SUN. DEC. 9. Dead Man's Bend. Warrigal Alf down. Rescue twice.
Enlisted Terrible Tommy.
Now what would your novelist rede you from that record, if he had possession
of my diary? Something mysterious and momentous, no doubt, and probably
connected with buried treasure. Yet it is only the abstract and brief
chronicle of a fair average day; a day happy in having no history
worth mentioning; merely a drowsy morning, an idle mid-day,
and a stirring afternoon. Life is largely composed of such uneventful days;
and these are therefore most worthy of careful analysis.
How easy it is to recall the scene! The Lachlan river, filled by summer rains
far away among the mountains, to a width of something like thirty yards,
flowing silently past, and going to waste. Irregular areas of lignum,
hundreds of acres in extent, and eight or ten feet in height, representing
swamps; and long, serpentine reaches of the same, but higher in growth,
indicating billabongs of the river. The river itself fringed,
and the adjacent low ground dotted, with swamp box, river coolibah,
and red-gum--the latter small and stunted in comparison with the giants
of its species on the Murray and Lower Goulburn. On both sides of the river,
far as the eye can command, extend the level plains of black or light-red soil,
broken here and there by clumps and belts of swamp box, now cut off
from the line of the horizon by the quivering, glassy stratum
of the lower atmosphere.
And where the boundary fence of Mondunbarra and Avondale crosses the plain,
is seen a fair example of the mirage--that phenomenon so vaguely apprehended
in regions outside its domain, and so little noticed where repetition has made
it familiar. But there it is; no smoky-looking film on the plain,
no shimmering distortion of objects in middle-distance, but, to all appearance,
a fine sheet of silvery water, two hundred yards distant, about the same
in average width, and half-a-mile in length from right to left.
Both banks are clearly defined; irregular promontories jut far out
into the smooth water from each side; and the boundary fence crosses it,
post after post, in diminishing perspective, like any fence standing
in shallow, sunlit water. The most critical and deliberate examination can no
more detect evidence of phantasy in the unreal water than in the real fence.
The mirage is one of Nature's obscure and cheerless jokes;
and in this instance, as in some few others, she is beyond Art.
She even assists the illusion by a very slight depression of the plain
in the right place. In fact, an artist's picture of a mirage would be
his picture of a level-brimmed, unruffled lake; also, the most skilful
word-painter, in attempting to contrast the appearance of water with that
of its fac-simile, would become as confused and hazy as any clergyman taxed
to differentiate his creed from that of the mollah running the opposition.
And Nature, in taking this mirthless rise out of the spectator,
never repeats herself in the particulars of distance, area or configuration
of her simulacre; it may be a mere stripe across the road--the brown,
sinuous track disappearing beneath its surface, to re-appear on
the opposing shore--it may be no larger than a good gilgie; or it may be
the counterfeit presentment of a sheet of water, miles in extent,
though this last is rare.
A hot day is not an imperative condition of the true mirage; but the ground
must be open plain, or nearly so; the atmosphere must be clear,
and the ground thoroughly dry. It is worthy of notice that horses and cattle
are entirely insusceptible to the illusion. Another fact, not so noteworthy
in view of the general perversity of inanimate things, is, that you never see
a mirage when you are watching for it to decide an argument. It always
presents itself when you have no interest in it. In this quality
of irredeemable cussedness it resembles the emu's nest. No one ever found
that when he was looking for it; no one ever found it except he was
in a raging hurry, with a long stage to go, and no likelihood
of coming back by the same route.
To complete the picture--which I want you to carry in your mind's eye--you will
imagine Cleopatra and Bunyip standing under a coolibah--standing heads
and points, after the manner of equine mates; each switching the flies
and mosquitos off his comrade's face, and shivering them off such parts
of his own body as possessed the requisite faculty. And in the centre
of a clear place, a couple of hundred yards away, you may notice
a bullock-wagon, apparently deserted; the heavy wool-tarpaulin,
dark with dust and grease, thrown across the arched jigger, forming a tent
on the body, and falling over the wheels nearly to the ground, yet displaying
the outline of the Sydney pattern--which, as every schoolgirl knows,
differs from that of Riverina.
