THE LIFE STORY OF TOM GLENDINNING
During one of the long rides which Wilfred was obliged to take from time
to time with Tom Glendinning, it occurred to him to ask about his
previous history. The old man was unusually well; that is, free from
rheumatism and neuralgia. The demons which tortured his irritable temper
were at rest. For a wonder, Tom was communicative.
‘Sure there’s little use in knowin’ the finds and the kills and blank
days of a toothless old hound like meself. I’m broken-mouthed enough to
know better; but the oulder some gets, the wickeder they are. Maybe it’s
because there’s little hope for them. I was born in the north of
Ireland, where my people was dacent enough. Linen factories they had—no
less. My great grandfather came from Scotland, my father was dead, and
my uncle that I lived with was the sourest old miser that ever the Black
North turned out. I was a wild slip of a youngster always, like a hawk
among barn-door fowl. My mother came from the West. It was her blood I
had, and it ran too free and merry in thim days. She was dead too, but I
loved her people. I liked the sporting notions of ’em, and took to their
ways, their fights, their fairs and the very brogue, just to spite my
uncle and his canting breed.
‘I hated everything they liked, and liked everything they hated. I was
flogged and locked up for runnin’ away from school. Why should I stay in
and larn out of a dog’s-eared book when the hounds met within five Irish
miles of me? I was always with them when I could slip off—sleepin’ in
the stables, helpin’ the grooms, doin’ anything so they’d let me stay
about the stables and kennel. I could ride any hunter they had at
exercise and knew every fox-covert in the neighbourhood, every hare’s
form, besides being able to tie a fly and snare rabbits. When I was
twelve years old I ran away and made my way down to Mayo, to my mother’s
people—God be with them all their days! I was happy then.’
‘I suppose you were, indeed,’ said Wilfred.
‘Why wouldn’t I be? My mother’s brother was but a small farmer, but he
was a king’s ayqual for kind-heartedness, divilment and manliness. He
could follow the hounds on foot for a ten-mile run. He was the best
laper, wrestler, hurler, and stick-fighter in the barony. The sort of
man I could have died for. More by token, he took to me at once when I
stumbled in sore-footed and stiff like a stray puppy. I was the
“white-headed boy” for my dead mother’s sake.’
‘You had all you could wish for, then.’
‘I had. I was a fool, too, but sure I didn’t know it. ’Tis that same
makes all the differ. The Squire took a fancy to me, after I rode a
five-year-old for him over the ox-fences one day. I was made dog-boy,
afterwards third whip; and sure, when I had on the cord breeches and the
coat with the hunt button, I was prouder than the king. There was no
divilment in all the land I wasn’t in; but I didn’t drink in thim days,
and I knew my work well. Whin I was twenty-two a fit took me to go to
Belfast and see the ould place again.’
‘Did you wish to ask for your uncle’s blessing?’
‘Not if I was stritched for it! But my cousin Mary! sure I could never
get her out of my head, and thim black eyes of hers. She kissed me the
night I ran away, and the taste of her lips and the sweet look of her
eyes could never lave me. I can see her face now. I wonder where is she?
And will I see her again when I go to my place!’
The old man turned away his head; his voice was still for some moments.
Were there tears in those evil-glowing eyes, that never lowered before
mortal man or quailed under the shadow of death? Who shall say? Wilfred
played with his bridle-rein. When the henchman spoke next he gazed
resolutely before him, towards the far purple mountain peak; his voice
once more was strong and clear.
‘Whin I seen her again she was a woman grown, but her eyes were the
same, and her heart was true to the wild boy that was born to ruin all
that was nigh or kind to him. The old man scowled at me. There was
little love between us.
‘“So you’ve grown into a useless man instead of a disobedient lad,” he
said. “Why didn’t ye stay among the rebels and white-boys of the West?
It’s the company that fits ye well; you’ll have the better chance of
being hanged before you’re older. Change your name before it’s a by-word
and a disgrace to honest folks.”
‘I swore then I’d make him repent his words, and that if I was hanged my
name should be known far and wide. I went back to the wild West. But if
I did I gave him good raison to curse me to his dyin’ day. I soothered
over Mary to marry me, and the day after we were well on the way to
Athlone.’
