clearing out for West Australia, where there were
big rises to be made.’”
“Why didn’t they serve warrants, then?”
“The Senior Constable had a long talk with our old Sergeant—he’s retired
now, but everybody puts great faith in him.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“No—but it came out that the Sergeant told him to be careful about
arresting men on suspicion—there was no direct evidence (those were the
words) against any of the men named. Nobody could swear to their having
been seen taking or branding cattle. Those who knew the O’Haras spoke of
them as hardworking diggers—who sold their gold to Little-River-Jack or
got him to sell it for them. As for Jack Blunt they said—” here the
speaker hesitated.
“Well, what did they say about him?”
“I hardly like to tell you, sir.”
“Oh! come, out with it. What does it matter?”
“Well, sir”—the girl smiled mischievously—“they said—(that is Tumberumba
Dick told some one, who told some one else), that you were a harmless
‘New Chum,’ that hardly knew a cow from a calf, and couldn’t have
‘duffed’ a bullock off a range, if you’d tried for a year.”
“Very complimentary indeed, I must say. So everybody’s honest in this
country who can’t ride—eh?”
“Well, yes, sir—about cattle; with sheep it’s different.”
“I see—never struck me before. I’m glad my honesty is undoubted in a
cattle district, because I can’t gallop down a range. They don’t fine or
imprison for bad riding, I suppose—_yet_. And so you stood up for me,
Sheila, didn’t you?”
“How did you know that, sir?”
“Why, of course you did. I knew you would because we’ve always been
friends. Besides, I saw you looking after me warningly the day I went
away with Jack Carter.”
“I know I did,” said the girl, impetuously. “I had a great mind to say
all I knew, and tell you to have nothing to do with him or his mates.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“Well, you were so set upon going, and it wasn’t for a girl like me to
advise a gentleman of your sort.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Every one is as good as any one else in
Australia. So the papers say, at any rate.”
“Nothing of the sort. A gentleman is a gentleman, and a servant girl a
servant in Australia; all over the world, if it comes to that. I don’t
hold with this democratic rot. All the same, there’s nothing to prevent
you and me having a talk now and then, as long as we keep our places.”
“I should think not,” he rejoined, “and though I might have got into a
serious difficulty through Carter’s introductions, I’m not sorry, on the
whole, that I went with him, the experience was most interesting.”
“That means you saw somebody. Who was _she_, I wonder? Men are all
alike, gentle and simple. I believe I could give a guess, as we heard
you went down the river.”
To this day Blount declares that he never enjoyed a better meal; he
certainly never had a better appetite. And as the sun rising higher in
the heavens irradiated the meadows, the hurrying water of the creek, the
brilliant green of the opening buds of the great elms and poplars that
fringed that streamlet, he admitted that the landscape was almost worthy
of the memorable meal.
After a leisurely assimilation of the journals of the day, and a smoke
in the verandah, he ordered the cob to be brought round, being of
opinion that gentle exercise would be advantageous to his legs, which
the last day’s work might have tried unfairly. They certainly had
puffed, but there was no sign of lameness, and his owner decided that
daily exercise would meet the complaint. Hearing that the Sergeant was
at home he resolved to look up that gallant officer, and gather from him
what rumour had asserted as to Little-River-Jack, the O’Haras, Mr.
Bruce, and lastly himself, if rumours there were.
He found the ex-guardian of the peace, and, so to speak, warden of the
marches, weeding his garden, a trim, well-ordered plot, which, like the
remainder of his little property, was a standing object lesson to the
surrounding homesteads. Putting down his hoe, the veteran advanced with
an air of great cordiality, and welcomed him.
“Sae you have won back frae the Debatable Land, as they ca’ed Nicol
Forest in my youth. There have been wars, and rumours o’ wars, but the
week past; warrants to be issued for Phelim and Patrick O’Hara, and one
Little-River-Jack (went by the name of John Carter), forbye ‘Tumberumba
Dick,’ and a man known as Jack Blunt (_alias_ Valentine Blount) seen in
company with the above on the 20th of August last. Ay! it was openly
said, and I was lookin’ to see you arrive, maybe with the bracelets on.