In the foreground of this picture, you may fancy the present annalist
lying--or, as lying is an ill phrase, and peculiarly inapplicable
just here--we'll say, reclining, pipe in mouth, on a patch of pennyroyal,
trying to re-peruse one of Ouida's novels, and thinking (ah! your worship's
a wanton) what a sweet, spicy, piquant thing it must be to be lured
to destruction by a tawny-haired tigress with slumbrous dark eyes.
No such romance for the annalist, poor man.
Such, then, was my benevolent and creditable allotment, such my unworthy
vagary, at the time this record opens. I had camped in the Dead Man's Bend
late on the previous evening, had wakened-up a little after sunrise,
and turned out a little after eleven. Then a dip in the river, to clear away
the cobwebs, and a breakfast which, if not high-toned in its accessories,
was at least enjoyed at a fashionable hour, had made me feel as if I wanted
a quiet smoke out of the gigantic meerschaum which I unpack only on
special occasions, and something demoralising to read.
But the austere pipe resented this unworthy alliance so strongly that,
for peace sake, I had to lay aside the literary Dead-Sea-apple.
Then I remembered the official letter I had received on the previous day.
I had merely glanced over it before acting on the orders it contained;
now I re-opened the document, and pharisaically contemplated the child-like
penmanship and Chaucer-like orthography of my superior officer:--
Sydney 28/11/83</DATELINE>
Mr T Collins
Dr sir
Haveing got 3 months leave of Abscence you are hereby
requested to be extra atentive to the Interests of the
Dept not haveing me to reffer to in Cases of difeculty
or to recieve instructions from me which is not
practicacable on account of me being in the other Colonys.
I write this principaly to aquaint you Communication
from Mr Donaldson Mr Strong Mr Jeffrey representives
will meet you at Poondoo on monday 10 prox re matter
in dispute. Keep this apointment without fail
comunnicate with central Office pending further Orders from me.
Ynnnnnnnnly
R Wmlnlnllnn
I was now on my way to keep the "apointment." I was still about twenty miles
from Poondoo; and the next day would be "monday 10 prox." I intended to start
again at about two o'clock; so I had still a couple of hours to spend
in what civilians call rest, and soldiers, fatigue; whilst studying
such problems as might present themselves for solution. Pup was safe
by my side, and I had nothing to trouble myself about. A thought
of the transitoriness and uncertainty of life did occur to me, as it has done
to thinkers and non-thinkers of all ages; but I deftly applied the reflection
to my superior officer, and so turned everything to commodity.
The unfortunate young fellow, I thought, is a confirmed invalid, sure enough.
A trip round the colonies may liven him up a bit, or, on the other hand,
it may not; and, if he returns, it is to be hoped that kind hands will soothe
his pillow, and so forth; and when, with dirges due, in sad array,
they have performed the last melancholy offices, I trust that some one will
be found to dress, with simple hands, his rural tomb. I would do it myself,
for, as the poet says, "Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns."
A sweet fancy, but not so filling as the cognate reflection----
"Ha-a-ay!"
Somebody calling from the other side of the river; probably some forlorn
and shipwreck'd brother, looking for his mates--The cognate reflection,
namely, that nothing withdraws but it leaves room for a successor.
And this successor--thus favoured by a Providence which has kindly supervised
the fall of the antecedent sparrow--will be entitled to live in
a four-roomed weatherboard house, with the water laid-on, and a flower-garden
up to the footpath, and a few silver-pencilled Hamburgs in the back yard,
and everything comfortable. Ah, me! it is the thought of the dove----
"Ha-a-a-ay!"
Peace! peace! Orestes--like, I breathe this prayer. Thy comrades
are sleeping; go sleep thou with them.----The thought of the dove
that has suggested this fairy picture of the dovecote. And something tells me
that Jim Quarterman is not likely to forget a certain cavalier who called
one day about a dog. Doubtless her memory holds him enshrined as a person
of scientific attainments and courtly address; offering a contrast, I trust,
to the uninteresting hayseeds who have come under her purview.