‘Surely then you had a happy life before you, Tom?’
‘True for you. If I wasn’t happy, no man ever was. But the divil was too
strong in me. I was right for the first year. I loved my work with the
hounds, and the master—rest his sowl—used to say there wasn’t a whip
west of Athlone could hold a candle to me. He gave me a snug cottage.
Mary was a great favourite entirely with the ladies of the house. For
that year—that one blessed year of my life—I was free from bad ways.
Within the year Mary had a fine boy in her arms—the moral of his father,
every one said—and as she smiled on me, I felt as if what the priest
said about being good and all the rest of it, might be true, after all.’
‘And what made the change, Tom?’
‘The ould story—restlessness, bad company, and saycret societies. I got
mixed up in one, that I joined before I was married, more for the fun of
the night walks and drillin’s and rides than anything else. The oath
once taken—a terrible oath it was, more by token—I thought shame of
breakin’ it. It’s little I’d care _now_ for a dozen like it. The end of
it was, one night I must go off with a mob of young fools, like myself,
to frighten a strong farmer who had taken the land over a poor man’s
head. I didn’t know then that the best kindness for a strugglin’ holder
there, was to hunt him out of the overstocked land to this place, or
America, or the West Indies. Anyhow, we burned a stack. After I left,
the boys were foolish and bate him. He took to his bed and died—divil
mend him! Two days afterwards I was arrested on a warrant, and lodged in
the county gaol. ’Twas the first time I heard a prison lock turn behind
me. Not the last, by many a score times.
‘I had no chance at the Assizes. A girl swore to me as Huntsman Tom.
Five of thim was hanged. I got off with transportation. I was four miles
away whin they were heard batin’ Doran. I asked the Judge to hang me
with the rest. He said it couldn’t be done. Mary came every day to see
me, poor girleen; she liked to show me the boy; but I could see her
heart was broke, though she tried to smile—such a smile—for my sake. I
desarved what I got, maybe. But if I’d been let off then, as there’s a
God in heaven I’d have starved rather than have done a wrong turn agin
as long as I lived. If them judges knew a man’s heart, would they let
one off, wonst in a way? Mary was with me every day, wet or dry, on
board the prison ship till she sailed. Is there angels come to hell, I
wonder, to see the wretches in torment? If they do, they’ll look like
_her_, as she stood on the deck and trembled whin the chained divils
that some calls men filed by. She looked at me with her soft eyes, till
I grew mad, and told her roughly to go home and take the child with her.
Then she dropped on her knees and cried, and kissed my hands with the
irons on them and the face of me, like a madwoman. She lifted the baby
to me for a minute, and it held out its hands. I kissed its wheeshy soft
face, and she was gone out of my sight—out of my life—for ever.’
‘How did you like the colony?’
‘Well enough at the first. I worked well, and did what I was tould. It
was all the relafe there was. I made sure I should get my freedom in a
few years. The first letther I got was from my old uncle. Mary was dead!
He said nothin’ about the child, but he would bring it up, and never
wished to hear my name again. This changed me into a rale divil, no
less. All that was bad in me kem out. I was that desperate that I defied
the overseers, made friends with the biggest villians among the
prisoners, and did everything foolish that came into my head. I was
punished, and the worse I was trated the worse I grew. I was chained and
flogged and starved and put into dark cells. ’Tis little satisfaction
they got of me, for I grew that savage and stubborn that I was all as
one as a wild baste, only wickeder. If ye seen my back now, after the
triangles, scarred and callused from shoulder to flank! I was marked out
for Norfolk Island; ye’ve heard tell of that place?’
Wilfred nodded assent.
‘That _hell_!’ screamed the old man, ‘where men once sent never came
back. Flogged and chained; herded like bastes, when the lime that they
carried off to the boats burned holes in their naked flesh, wading
through the surf with it! But I forgot, there was _one_ way to get back
to Sydney.’
‘And what way was that?’
‘You could always _kill_ a man—one of your mates—only a prisoner—sure,
it couldn’t matter much!’ said the old man with a dreadful laugh; ‘but
ye were sent up to Sydney in the Government brig, and tried and hanged
as reg’lar as if ye wor a free man and owned a free life. There was thim
there thin that thought the pleasure trip to Sydney and the comfort of a
new gaol and a nate condimned cell all to yourself, well worth a man’s
blood, and a sure rope when the visit was over. Ha! ha!’
