“Time and Tide had thus their sway,
Yielding, like an April day,
Smiling morn for sullen morrow,
Years of joy for hours of sorrow.”—_Scott._
There is no need to write John Redgrave’s history for the next three
years. It was a time of hard and continuous struggle, large successes
and exasperating failures; his stock increased largely, but there was
great difficulty in transporting droves of cattle to the nearest market;
plenty of water for sheep, and no danger of floods or droughts, but it
was not easy at such an out-station as this to get sufficient labour in
shearing-time, and the great distance the wool had to be conveyed took
off much of the profits. Moreover, Jack could not make up his mind that
it would be right to bring Maud into such a wilderness, with no
neighbours but the blacks, who, though they had shown no hostility to
Jack, were not to be trusted. He had written to Maud at first, full of
hope and confident of success, and she, dear girl, had been willing to
share with him the rudest log hut; but as time went on he felt how
impossible it was that he should bring her to be the light of his home
before he had made that home fit to receive her.
In his solitary hours, in the silence of his small dwelling-place, he
bitterly regretted having left Marshmead. It was possible that he might
become a very rich man if he lived to be old, but meantime his youth was
going by, and happiness along with it.
But time had good things in store yet for the brave man whose courageous
spirit had never suffered more than a temporary depression. On one of
his visits to the town of —— to buy some of the multitudinous articles
required on a large station, he learnt from an old acquaintance who was
there on the same errand that Donald McDonald, who had bought Marshmead,
had expressed a very strong determination to sell Marshmead and go back
to Scotland. His nephew, Mr. Angus McTavish, had long ago bought a very
large sheep run, and was reported to be doing wonders. Jack’s heart
leaped at the thought of getting back Marshmead, where he had been so
happy, so undisturbed by carking care. With a thoughtful brow he began
to consider the ways and means. By strict economy and careful
management, added to two fairly good years, he had paid off the greater
part of the purchase-money, and his sheep had increased so much that,
after all his losses, he calculated upon being able to buy Marshmead if
only he could get a purchaser for Wondega.
He wrote, accordingly, to Bertie Tunstall, asking him to make inquiries
about Marshmead, and authorizing him to buy it if Mr. McDonald was
really going to sell.
Pending these negotiations, Jack was restless and excited. The thought
of Maud was ever uppermost; she had expressed her willingness to wait,
for years if it was necessary. At the same time, rightly judging her
love by his own, he felt that she would be happier, as she frankly said,
helping to make his home happy than in waiting until everything should
be put in order for herself. Yet, again, how could he bring her to
Wondega?
An answer came in due time: McDonald would sell, but he considered the
improvements he had made on the estate, which turned out to be very
slight, and the increase in the cattle would make it worth a great deal
more than he had given for it.
However, he was willing to sell the place on the same conditions on
which he had bought it—namely, half the money in cash, and the rest in
bills at short date. Despatching another letter to Tunstall, directing
him to close with the offer, Jack bade adieu to Wondega, a place
endeared by no memories of love and friendship, as had been Gondaree and
Marshmead, but, on the contrary, made gloomy by having been the scene of
Guy Waldron’s death, and his own solitary and uncheered abode during the
time of great anxiety and unceasing effort.
There was no difficulty in selling the place; it was different now from
the time when the two adventurers first stood on the hill and caught
sight of Lake Maud; great droves of sheep pastured on the slopes, a
large but rude wool-shed stood in the shelter of some trees, and a
modest cottage was built in the open, loop-holed at certain heights in
case of an attack from the natives. Some of the land had been fenced in,
but there had been no money to spare for rail-fencing, and the rails and
posts were of wood, mostly cut, shaped, and put down by Jack himself.
The land sold well, and Jack was enabled to buy back his own old place.
On his way back he passed by Gondaree, and could not refrain from
stopping and making some inquiries about M‘Nab, who happened to be
absent from the station.