And will he not come again? Yea, Jim, mystery and revelation as thou art!
he will come again, to lay at thy shapely and substantial feet
the trophy of an----
"Ha-a-a-a-ay!"
Ay, lay thee down and roar--Of an Assistant-Sub-Inspectorship. Ah, Jim!
tentatively beloved (so to speak) by this solitary, but by no means desolate,
heart!--setting aside the rises I would take out of thy artlessness,
and the way I would whip thy simplicity with my fine wit till thou wert
as crestfallen as a dried pear--I confess a spontaneous thought associated
with the mental carte-de-visite of thy wholesome avoirdupois. No less,
indeed, than the psychological recognition of an angel-influence----
"Ha-a-a-a-a-ay!"
In vain! in vain! strike other chords! You can call spirits from the vasty
deep; but will they come when you do call for them?--An angel-influence,
tangible, visible, audible, which would make Jordan the easiest of all roads
to travel by thy side. Peerless Jim! crowning triumph of Darwinian Evolution
from the inert mineral, through countless hairy and uninviting types!
how precious the inexplicable vital spark which, nevertheless, robs
thy sculptured form of all cash Gallery-value; and how easy to read in that
gentle personality a satisfying comment on the concluding lines of Faust :
The Woman-Soul leadeth us
Upward and on.
A double meaning there, by my faith! Alas! poor little Jim! go thy ways,
die when thou wilt; for Maud Beaudesart comes----
"H a-a--a-a-a-a-a y!"
Rest, rest, perturbed spirit. By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
now wherefore stop'st thou me?--For Maud Beaudesart comes o'er my memory
as doth the raven o'er the infected house. Get thee to a nunnery, Jim.
The chalk-mark is on my door; for Mrs. B. has no less than three
consecutive husbands in heaven--so potently has her woman-soul proved
its capacity for leading people upward and on. Methinks I perceive a new
and sinister meaning in the Shakespearean love-song:--
Come away, come away, death;
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.
Nicely put, no doubt; but the importance of a departure depends
very much on the----
"Ha-a-a-a-a-a-ay!"
No appearance, your worship. Call for Enobarbus; he will not hear thee, or,
from Caesar's camp, say 'I am none of thine.'----On the value of the departed.
For instance, when a man of property departs, he leaves his possessions
behind--a fact noticed by many poets--and the man himself is replaced
without cost. When a well-salaried official departs--such as a Royal Falconer,
or a Master of the Buckhounds, or an Assistant-Sub-Inspector he perforce
leaves his billet behind; and we wish him bon voyage to whichever port
he may be bound. But when a philosopher departs in this untimely fashion,
he leaves nothing----
"Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay!"
And echo answers, 'Ha-a-a-a-ay!' Authority melts from you,
apparently.--Leaves nothing but a few rudimentary theories, of no use
to anyone except the owner, inasmuch as no one else can develop them properly;
just a few evanescent footprints on the sands of Time, which would require
only a certain combination of age and facilities for cohesion to mature
into Mammoth-tracks on the sandstone of Progress. All on the debit side
of Civilisation's ledger, you observe. Consequently, he doesn't long
to leave these fading scenes, that glide so quickly by. And when the poet
holds it truth that men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves
to higher things, he is simply talking when he ought to be sleeping it off
in seclusion. I understand how a man may rise on the stepping-stone
of his defunct superior officer to higher things; but his dead self--it won't
do, Alfred; it won't do. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
as if the clouds its echo would repeat.----
"Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay!"
Who is he whose grief bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
makes the very lignum quiver in sympathy? It may not be amiss
to look round and see.
So I turned my head, and saw, on the opposite side of the river, about eighty
yards away, a man on a grey horse. I rose, and advanced toward the bank.
"Why, Mosey," said I, "is that you? How does your honour for this many a day?
Where are you camped?"
"Across here. Tell Warrigal Alf his carrion's on the road for
Yoongoolee yards, horse an' all; an' from there they'll go to Booligal pound
if he ain't smart. I met them just now."