He laughed long and loud. The sound was so unnatural that Wilfred
fancied if their talk had occurred by a lonely camp in a darksome forest
at midnight, instead of under the garish light of day, he might have
imagined faint unearthly cries and moans strangely mingled with that
awful laughter.
‘Thim was quare times; but I didn’t go to ‘the island hell’ after all.
An up-country settler came to the barracks to pick a groom, as an
assigned servant—so they called us. He was a big, bold-lookin’ man, and
as I set my eyes on him, I never looked before me or on the floor as
most of thim did.
‘“What’s that man?” he said. “I like the look of him; he’s got plenty of
devil in him; that’s my sort. He can ride, by the look of his legs. I’m
just starting up-country.”
‘They wouldn’t give me to him at first; said I was too bad to go loose.
But he had friends in high places, and they got me assigned to him. Next
day we started for a station. When I felt a horse between my legs I
began to have the feelings of a man again. He gave me a pistol to carry,
too. Bushrangers wor on the road then, and he carried money.’
‘“You can fight or not, as you like, Tom,” he said, “if we meet any of
the boys; but if you show cur, back you go to the barracks.”
‘“Sooner to hell,” says I. I felt that I would go through fire and water
for him. He trated me liked a _man_!’
‘And did you meet any bushrangers?’ said Wilfred.
‘We did then—the Tinker’s gang—three of them, and a boy. They bailed us
up in a narrow place. I took steady aim and shot the Tinker dead. As
well him as me—not that I cared a traneen for my life. My master dropped
a second man; the other one and the boy bolted for their lives.
‘“Well done, Tom!” says my master, when it was all over. “You were a
good cavalry man lost”—he was in the Hussars, no less, at home. “We
don’t part asy, I can tell you. You deserve your freedom, and you’ll get
it.”
‘He was betther than his word. I got a conditional pardon, not to go
beyond the colonies. Sure I had little taste for lavin’ them. I stayed
with him till he died; the next place I went to was Warbrok, as I tould
ye the first day I seen you.’
‘Did you ever hear what became of your child?’
‘Ne’er a one of me knows, nor cares. If he’s turned out well, the less
he knows of me the better. If he’s gone to the dogs, there’s scoundrels
enough in the country already. But I nigh forget tellin’ ye, I made
money once by dalin’ in cattle, and every year I sent home £50, thinkin’
it might do good to the child.’
‘And do you know if it went safe?’
‘Sure I got a resate for every pound of it, just as if a lawyer had
written it, thankin’ me, but never sayin’ a word about the boy, but that
it would be used for his larning.’
‘And what made you leave it off?’
‘I didn’t lave it off. They sent back the last of it without a word or
message. That made me wild, and I started drinkin’, and never cried
crack till it was gone. I began to wander about and take billets as a
stock-rider. ’Tis the way I’ve lived iver since. If it wasn’t for the
change and wild life now and thin—fightin’ them divils of blacks,
gallopin’ after wild cattle, and campin’ out where no white man had been
before—I’d been dead with the drink long ago. But something keeps me;
something tells me I can’t die till I’ve seen one from the ould country.
Who it is, I can’t tell. Sometimes I see Mary in my drames, holdin’ up
the child like the last day I seen her. I’d have put a bullet through
me, when I was in “the horrors,” only for thim drames. I shall go when
my time comes. It’s little I’d care if it was in the night that’s
drawin’ on.’
Here he rode on for some minutes without speaking, then continued in an
altered voice:
‘See here now, Mr. Wilfred, it’s little I thought to say to mortial man
the things I’ve let out of my heart this blessed day. But my feeling to
you and your father is the same as I had to my first master—the heavens
be his bed! If he’d always been among such people here—rale gintry—that
cared for him and thought to help him, Tom Glendinning would maybe have
been a different man. But the time’s past. I’m like a beaten fox, nigh
run down; and I’ll never die in my bed, that much I know. You won’t
spake to me agen about this. My heart’s burstin’ as it is; and—I’ll
maybe drop—if it comes on me again—like it—does—now——’
He pressed his hand closely, fiercely, upon the region of the heart. He
grew deadly pale, and shook as if in mortal agony; his face was
convulsed as he bowed himself upon the saddle-bow, and Wilfred feared he
was about to fall from his horse. But he slowly regained his position,
and quivering like one who had been stretched upon the rack, guided his
horse along the homeward path.