The year succeeding his downfall had been unusually favourable to the
pastoral interests. High prices for wool and stock, steady rainfall, new
country opening, a cessation of wars and rumours of war—all these
circumstances had combined to produce and sustain for squatters the most
protracted term of triumphant success ever known in the Australias.
Those who, without skill or energy, had by good luck purchased when
stock were at their lowest, had of course been floated out on the
ever-deepening tide into undreamed-of fortune and success. Those who,
like Alexander M‘Nab, possessed both, had gone on from one successful
enterprise to another with astonishing rapidity. His name, as the
managing partner in this district for the great firm of Bagemall
Brothers, was constantly quoted as the exemplar of first-class
management, luck in speculation, successful shrewdness, and
well-deserved advancement. A magistrate, an exhibitor of prize stock, an
inventor of improvements in machinery as applied to station uses, a
co-proprietor of several of the largest properties in the district, a
power in the state, his name was in every man’s mouth. Time and
prosperity had mellowed his perhaps originally aggressive propensities,
and now he was popular, respected among all classes of men.
John was glad to hear of the prosperity of his old overseer, and pushed
on with a light heart to Juandah. He was met with a warm welcome. Mark
Stangrove looked more prosperous, a trifle stouter and merrier; the good
years had told in his favour. Maud was lovelier than ever, though she
was certainly thinner and paler, so John Redgrave thought at first, with
a pang of compunction, but after he had been there two or three days he
fancied that he must have been mistaken, for the bloom on her cheek and
the sparkle in her eye were as beautiful as ever.
“Oh, Maud, my darling,” said Jack, as they stood together in the veranda
the evening of his arrival, “what time I have wasted! I go back to
Marshmead a poorer man than when I left it, for I am burdened with a
debt, and what years I have lost!”
“Don’t regret the past, dear Jack,” said Maud, sliding her little hand
into his; “perhaps if you had never left Marshmead you would always have
been a little dissatisfied with it; besides, if you had never left it we
should not have met.”
“I would bear it all over again if you were the prize at the end, Maud.”
“Once is enough,” said Maud, with an arch glance from her bright eyes.
“And I may have my prize?”
“Yes, when you are ready,” replied Maud, demurely.
“I’m ready now, you saucy girl,” said Jack, laughing, though he winced
at the implied reproach in her words, “and I have a great mind to take
you at your word, and carry you off to Marshmead at once.”
“Come back when you like, my dear fellow,” said Mark Stangrove, who had
just joined them, “and then we’ll see about it.”
The week passed all too quickly, but Jack resolved that it should not be
very long before he returned, and certain whispered conferences with
Maud settled the time.
As John Redgrave at length reached the homestead, certain changes were
strongly apparent. The once trim, orderly, and pleasant place was
weed-grown and melancholy of aspect. The stables were tenantless, and
bore traces of long disuse. Many of the buildings were roofless, while
the materials of others had been used up for the formation of
out-houses. Mr. McDonald did not “believe,” as he expressed it, in
improvements, nor in having one man or boy about his establishment who
could possibly be done without; for this reason probably he made use of
the garden as a calf paddock, and Jack’s heart felt acute misery when he
saw the trampled flower-beds, the broken fruit-trees, the mutilated
shrubs; but McDonald was not a man whom this sort of thing troubled. To
have lived in sight of such a daily desecration would have been to some
men an intolerable annoyance. He did not care a jot, when duly satisfied
by careful inspection that his bank balance was on the right side, that
his daily steak and glass of grog were attainable, if every garden in
the land had been uprooted. In other than these convictions and
satisfactions he had no interest. He rarely rode over the run. He never
helped to bring in the calves to brand, or the fat bullocks for market.
He was by no means particular about keeping up the purity of the
carefully-bred herd. He often permitted his calves to be past the proper
age before they were branded, probably by the aid of his neighbour’s
stockmen. But with all this apparent neglect, and his whisky-drinking to
boot, he kept steadily to his principle of having as little labour to
pay and feed as was possible. He did not mind a few strayed or even lost
cattle. If a few calves were branded by others he troubled not his head;
and yet this obese, unintelligent block made more money than the
cleverest man in the whole district. His secret was this, and I present
it to aspiring pastoralists: he had no personal expense; he had no
debts; therefore he was able to weather out the terrible financial gales
when the failure of clever, hard-working men was of daily occurrence.