"Where shall I find Alf?"
"Ain't his wagon bitin' you--there in the clear? You ain't a bad hand
at sleepin'--no, I 'm beggared if you are. I bin bellerin' at you
for two hours, dash near."
"Who has got the bullocks, Mosey?"
"Ole Sollicker."
"Couldn't you get them from him yourself?"
"I did n't try. I was glad to see them goin'; on'y I begun to think after,
thinks I, it 's a pity o' the poor misforchunate carrion walkin' all that way,
free gracious for nothin'; an' p'r'aps a trip to Booligal pound on top of it;
an' them none too fat. But I 'm glad for Alf. I hate that beggar.
I would n't len' him my knife to cut up a pipe o' tobacker, not if his tongue
was stickin' out as long as yer arm. I was n't goin' to demean myself
to tell him about his carrion, nyther; on'y I knowed your horses when I
seen them; an' by-'n'-by I spotted you where you was layin' down,
sleepin' fit to break yer neck; an' I bin hollerin' at you till I 'm black
in the face. I begun to think you was drunk, or dead, or somethin'--bust you."
And with this address, which I give in bowdlerised form, the young fellow
turned his horse, and disappeared through a belt of lignum.
I walked across to the bullock-wagon. The camp had a strangely desolate
and deserted appearance. Three yokes lay around, with the bows and keys
scattered about; and there was no sign of a camp-fire. Under the wagon
lay a saddle and bridle, and beside them the swollen and distorted body
of Alf's black cattle-dog--probably the only thing on earth that had loved
the gloomy misanthrope. I lifted the edge of the hot, greasy tarpaulin,
and looked on the flooring of the wagon, partly covered with heavy coils
of wool-rope, and the spare yokes and chains.
"A drink of water, for God's sake!" said a scarcely intelligible whisper,
from the suffocating gloom of the almost air-tight tent.
I threw the tarpaulin back off the end of the wagon, and ran to the river
for a billy of water. Then, vaulting on the platform, I saw Alf lying
on his blankets, apparently helpless, and breathing heavily,
his face drawn and haggard with pain. I raised his head, and held the billy
to his lips; but, being in too great a hurry, I let his head slip off my hand,
and most of the water spilled over his throat and chest. He shrank
and shivered as the cool deluge seemed to fizz on his burning skin,
but drank what was left, to the last drop.
"Now turn me over on the other side, or I'll go mad," he whispered.
He shuddered and groaned as I touched him, but, with one hand under
his shoulders, and the other under his bent and rigid knees, I slowly
turned him on the other side.
"Would n't you like to lie on your back for a change?" I asked.
"No, no," he whispered excitedly; "my heels might slip, and straighten
my knees. Another drink of water, please."
I brought a second billy of water, but he turned from it with disgust.
"If you could make a sort of an effort, Alf," I suggested.
He treated me to a half-angry, half-reproachful look, and turned away his face.
I rose to my feet, and rolled back the tarpaulin half-way along the jigger,
for the heat was still suffocating.
"Is there anything more I can do for you just now, Alf?" I asked presently.
"More water." I gave him a drink out of a pannikin; and, as I laid his head
down again, he continued, in the same painful whisper, and with frequent
pauses, "Have you any idea where my bullocks are?--I was trying to keep them
here--in this corner of Mondunbarra--and they're reasonably safe
unless--unless the Chinaman knows the state I'm in--but if they cross
the boundary into Avondale--Tommy will hunt them over the river,
and--Sollicker will get them."
It must be remembered that Alf was camped at the junction of three runs;
Yoongoolee lay along the opposite side of the river, whilst on our side,
Mondunbarra and Avondale were separated by a boundary fence which ran
into the water a few yards beyond where the wagon stood. The fence,
much damaged by floods, was repaired merely to the sheep-proof standard.
The wagon was in Mondunbarra.
"They're across the river now, Alf. Mosey Price told me so,
not twenty minutes ago."
"Across the river!" hissed Alf, half-rising and then falling heavily back,
whilst a low moan mingled with the furious grinding of his teeth.