‘’Tis spasms of the heart, the doctor tould me it was,’ he gasped at
length. ‘They’d take me off some day, before you could light a match,
“if I didn’t keep aisy and free from trouble,”’ he said. ‘Maybe they
will, some day; maybe something else will be too quick for them. It’s
little I care. Close up, Mr. Wilfred, we’re late for home, and I’d like
to regulate thim calves before it’s dark.’
Much Wilfred mused over the history of the strange old man who had now
become associated with their fortunes.
‘What a life!’ thought he. ‘What a tragedy!’ How changed from the days
when he followed the Mayo hounds; reckless then, perhaps, and impatient
of control, but an unweaned child in innocence compared to his present
condition. And yet he possessed qualities which, under different
treatment might have led to honour and distinction.
* * * * *
As far as personal claims to distinction were concerned, few districts
in which the Effinghams could have been located, would have borne
comparison with the vicinity of Lake William. It abounded, as we have
told, in younger sons of good family, whom providence would appear to
have thus guided but a few years before their own migration. This
fortunate concurrence they had themselves often noted, and fully did
they appreciate the congenial companionship.
Besides the local celebrities, few tourists of note passed along the
southern road without being intercepted by the hospitality of one or
other household. These captives of their bow and spear were shared
honourably. When the Honourable Cedric Rotherwood, who had letters to
Mr. Effingham, was quartered for a month at The Chase, fishing,
shooting, and kangaroo-hunting, the Benmohr men and their allies were
entreated to imagine there was a muster at The Chase every Saturday, and
to rendezvous in force accordingly. A strong friendship accordingly was
struck up between the young men. The Honourable Cedric was only
five-and-twenty, and years afterwards, when Charlie Hamilton went home
with one station in his pocket, and two more paying twenty per cent per
annum upon the original outlay, his Lordship, having then come into his
kingdom, had him down at Rotherwood Hall, and gave him such mounts in
the hunting field, and such corners in the battues, not to mention a run
over to his Lordship’s deer forest in the Highlands, that Charlie, on
befitting occasions, refers to that memorable visit with enthusiasm (and
at considerable length, say his friends) even unto this day.
Against this court card, socially marked for the Effinghams’ fortune,
one day turned up a couple of trumps, which might be thought to have
made a certainty of the odd trick in favour of Benmohr. Charles
Hamilton, coming home after a day’s ploughing, found two strangers in
the sitting-room, one of whom, a quiet plainly dressed personage, shut
up a book at his entrance, and begged to introduce his friend and
travelling companion, Major Glendinning, ‘who (his own name Kinghart)
had brought a letter from a mutual friend, he believed, Mr. Machell of
Langamilli. The Major had been good enough to accompany him, being
anxious to see the country.’
‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure,’ said Hamilton, pocketing the letter
unread. ‘I hope Mrs. Teviot gave you some refreshment. I seldom come
home before dark, now the days are getting short.’
‘The old lady did the honours, I assure you,’ said the Major, ‘but we
preferred awaiting dinner, as we had tiffin on the road. As for
Kinghart, he found an old edition in your book-case which was meat and
drink to him.’
‘In that case, if you will allow me, I will ask you to excuse me till
the bell rings, as dressing is a serious business after my clay
furrows.’
Hamilton had time to look at Willie Machell’s letter, in which he found
Mr. Kinghart described as an out-and-out brick, though reserved at
first, and unreasonably fond of books. Played a goodish game of whist,
too. Henry Kinghart was brother to the famous clergyman and writer of
that name, and was so deuced clever that, if there had been any material
for fiction in this confounded country, which there was not, he
shouldn’t be surprised if he wrote a book himself some day. As for the
Major, he was invaluable. He (Machell) had met him at the Australian
Club, and brought him up forcibly from Sydney. He was the best shot and
horseman he ever saw, and fought no end with his regiment of Irregular
Horse in India. Siffter, N.I., who denied everybody’s deeds but his own,
admitted as much. Relative in Australia—cattle-station manager or
something—that he wanted to look up. He (Hamilton) was not to keep them
all the winter at Benmohr, as he (Machell) was deucedly dull without
them.