What think ye of that?”
“That I should have had good cause of action for false imprisonment,”
answered the tourist. “But why didn’t they issue the warrants?”
“Maybe they were no that sure aboot the evidence. There’s neecessity, ye
ken, that there should be full and aample proof in thae ‘duffing’ cases,
as the country people ca’ them. A bush jury winna convict as lang’s
there a link short o’ the Crown Prosecutor’s chain o’ evidence.”
“And was there? I feel personally much obliged to the Department of
Justice for their scruples, which do them honour.”
“Weel, ye ken, though Mr. Bruce o’ Marondah deposed on aith that he saw
an E.H.B. bullock, his property, with a J.C. brand put freshly on, there
was nae witness who saw John Carter or any ither carle do it or the
like. He missed cattle, sure enough, and Black Paddy led him and two
troopers to a deserted claim known as the ‘Lady Julia,’ near which was a
stockyaird wi’ fresh cattle tracks baith in and oot. They didna gang in
their lane. A’body kens that. But wha saw them gang in or gang oot?
Strong presumption, clear circumstantial evidence, but next to nae
proof. Sae the airm of the law was stayed—a great peety, wasna it?”
“Really, it seems like it. Fine paragraphs, lost to the local press.
Capture of cattle-stealers, a leading butcher implicated. A gentleman
lately from England arrested. Damages laid by him for false imprisonment
at £10,000. Really, I might have bought a station with the money, and
been rich and respected. Many a big squatter, Dick told me, had begun
that way, but he _had_ stolen the cattle or sheep, and served sentence
for it, before he turned his talents to better purpose.”
“Dick’s no to lippen to,” replied the Sergeant, “nor nane o’ thae kind
o’ folk. They’ll tell lees by the bushel, gin ye stay to believe them.
When a’s said and done, laddie, ye’re well oot o’ it. Ye’ll maybe tak’
heed o’ chance companions anither time.”
“Very possibly, Sergeant. It does appear as if I had been a trifle
imprudent. I must curb my spirit of adventure, which has led me astray
before now. I nearly got shot in Spain through joining a band of
smugglers, they were such joyous dogs; and Manuela—ah! what eyes! what a
figure! It was rash, no doubt, I must ask for references, another time.
Ha! Ha!”
Mr. Blount treated the escape which he perceived he had narrowly missed
of being hauled before the bar of justice, with apparent levity, but in
his own mind, he was conscious that affairs might have taken a
permanently disagreeable turn, and seriously compromised him socially,
however it ended. What would the Bruce family think of him? What could
Imogen believe? Either that he shared the ill-gotten gains of the
O’Haras and their associates, or that he was so inconceivably dense, and
unsuspicious that any amount of dishonesty might go on before his face,
without his being aware of it. On either assumption, he was between the
horns of a dilemma. Adjudged guilty of folly, or dishonesty. His
vexation was extreme. However, he exhibited no outward signs of remorse,
and concluded his visit by thanking the Sergeant for his information,
and begging him to join him at dinner if he had no lingering suspicion
of his moral character.
“Na! na! I’d pit ma haill trust in thee, if matters luikit as black
again. The glint in thae grey ’een werena given thee for naught; we’ll
hae mair cracks before a’s said and done; the spring’s to be airly, I’m
thinking.”
The season was more advanced than when Blount first entered Bunjil, the
warmer weather had made it apparent that “the year had turned.” The
meadow grasses had grown and burgeoned, the English trees always planted
near the older settlements in Australia, many of them the growth of half
a century, were nearly full leaved, putting to shame with their
brilliant colouring, and opulent shade, the duller hues of the primeval
forest. The water-fowl in flocks flew and dived and swam in the great
lagoons, which marked the ancient course of the river. The cattle and
horses browsing in the lanes and vacant spaces, were sleek of skin, and
fair to behold. All nature spoke of abundance of pasture. In this
fertile valley there was no hint of the scarcity, which once, at any
rate, within the recollection of men then living had been known to
overspread the land: when this very spot, now running over with
plenteousness, the vine, the olive, the fig, peaches, and plums, apples,
and pears, in full leaf and promise of fruit, was bare and adust, the
creek even dry, between the great water-holes, for half a mile at a
stretch.