As Jack got off his horse at the house, Elsie came to the door.
“Eh! but it’s Maister John, it’s my ain bairn,” she cried, “come to
bless my auld e’en before I dee; oh, thank the Lord that I hae lived to
see this day.”
The old woman flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears.
“My dear old Elsie,” said Jack, kissing her, “I am as glad to be here as
you are to see me; and where’s Geordie?”
“Geordie is awa looking after the cattle in the stock, but he’ll be here
the nicht. And oh, Maister John, is it you that’s bought the place?”
“Indeed it is, Elsie, and you must tell me what has been done since I
left.”
“Eh, but ye must hae your dinner first, my bonny man, and I must see
aboot the getting o’t; but bide a wee, I’ll send for Geordie; he’ll tell
ye a’.”
Later in the evening John heard from the lips of his two faithful
friends what had been done in his absence. Whatever improvements bad
been made, and they were very few, were in the direction of the
cattle-yards. They were larger than formerly, and that was all; but the
stock had increased largely, and were in good condition. As to the lost
garden, Jack thought that Maud might like to watch the gradual formation
of a new one. He had got out of the habit of thinking that everything
should be complete and perfect before Maud came.
After setting men to work at repairs in the stables to begin with, Jack
in a few days’ time rode over to pay a visit to his old friend Bertie
Tunstall, who could hardly do enough to show his gladness. Jack had so
much to say that the two days of his stay hardly sufficed for a
recountal of all he had seen, felt, and suffered, since leaving
Marshmead. In old times they used to enjoy the circulation of ideas
produced and quickened by the mutual intercourse of persons who read
habitually and did not permit the wondrous faculty of thought to be
entirely absorbed by the cares of every-day life, by the claims of
business, by plans and actions tending directly or indirectly to the
acquisition and investment of money. It is given to few active
professions to afford and to justify as great a degree of leisure for
realizing an abstract thought as to that of the Australian squatter. He
may manage his property shrewdly and successfully, and still utilize a
portion, at either end of the day, for history and chronicle of old, for
poetry and politics, for rhyme and reason. He can vary intellectual
exercise with hard bodily labour. He may possess, at small additional
cost, the latest literary products of the old and new world. He may,
after the arrival of each mail-steamer, revel in masterpieces of the
thought-giants, fresh from the workshop. When kindred spirits are
available within meeting distance, great is the joy of the pioneers,
what time the half-wild herds are gathered; the tender oxlets seared
with the indelible cipher. Then arises the bustle of the body as each
man lauds a favourite author or decries a pet aversion.
Life again flowed on for Jack with the peaceful security and round of
accustomed duties which had filled up the days of long ago happily and
so completely. Spring ripened into glowing summer with stores of fruit
and flowers; with long dreamy days of sunshine tempered by breezes which
wandered over marsh and mere, fresh from gentle murmurings with the
wandering ocean wave. Again he saw the wild swan lead her brood of
cygnets through the deep reed-bordered meres. Again he leaned from his
saddle at midday and dipped his broad-leafed hat in the cool marsh
waters which plashed pleasantly around his horse’s feet. Once more he
rose at dawn to feel the thrice-blessed sense of safety and untroubled
possession of the land. Again he mingled with his fellows on terms of
absolute equality; nay, more, of slight but acknowledged superiority, as
of one who had bought experience, who had struggled with fate and
overcome. And in the midst of the priceless sensation of contentment and
repose came a fuller tide of thankfulness, a savour of keener relish,
born of the unforgotten hardships of the past. Before the summer days
had reached their longest John Redgrave brought home his bride.