Mr. Kinghart fully answered his warranty, inasmuch as he volunteered
little in the way of remark, and fastening upon one or two rare books in
the Benmohr collection, hardly looked up till Mrs. Teviot came in with
the bedroom candles. The Major seemed indisposed to literature, but had
seen so much, and indeed had transacted personally so large a share of
modern history in Indian military service, that Hamilton, who, like most
Scottish gentlemen, had a brother in the line there and several cousins
in the Civil Service, was deeply interested. He had been in every battle
of note since the commencement of the Mahratta war, and
A scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of ‘Moodkee’ field.
Without a shade of self-consciousness he replied to Hamilton’s eager
questionings, whom he found to be (from his brother’s letters)
accurately informed about the affairs of Northern India.
Unfortunately for Mr. Kinghart’s studies, Neil Barrington and Bob
Ardmillan turned up next morning—two men who would neither be quiet
themselves, nor suffer other mortals to enjoy repose. Part of the day
was spent in shooting round the borders of the dam, when the Major
topped Ardmillan’s bag, who was considered the crack shot of the
neighbourhood. In the afternoon, there being many horses, colts and
others, in the stables, Neil proposed an adjournment to the leaping-bar,
an institution peculiar to Benmohr, for educating the inexperienced
steeds to jump cleverly with the aid of a shifting bar enwrapped in
brambles.
At this entertainment the Major showed himself to be no novice, riding
with an ease of seat and perfection of hand, to which, doubtless, years
of pig-sticking and tent-pegging had contributed.
In the evening whist was suggested, when Mr. Kinghart showed that his
studies had by no means prevented his paying due attention to an
exacting and jealous mistress. The exigencies of the game thawed his
reserve, and in his new character he was pronounced by the volatile Neil
and the shrewd satirist Bob Ardmillan to be a first-rate fellow. He
displayed with some dry humour the results of a habit of close
observation; in addition, a chance allusion served to reveal such stores
of classical lore, that Argyll’s absence was deplored by Neil
Barrington, who believed that his friend, who was always scolding him
for not keeping up his classics, would have been for once out-quoted.
Of course such treasures of visitors could not be allowed to lie hid,
and after a few allusions to the family at The Chase had paved the way,
Mr. Kinghart and the Major were invited to accompany Hamilton on a visit
(which he unblushingly asserted to be chiefly on business) to that
popular homestead on the next ensuing Saturday.
The Effingham family were devoted admirers of the elder and Kinghart,
had but recently read and discussed _Eastward Ho_, _Dalton_, _Rocke_ and
other products of the large, loving mind which was then stirring the
hearts of the most generous portion of English society. It may be
conjectured with what secret triumph, veiled under an assumption of
formal politeness, Hamilton introduced Major Glendinning and Mr. Henry
Kinghart.
‘Will you think me curious if I ask whether you are related to the
Rector of Beverly?’ inquired Rosamond soon after preliminaries had come
to an end. ‘You must pardon our enthusiasm, but life in the provinces
seems as closely concerned with authors as with acquaintances or
friends, almost more so.’
‘My brother Charles would feel honoured, I assure you, Miss Effingham,
if he knew the interest he has aroused in this far-off garrison of the
Norseman he so loves to celebrate,’ said the stranger, with a pleasant
smile. ‘I wish, for a hundred reasons, that he could be here to tell you
so. How he would enjoy roaming over this land of wonders!’
Rosamond’s eyes sparkled with an infrequent lustre. Here was truly a
miraculous occurrence. A brother—actually a brother—of the great, the
noble, the world-renowned Charles Kinghart, with whose works they had
been familiar ever since they could read; most of whose characters were
to them household words!
Certainly there was nothing heroic about the personnel of their literary
visitor—an unobtrusive-looking personage. But now that he was decorated
with the name of Kinghart, glorified with the reflected halo of genius,
there was visible to the book-loving maiden a world of distinction in
his every gesture and fragment of speech.