Mr. Blount on returning from his ride found a large assortment of
letters and newspapers awaiting him. Among them was a telegram marked
_Urgent_. This bore the postmark of a neighbouring colony and had been
forwarded by private messenger, at some expense. Thus ran the magic
message:—“Hobart, 20th. Come over at once. No delay. Great news. Credit
unlimited, Imperial Bank, Melbourne.”
Walking straight into his bedroom, he threw the letters on to the
counterpane of his bed, and drawing forward a chair, proceeded to open
his correspondence seriatim. After noting date and signature, he
returned the greater portion of them to their envelopes, postponing
fuller examination to a more convenient season. The last two, which bore
the postmark of the nearest post-office to Marondah, he retained. Of its
name he was aware, having heard the ladies asking that the post-bag
should be delayed for a few minutes on account of their unfinished
letters.
He did not linger over the first, addressed in a strong, clear,
masculine hand. There was no difficulty in mastering its tone and tenor.
“SIR,—I feel justly indignant that I should have extended hospitality to
a person who, while assuming the outward appearance of a gentleman, has
proved by his conduct to be unworthy of recognition as such.
“As an associate of the O’Hara brothers and two others, who, under
pretence of mining, have in concert with a well-known gang of cattle
stealers, preyed on my herd and those of neighbouring stations, for the
last two years, you have laid yourself open to grave suspicion. I cannot
be expected to believe that you were, although a new arrival, so
unsuspicious as to have no knowledge of their dishonest ways. In a
stockyard near the claim, branding as well as concealment of stolen
cattle had been carried on.
“You were present when I pointed out my E. H. B. bullock, on which a new
brand had been recently placed. You knew that I suspected dishonesty in
that neighbourhood. Was it not your plain duty to have informed me of
any suspicious proceedings? Not only did you fail to do so, but, while
accepting my hospitality, you suppressed the fact of your living as a
mining mate with the O’Hara brothers, and other suspicious characters,
as well as that the notorious ‘Little-River-Jack’ was a member of the
same precious company. I believe that warrants have been applied for at
the instance of one of my neighbours. Should you find that you are
included in the arrest, you will only have yourself to thank for
incredible folly, or criminal carelessness, as to the distinction
between _meum_ and _tuum_.
“I remain, faithfully yours,
“E. HAMILTON BRUCE.”
“Very faithfully, indeed,” quoth the recipient of this plain-spoken
epistle. “Under the circumstances I don’t wonder at the wrath of this
Squire of the South. It is but too natural. Fancy a game-preserving
English country gentleman, discovering that a recent guest, free of
croquet and morning walks with his charming wife and daughters, had been
sojourning with poachers—partaking, peradventure, of his host’s own
stolen pheasants! ‘Six months’ hard’ would have been the least, and
lightest penalty, that he would have dropped in for, and but for having
a friend or two at court, or out of it, Valentine Blount, late of Her
Majesty’s F.O., by courtesy the Honourable, and so forth, might have
‘done time’ for the heinous offence of having concealed on his person
certain beefsteaks and portions of the ‘undercut’ for the possession of
which he could give no reasonable account—moreover defied the peace
officer to take them from him. This of course is bordering upon a joke,
and a very keen jest it was like to have been. Maybe yet, for all I
know. What d—d fools men are sometimes! This I take to be a feminine
superscription—the contents less logical, and perhaps—_perhaps_
only—more emotional, and less lenient of sentence. I wonder what Mrs.
Bruce and the fair Imogen think of the agreeable stranger (I have been
thus described, ere now), who tarried within their gates. I feel
distinctly nervous, however.”
Here Mr. Blount carefully opened the envelope, and was slightly
reassured by the “Dear Mr. Blount” which introduced the subject-matter.