What need to say that they were happy? The union of two such loving
hearts and two such perfect tempers is sure to bring happiness. At the
sight of his friend’s lovely wife, and Jack’s perfect delight in her,
Bertie Tunstall suddenly found himself a lonely and miserable man. He
said his health needed a change, and went off to town, from whence he
returned in a few weeks an engaged man, and in due time made another
visit to the same place, and brought back a pretty, amiable, loving
little wife, who proved to be a great favourite of Maud’s.
According to John Redgrave’s promise, old Jock Harley was not forgotten;
a place by the “ingle neuk” was offered him, but he preferred a hut of
his own, and a comfortable one was built for him on the hill-side, far
away from the house, where he could have his eye on the cattle, though
he never took the interest in them which he did in sheep, giving it as
his opinion that they were “puir doited beasties, and unco hard to
unnerstan’.” The dog Help came with him, and was made a great pet of by
all the household.
When John grew prosperous and wealthy he sent home a considerable sum to
Guy Waldron’s sisters, the increase of the £300 which had come to him so
opportunely when he was in his direst need.
As years passed on, as the clover and rye-grass matted in thick sward
over the fens and flats of Marshmead, Jack found his thoughts running
much upon the education of the steadily increasing olive-branches that
came, and grew, and flourished in that cool, breezy clime.
To the alarm of old Elsie and Geordie, who spoiled the rosy boys and
girls to their hearts’ content, Mrs. Redgrave already begins to hint at
a residence in the metropolis, solely, of course, for the sake of
masters and so on for dear Bertie and Maud.
For many a year John Redgrave’s life and opinions have been before his
countrymen and close neighbours, great and small, poor and rich. His
active principles have been plain for all men to see. If he buys a
thousand acres of the Marshmead Crown lands, he employs no agent, but
stands up like a man and bids in person. His motto is “fair and above
board.” What he thinks right to do he will perform if he can, maugre
land-sharks, agitators, or even his very respectable and slightly
democratic farmer neighbours. Every one in the district knows, or
believes he knows, nearly every thought of the heart of that transparent
kindly nature—of that hearty, jolly and benevolent Squire of Marshmead.
But two of his opinions have ever excited remark or called forth
curiosity. One is an intense dislike to sheep, under any and all forms
of management. The other is a furious and unreasonable hostility to the
extensive pastoral region which lies north of the Murray.
His tale is told. I hold it expedient in common fairness to inform my
confidential friend, the reader, that the writer is acquainted with more
than one Jack who abandoned the substance for the shadow; with more—many
more, alas!—than one or two young, brilliant, brave, and beautiful
Jacks, who, enthralled by the Circe of new worlds, served henceforth to
fill her dungeon-sties, or to wander aimlessly from land to land, till
kindly death released from union wasted body and ruined soul. But, alas!
not with many who, like John Redgrave, fought their way back to comfort
and affluence, after having gone down into the depths of misfortune,—not
with many who “suffered and were strong.”
THE END.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Transcriber’s Note
This table summarizes any corrections made to the text, as
printed.
p. 17 the opposition of the others[,/.] Corrected.
p. 33 many other inhabitants.[”] Added.
p. 44 any dacency next or anigh it[.] Added.
p. 45 I’ll send Joe[.] Added.
p. 47 you know[.]” Added.
p. 36 [‘\“]She and Charley will head them Corrected.
p. 76 but we have a far pas[s]age Corrected.
p. 104 they were only fifteen short[.] Added.
p. 111 was the girl Wildd[cu/uc]k Transposed.
p. 126 or Dick, and Liberty Hall.[’/”] Corrected.
P. 134 and worked with even suspicious Added.
smoothness[.]
p. 140 as he [grew, up/grew up,] showed Moved comma.
p. 159 to well to[o] be mistaken. Removed.
p. 161 [“]Little was said. Removed.
p. 180 tun[n]elled Added.
p. 217 “I will, if——[”] Added.
p. 232 the una[c]customed scene Added.
p. 298 in[ ]certain respects Spaced added.