Then Major Glendinning, too, a man whom few would pass without a second
glance. Slightly over middle height, his symmetrical figure and complete
harmony of motion stamped him as one perfected by the widest experiences
of training and action. ‘Soldier’ was written emphatically by years of
imprint upon the fearless gaze, the imperturbable manner, the bronzed
cheek, and accurate but unostentatious dress. A man who had shouldered
death and had mocked danger; who had actually shed blood in action—‘in
single fight and mixed array’ (like Marmion, as Annabel said). Not in
old, half-forgotten days, like their father, but in _last year’s_,
well-nigh last month’s, deadly picturesque strife, of which the echoes
were as yet scarcely silent. Annabel and Beatrice gazed at him as at a
denizen of another planet, and left to Rosamond the more rare adoration
which exalts the image of the scholar to a higher pedestal than that of
the warrior.
There was, however, a sufficing audience and ample appreciation for both
the recent lions, who were by no means suffered by their original
captors to roar softly or feed undisturbed. Before sitting down to the
unceremonious evening meal, Charles Hamilton begged Mrs. Effingham to
defer leaving the drawing-room for a few moments while he made a needful
explanation.
‘You will not be surprised to hear, Mrs. Effingham,’ he commenced, with
an air of great deference, ‘that Mr. Kinghart shares his distinguished
brother’s views as to our duties to the (temporarily) lower orders, and
the compulsion under which the nobler minds of the century lie, to
advance by personal sacrifice the social culture of their dependents,
more particularly in the colonies, where (necessarily) the feelings are
less sensitive. Mr. Kinghart, therefore, declines to partake of a meal
in any house, unless the servants are invited to share the repast.’
‘What nonsense!’ said the gentleman referred to, rather hastily; ‘but I
daresay you recognise our friend’s vein of humour, Mrs. Effingham.’
‘It’s all very well, Kinghart,’ replied Hamilton gravely; ‘but I feel
pained to find a man of your intellect deserting his convictions when
they clash with conventionalities. You know the Rector’s opinions as to
our dependents, and here you stand, ashamed to act up to the family
principles.’
‘My dear fellow, of course I support Charles’s gallant testimony to the
creed of his Master, but he had no “colonial experience,” whereas I have
had a great deal, which may have led me to believe that I am the deeper
student of human nature. I don’t know whether I need assure Mrs.
Effingham that she will find me outwardly much like other people.’
‘How few beliefs shall I retain henceforth,’ said Hamilton sorrowfully.
‘Putting socialism out of the question,’ said Mr. Kinghart, ‘I shall
always regret that Charles did not avail himself of an opportunity he
once had to visit Australia. He would have been charmed beyond
description.’
‘I’m sure _we_ should have been, only to see him,’ said Beatrice; ‘but I
don’t know what we should have had to offer in exchange for what he
would have to forgo.’
‘You are leaving out of the question the fact of my brother’s passionate
love of geology, botany, and adventure. The facts in natural history to
which even my small researches have led are so wonderful that I hesitate
to assert them.’
‘How fascinating it must be,’ said Rosamond, ‘to be able to walk about
the earth and read the book of Nature like a scroll. You and our dear
old Harley seem alike in that respect. I look upon you as magicians. You
have the “open sesame,” and may find the way to Ali Baba caverns full of
jewels.’
‘This last is not so wildly improbable, though you over-rate my
attainments,’ said their visitor, with a quiet smile. ‘I have certainly
found in this neighbourhood indications of valuable minerals, not even
excluding that Chief Deputy of the Prince of the Air—Gold.’
‘Why, Kinghart, you are as mad as Mr. Sternworth,’ said Hamilton. ‘All
_savants_ have a craze for impossible discoveries. How _can_ there be
gold here?’
‘I took Mr. Hamilton to be a gentleman of logical mind,’ said the
Englishman quietly. ‘Why should not the sequences from geological
premisses be as invariable in Australia as in any other part of the
globe. The South Pole does not invert the principle of cause and effect,
I presume.’
‘I did not mean that,’ explained Hamilton, with something less than his
ordinary decisiveness, ‘but there seems something so preposterous in a
gold-field in a new country like this.’
‘It is not a new country, it is a very old one; there was probably gold
here long before it was extracted from Ophir. But your men, in digging
holes yesterday for the posts of that new hut, dislodged fragments of
hornblendic granite slightly decomposed and showing minute particles of
gold. I had not time to examine them, but I noted the formation
accurately.’