“We are afraid, Imogen and I, that Edward has written you an extremely
disagreeable, not to say threatening letter. He was furiously angry,
would hear neither reason nor explanation, when the O’Hara stockyard
mystery was unveiled. You _must_ confess that explanation _was_
difficult, not to say embarrassing for your friends. _We_ are certain
that there has been some great mistake which needs clearing up without
delay. It will never do for you to lie under this accusation—false as we
believe it to be—of living with dishonest people, and with the knowledge
of their malpractices; of course, you may not know that no men are more
artful in hiding their true characters than our bush cattle and horse
thieves (or ‘duffers’) to use a vulgar expression. They are _not_ coarse
ruffians—on the contrary very well-mannered, hospitable, even polite,
when compared with the labourers of other lands; good-natured, and most
obliging, outside of their ‘profession.’ Indeed I heard a story from a
nice old priest, that visited our station, when I was a girl, which
explains much. A bushman was dilating on the noble qualities of a
comrade. ‘Jack’s the best-hearted chap going; good-natured? why, he’d
lend you his best horse, if you was stuck for one on the road. If he
hadn’t a horse handy, why, he’d _shake_ one for you, rather than let you
leave the place afoot!’ Of course the situation _looks_ bad, on the face
of it, but Imogen and I will _never_ believe anything against your
honour. You have a friend at court, perhaps two.” Besides this—there was
a tiny scrap inside the envelope, apparently pushed in _after_ the
letter had been closed.
“Don’t believe you _knew_ anything.—IMOGEN.”
Mr. Blount read this soothing epistle twice over and put away the scrap
in his pocket-book very carefully. Having done this, he sat down and
wrote hard until summoned to lunch, after which he packed up carefully
all his belongings, leaving out only such as might be wanted for an
early morning start. He was more grave than usual at that comfortable
meal, and it was with an effort that he replied to Sheila’s query
whether he’d received bad news.
“Not bad, no! only important, which comes almost to the same thing. You
have to think over plans and make up your mind, perhaps, to start off at
a moment’s warning, which is always distressing.”
“Oh! nonsense,” said Sheila, who seemed in better spirits than usual. “I
often wish I were a man; how I would wire in when there was anything to
do, even if it was only _half_ good. Men do too much thinking, I
believe. If they’d only ride hard at the fence, whatever it is, they’d
get over, or through it, and have a clear run for their money.”
“But suppose they came a cropper and broke a leg, an arm, or their neck,
as I see one of your steeplechase riders did at Flemington the other
day, what then?”
“Oh! a man must die some time,” replied the cheerful damsel, who looked
indeed the personification of high health, abounding spirits, and as
much courage as can be shown by a woman without indiscretion, “and you
get through nine times out of ten: the great thing is to go at it
straight. ‘Kindness in another’s woes, courage in your own,’ that’s what
Gordon says.”
“Who is Gordon, may I ask?”
“Why, Adam Lindsay, of course, our Australian poet. Haven’t you heard of
him? I thought everybody had.”
“And do you read him?”
“Yes. Every Australian man, woman, and child, if they’re old enough,
knows him by heart.”
“I think I’ve caught the name. Was he born here?”
“Is he dead? Perhaps you’ve heard of Mark Twain?” said Sheila
scornfully, who seemed to be in rather a reckless humour. “Well! he is.
No! he was not born here, more’s the pity, for he knows us cornstalks
better than we know ourselves. He was the son of a British officer, the
family’s Scotch. I’m half Scotch, that’s partly why I am so proud of
him. But it would have been all the same whatever country owned him. I
find my tongue’s running away with me, as usual—the unruly member, as
the Bible says. But you take my tip, Mr. Blount, ‘never change your mind
when you pick your panel’ (that’s Gordon again), it’s the real straight
griffin, with horse or man.”
“This _is_ a wonderful country, and you’re a wonderful young woman. I
haven’t time to analyse you, just now, for my affairs, which I had
intended to treat to a short holiday, are conspiring to hurry me up. At
what hour can I leave in the morning?”