‘What then?’ said his male hearers in a kind of chorus.
‘What then? Why, it follows inexorably that we are standing above one of
the richest goldfields in the known world!’
‘But assuming for a moment, which God forbid,’ said Hamilton, ‘that
gold—_real_ gold—in minute quantities could be extracted from the stone
you picked up, does it follow that rich and extensive deposits should be
contiguous?’
‘My dear Hamilton, you surely missed the geological course in your
college studies! Gold once found amid decomposed hornblendic granite, in
alluvial drifts in company with water-worn quartz, has _never_ failed to
demonstrate itself in wondrous wealth. In the Ural Mountains, in Mexico,
and most likely in King Solomon’s time, there were no _little_ mines
where once this precise formation was verified.’
‘I devoutly trust that it may not be in our time,’ said Argyll. ‘What a
complete overturn of society would take place; in Australia, of all
places! I should lose interest in the country at once.’
‘There might be inconvenience,’ said Mr. Kinghart reflectively, ‘but the
Anglo-Saxon would be found capable of organising order. We need not look
so far ahead. But of the day to come, when the furnace-chimney shall
smoke on these hillsides, and miles of alluvial be torn up and riddled
with excavations, I am as certain as that Glossopteris, of which I have
seen at least three perfect specimens in shale, denotes coal deposits.’
‘We must buy you out, Kinghart, that is the whole of it,’ said
Ardmillan, ‘and direct your energies into some other channel. If you go
on proving the existence of gold and black diamonds under these heedless
feet of ours the social edifice will totter. Hamilton will abandon his
agriculture, Argyll his stock-keeping, Churbett his reading and early
rising, Mrs. Teviot will leave off cheese-making, Forbes will cease to
contradict—in short, the whole Warbrok and Benmohr world will come to an
end.’
‘It is a very pleasant world, and I am sorry to have hinted at the flood
which will some day sweep over it,’ said Mr. Kinghart; ‘but what is
written is written, and indelibly, when the pages are tables of stones,
set up from the foundation of the world.’
Most enjoyable and still well remembered were the days which followed
this memorable discussion. A succession of rides, drives, and excursions
followed, in which Mr. Kinghart pointed out wonders in the world of
botany, which caused Rosamond to look upon him as a sage of stupendous
experiences.
To Howard Effingham the presence of Major Glendinning was an unalloyed
pleasure. Familiar chiefly with service in other parts of the world, he
was never tired of listening or questioning. Varied necessarily were
incidents of warfare conducted against the wild border tribes of
Hindostan with her hordes of savage horsemen. Such campaigns necessarily
partook of the irregular modes of combat of the foe. Without attaching
importance to his own share of distinction, their guest permitted his
hearers to learn much of the picturesque and splendid successes of the
British arms in the historic land of Ind.
For himself, his manner had a strange tinge of softness and melancholy.
At one time his mien was that of the stern soldier, proud of the
thoroughness with which a band of marauders had been extirpated, or the
spirit of a dissolute native ruler broken. Scarcely had the tale been
told when a settled sadness would overspread his face, as if in pity for
the heathens’ spoil and sorrow. To his hearers, far from war’s alarms,
there was a strong, half-painful fascination in these tales of daring,
heightened by the frequent presence of death in every shape of
hot-blooded carnage or military execution.
‘How difficult it is to imagine,’ said Beatrice one day, suddenly
arousing herself, after staring with dilated eyeballs at the Major, who
had been recounting a realistic incident for Guy’s special edification
(how the Ranee of Jeypore had hanged a dozen of his best troopers, and
of the stern reprisal which he was called upon to make), ‘that you,
actually sitting here quietly with us, are one and the same person who
was chief actor in these fearful doings. What a wonderful change it must
be for you.’
‘Let me assure you,’ said the Major, ‘that it is a most pleasant change.
I am tired of soldiering, and my health is indifferent. I almost think
that if I could fish out this old uncle of mine, I should be content to
settle in the bush, and take to rural life for the rest of my days.’