“To-morrow?” said the girl, and her face changed. “You don’t mean to say
you’re going away to-morrow?”
“Sorry to say I must; you saw that I got a telegram, and if I don’t
_clear_, as your people say, I may lose thousands, perhaps a fortune.”
“The coach goes at six, sharp; and gets to the railway-station at the
same hour the next morning. You’d like breakfast first, I suppose?”
“It’s too early to ask you to have it ready—anything will do.”
“Oh! I daresay. You’ve had some decent meals here, haven’t you?”
“Never better in my life.”
“Well, you’ll go away to-morrow, fit and ready for as long a day’s work
as ever you did. It’s almost a pity you’re having the Sergeant to dine.
However, he’ll not stay late. I’ll send over and take your coach
tickets. You’d better have everything packed and ready this afternoon.
Cobb and Co. wait for nothing and nobody.”
“There’s no doubt (Mr. Blount told himself) that the conditions of life
in Her Majesty’s colonies tend to the development of the individual with
a completeness undreamed of in our narrow and perhaps slightly
prejudiced insular life. What a difference there is between this young
woman and a girl of her rank of life in any part of Britain. What
energy, intelligence, organising power she has; I feel certain that she
could rally a wavering regiment on a pinch, drive a coach, ride a race,
or swim a river, in fact do all sorts of things, as well as, ay, better
than, the ordinary man. This is going to be a great country, and the
Australians a great people—arts of war and peace, and so on. How
good-looking she is, too,” concluding his reflections with this profound
observation, which showed that in spite of his subjective turn of mind,
the primary emotions still held sway.
Mr. Blount betook himself to his packing with such concentration, that
by the time he had finished his letters, nothing remained of his
impedimenta, but such as could be easily carried out and packed in the
coach, while he was finishing a distinctly early breakfast.
These said letters required much thought and preparation, it would
appear. First there was a vitally necessary answer to Mr. Bruce’s
warlike communication. To this he concluded to reply as follows:
“BUNJIL HOTEL, _September_—.
“DEAR SIR,—While fully admitting that appearances are against me, I
think that you might with propriety have suspended judgment, if not
until the offences charged against me were proved, or, at least, until
you had heard my explanation, which I give seriatim.
“No. 1. As a matter of fact, I did live with the O’Haras and two other
men on the ‘Lady Julia’ claim. They were hardworking, and well-conducted
miners. For all that I saw, they might have been the most honest men in
Australia. I knew that cattle were brought to the stockyard late, and
taken away early. I judged it to be the custom of the country, and
accepted their statement that they were bought and sold in the ordinary
way. I was cautioned not to go near the yard for fear of frightening
them. I did not see a brand, or look for one—nor should I have known its
significance if I had. As to the O’Haras, and their ‘mates,’ whatever
might have been their previous history, no men could have worked harder,
or more regularly; they could not have _actively_ assisted in the cattle
trade without my noticing it.
“No. 2. That I did not inform you of my position in the claim.
“It would certainly appear to have been my duty so to do under ordinary
circumstances, after I knew of your suspicions. But the circumstances
were _not_ ordinary.
“And the question arises, Should I have been justified in betraying—for
that would have been the nature of the act—the _suspicious_, merely
suspicious circumstances, which I observed during my involuntary
comradeship with these men? I had eaten their salt, been treated with
respect, and in all good faith shared their confidences. Moreover—and
this is the strongest point in my defence—the man known as
Little-River-Jack—of his real name, of course, I am ignorant—certainly
_saved my life_, on the dizzy and narrow pass, known locally as ‘Razor
Back’—of that I feel as certain as that I am writing at this table. In
another moment, my frightened horse, unused to mountain travelling,
would have assuredly fallen, or thrown himself over the precipice, which
yawned on either side of him, while I was equally unable either to
control him or to dismount. By this bushman’s extraordinary quickness
and resource, I was enabled to do both. Was I to give information which
would have driven him into the hands of the police?
“As a citizen, I may have been bound to assist the cause of justice. But
as a _man_, I felt that I could not bring myself to do so.
“3. For the rest, I dissociated myself without more delay than was
absolutely necessary to collect my effects, and return the borrowed
horse, from such compromising company. I was offered my ‘share’—not a
very small amount—of the last gold won, but declined it, and riding
late, reached this hotel at midnight of the day we parted. I heard that
the senior constable of the nearest police station had instructions to
take out warrants for the persons referred to, including _myself_, but,
from some alleged defect in the evidence, that course was not persevered
with.
“Circumstances (wholly unconnected with this unfortunate affair) compel
me to leave to-morrow morning for Tasmania. I have entered fully into
the ‘case for the defendant.’ If the jury consisting of yourself, with
your amiable wife and her sister—whose kindness I can never forget, and
on whose mercy I rely—do not acquit me of all evil intent, I can only
hope that time may provide the means of my complete rehabilitation.
Meanwhile I can subscribe myself with a clear conscience,
“Yours sincerely,
“VALENTINE BLOUNT.”
Having with much thought, and apparent labour, concocted this
conciliatory epistle, of which he much doubted the effect, he commenced
another which apparently did not need the same strain upon the mental
faculties. This was addressed to Mrs. E. Hamilton Bruce, Marondah, Upper
Sturt, and thus commenced:
“DEAR MRS. BRUCE,—To say that for your kind and considerate letter I
feel most deeply grateful, would be to understate my mental condition
lamentably. After reading Mr. Bruce’s letter, it seemed as if the whole
world was against me; and, conscious as I was of entire innocence,
except of an act of egregious folly (not the first one, I may confess,
which a sanguine temperament and a constitutional disregard of caution
have placed to my account), my spirits were lowered to the level of
despair. There seemed no escape from the dilemma in which I found
myself.
“I stood convicted of egregious folly, or dishonour, with the sin of
ingratitude thrown in. I could not wonder at the harsh tone of your
husband’s letter. What must he—what must you all—think of me? was the
inexorable query. Suicide seemed the only refuge. Moral _felo-de-se_ had
already been committed.
“At this juncture I re-read your letter, for which I shall never cease
to bless the writer, and, may I add, the probable sympathiser? Hope
again held up her torch, angel bright, if but with a wavering gleam. I
regained courage for a rational outlook. I think I gave a sketch of my
imminent peril and the rescuer to Miss Imogen, as we rode away from
Marondah on that lovely morning. Her commentary was that it was not
unlike an incident in _Anne of Geierstein_, except that the heroine was
the deliverer in that case. We agreed, I think, in rating the book as
one of the best in the immortal series.
“I have fully explained the position in which I stand, to Mr. Bruce in
my letter, which you will doubtless see, so I need not recapitulate. I
have been recalled on important business (unconnected with this
regrettable affair) to Hobart, for which city I leave early to-morrow.
Meanwhile, I trust that all doubts connected with my inconsistent
conduct will be cleared up with the least possible delay.
“In which fullest expectation,
“I remain,
“Very gratefully yours,
“VALENTINE BLOUNT.”
The writer of these important letters, after having carefully sealed
them, made assurance doubly sure by walking to the post-office, and
placing them with his own hands in the receptacle for such letters
provided. He further introduced himself to the acting postmaster, and
ascertained that all correspondence—his own included—which were
addressed to the vicinity of Bunjil, would be forwarded next morning
soon after daylight, reaching their destination early on the following
morning. “It’s only a horse mail,” said that official, “the bags are
carried on a pack-horse. But Jack Doyle’s a steady lad, and always keeps
good time—better, for that matter, than some of the coach-contractors.”
The rest of Mr. Blount’s correspondence was apparently easily disposed
of, some being granted short replies, some being placed in a convenient
bag, and others unfeelingly committed to the flames. About the time when
the Sergeant and dinner arrived, Mr. Blount held himself to be in a
position of comparative freedom from care, having all his arrangements
made, and, except Fate stepped in with special malignity, everything in
train for a successful conclusion to a complicated, unsatisfactory
beginning. His city address was left with the acting postmaster
aforesaid; all letters, papers, &c., were to be forwarded to Valentine
Blount, Esq., Imperial Club, Melbourne.