‘Don’t you think you would find it awfully dull?’ said Annabel; ‘you
would despise all our life so much. Unless there happened to be an
outbreak of bushrangers, you might never have a chance of killing any
one again, as long as you lived.’
‘I could manage without that excitement. I have had enough, in all
conscience, to last a lifetime. The climate of your country suits us old
Indians so well. If I were once fairly established, I think I could rear
horses and cattle, especially the former, with great contentment.’
‘There is no one of your name in this part of the country,’ said Guy,
‘except our old stock-rider, Tom. He’s such a queer old fellow. I
remember asking him what his surname was one day, and he told me it was
Glendinning. He’s away now, mustering at Wangarua.’
‘It is not an uncommon name where my family lived,’ said the Major. ‘I
should like to see him if he is a namesake. He may have heard of the
person I am in search of.’
The whole party was extremely sorry to permit their guests to depart;
but after a few days spent in luxurious intercourse, during which
sight-seeing and sport were organised day by day, and every imaginable
book and author reviewed with Mr. Kinghart in the evening, while Guy had
fully made up his mind to go to India, and had got up Indian history
from the Mogul dynasty to the execution of Omichund, a parting had to be
made. It was only temporary, however, as Mr. Kinghart had promised to
visit an old schoolfellow long settled at Monaro, and after a
fortnight’s stay had promised to return this way with the Major before
they said farewell finally. At Warbrok Chase there was great dismay at
the inevitable separation.
‘I declare,’ said Annabel, ‘that I begin to doubt whether it is prudent
to make such delightful acquaintances. One is so dreadfully grieved when
they depart. It is much better to have everyday friends, who can’t run
away, isn’t it?’
‘And who mightn’t be much missed if they did; quite so, Miss Annabel,’
said Forbes, to whom this lament was made.
‘Oh, of course _you_ are different at Benmohr and just about here. We
are all one family, and should be a very united one if Mr. Churbett
would leave off teasing me about what silly people say, and Mr. Forbes
would give up his sarcasms, Mr. Hamilton his logic, Mr. Argyll his
tempers, and so on. How I could improve you all, to be sure! But I mean
friends—that is, strangers—like Mr. Kinghart and Major Glendinning, that
are birds of passage. I can’t explain myself; but I’m sure there’s
something true and new about the idea.’
‘It may be quite true that young ladies prefer recently acquired friends
to those of long standing, but I am afraid it is not altogether new in
the history of the sex,’ said Mr. Forbes. ‘Still I think I understand
you, Miss Annabel. Which of the illustrious strangers do _you_ chiefly
honour with your regrets, Miss Beatrice?’
‘I mourn over Mr. Kinghart,’ said Beatrice, with instinctive defensive
art. ‘He is a library that can talk, and yet, like a library, prefers
silence. I wonder if one would ever get tired of listening to him, and
having everything so delightfully explained. He is sarcastic about
women, too. Perhaps he has been ill-treated by some thoughtless girl. I
should like to wither her.’
‘Why don’t you comfort him, Beatrice? Your love for reading would just
suit, or perhaps not suit,’ said Annabel. ‘You would have to toss up
which was to order dinner or make tea. I can see you both sitting in
easy-chairs, with your foreheads wrinkled up, reading away the whole
evening. I wonder if two poets or two authors ever agreed in married
life? Of course, he might scratch out her adjectives, or she might sneer
at his comic element. But, do you know, a thought strikes me. Don’t you
see a likeness to some one in the Major that you’ve seen before? I do,
and it haunts me.’
‘No, I never saw any one the _least_ like him; his expression, his
figure, his way of walking, riding, and talking are quite different from
other people. How a man’s life moulds him! I am sure I could tell what
half the men I see have been or _not_ been, quite easily, by their
appearance and ways.’
‘But did you notice his eyes?’
‘Well, they are soft, and yet piercing, which is unusual; but that is
all.’
‘On second thoughts I won’t say, lest I might be thought less sensible
even than I am. I have no capital to fall back upon in that respect.’
‘You do say such odd things, my dear Annabel. I think you ought to get
on with our last duet. You only half know your part.’
That a certain reaction follows hard upon the most unalloyed pleasure is
conceded. The dwellers at The Chase recognised a shade of monotony, even
of dulness, falling upon their uneventful lives as the friends and
visitors departed.