He would probably return in three weeks or a month; if not, full
directions would be forwarded by his agent.
The dinner was quite up to the other efforts of the Bunjil Hotel _chef_,
an expatriated artist whom advanced political opinions had caused to
abandon “la belle France.” So _he_ said, amid the confessions, indirect
or otherwise, made during his annual “break-out.” But his cookery was
held to confirm that part of his statement, as well as a boast that he
had been _chef_ at the Hôtel du Louvre in Paris. Whatever doubt might be
cast on his statements and previous history, as related by himself, no
one had ever dreamed of disparaging his cookery. This being the case,
and the time wanting nearly three months to Christmas, which was the
extreme limit of his enforced sobriety, neither Mr. Blount nor any one
else could have complained of the banquet.
Nor was “the flow of soul” wanting. The Sergeant was less didactic than
usual; he drew on his reminiscences more and more freely as the evening
grew late, and the landlord contributed his quota, by no means without
pith or point, to the hilarity of the entertainment. The Sergeant,
however, completely eclipsed the other _convives_ by a choice experience
drawn from his memory wallet, as he turned out that receptacle of “tales
of mystery and fear,” which decided the landlord and his guest to “see
him home” at the conclusion of the repast.
This duty having been completed, Mr. Blount was moved to remark upon the
fineness of the night. It was certainly curiously mild and still. “Quite
like spring weather.”
Mr. Middleton looked up and expressed himself doubtfully as to its
continuance. “It’s too warm to be natural, sir,” he said, “and if I was
asked my opinion, I’d say we’re not far from a burst up, either wind or
rain, I don’t say which, a good way out of the common. If you’re in a
hurry to get to Melbourne, you were right to take your passage by Cobb
and Co., or you might not get away for a week.”
“I wouldn’t lose a week just now for a hundred pounds.”
“Well, of course, it’s hard to say, but if the creeks and rivers come
down, as I’ve seen ’em in a spring flood, and we’re close on the time
now, there’ll be no getting to Warongah in a week, or perhaps a
fortnight on top of that. But I think, if you get off to-morrow morning,
you’ll just do it, and that’s all.”
When they returned all traces of the symposium had been removed, and the
cloth laid ready for the early breakfast, which Blount trusted nothing
would occur to prevent him from consuming.
On the plate at the head of the table, near the fire-place, was a
half-sheet of notepaper, on which was written in bold characters:
“DEAR SIR,—The groom will call you at five sharp, breakfast at 5.30.
Coach leaves at six. I’ve got you the box seat.
“Yours truly,
“SHEILA.”
“That’s a fine girl,” said the landlord, “she’s got ‘savey’ enough for a
dozen women; and as for work, it’s meat and drink to her. The missus is
afraid she’ll knock herself out, and then we’ll be teetotally ruined and
done for. I hope she won’t throw herself away on some scallowag or
other.”
“Yes! it would be a pity. I take quite an interest in her. But she has
too much sense for that, surely?”
“I don’t know,” answered the landlord, gloomily, “the more sense a woman
has, the likelier she is to fancy a fool, if he’s good-looking, that’s
my tip. Good-night, sir. I’ll be up and see you off. Old George will
call you.”
“Oh! I shall be up and ready, thank you.”
The landlord, however, having exceptional opportunities of studying
human nature, warned old George to have the gentleman up at 5 a.m.
sharp, which in result was just as well. For Blount being too excited
from various causes to sleep, had tossed and tumbled about till 3 a.m.,
when he dropped into a refreshing slumber, so sound that George’s
rat-tat-tat, vigorous and continued on his bedroom door, caused him to
dream that all the police of the district, headed by Mr. Bruce and Black
Paddy, had come to arrest him, and were battering down the hotel in
order to effect a capture.