"They 've got into Avondale, and Tommy has hunted them across!
May the holy"--&c., &c. "Never mind. Let them go. I've had enough of it.
If other people are satisfied, I'm sure I am."
"Who is she?" I thought; and I was just lapsing into my Hamlet-mood----
"Collins!"
"Yes, Alf."
"Would you be kind enough to lift my dog into the wagon? I have n't been able
to call him lately, but he won't be far off."
"Bad news for you, Alf. The poor fellow got a bait somewhere, and came home
to die. He 's lying under the wagon, beside your saddle."
The outlaw turned away his face. 'Short of being Swift,' says Taine;
'one must love something.' (Ay, and short of being too morally slow
to catch grubs, one must hate something. See, then, that you hate
prayerfully and judiciously).
While I was thinking that every minute's delay would make my journey
after the bullocks a little longer, Alf suddenly looked round.
"You need n't stay here," said he sharply--thin blades of articulation
shooting here and there through his laboured whisper, as the water
he had drunk took effect on his swollen tongue. "If you would come again
in an hour, and give me another turn-over, you would be doing more for me
than I would do for you. What day is this?"
"Sunday, December the ninth."
He pondered awhile. "I 've lost count of the days. What time is it?"
"Between one and two, I should think. My watch is at the bottom
of the Murray."
"Afternoon, of course. I think I ought to be dead by this time to-morrow.
What's keeping you here? I want to be alone."
"Don't talk nonsense, Alf. I'll pull you through, if I can only hit
the complaint. Have you any symptoms?"
"I don't know. I don't know. I was gradually getting worse and worse
for a week, or more; but still able to yoke up a few quiet bullocks
to shift the wagon every day; till at last, one night, I just managed
to climb in here, to get away from the mosquitos. I don't know what night
it was, or how the time has passed since then. Just look at my arms,
if you have any curiosity; but don't dare to prescribe for me.
I had enough of your doctoring at the Yellow Tank--blast you!"
Without heeding his reminiscence, which has no connection with the present
memoir, I untied an old boot-lace which fastened one of his wristbands,
and drew up the sleeve. The long, sinewy arm, now wet and clammy from
the effect of the water he had drunk, was helpless and shapeless, round and
rigid; the elbow-joint set at a right-angle, and extremely sensitive to pain.
"There," said he, with a quivering groan; "the other arm is just the same,
and so are my knees and ankles; and my head's fit to burst; and I'm one mass
of pains all over. It's all up with me, Collins. Now I only ask one favour
of you--and that is to get out of my sight."
"I'll be back in two or three hours, Alf," said I, rising. "Keep your mind
as easy as possible, and see if you can doze off to sleep."
So I returned to my own camp, and, with all speed, caught and equipped
Cleopatra. Then, after chaining Pup in a shady place, I stowed some
smoking-tackle in the crown of the soft hat I wore; then shed apparel
till I was like the photo. of some champion athlete; finally, I stuck
the spare clothes, with the rest of my riches, among the branches
of a coolibah, out of the way of the wild pigs. The next moment,
I was in the saddle, and Cleopatra, after perfunctorily illustrating
Demosthenes' three rules of oratory:--the first, Action; the second,
ditto, the third, ibid.--turned obediently toward the river, and was soon
breasting the cool current, while, with one arm across the saddle,
I steered him for the most promising landing-place on the opposite bank.
(Let me remark here, that the man who knows no better than to remain
in the saddle after his horse has lost bottom, ought never to go out of sight
of a bridge. He is the sort of adventurer that is brought to light,
a week afterward, per medium of a grappling-hook in the hollow of his eye.
Perhaps the best plan of all--though no hero of romance could do
such a thing--is to hang on to the horse's tail. Also, never wait
for an emergency to make sure that your mount can swim. Many a man has lost
his life through the helpless floundering of a horse bewildered by first
and sudden experience of deep water).
My landing-place happened to be none of the best. After clearing the water,
it required all Cleopatra's strength and activity to climb the bank.
Having slipped into the saddle as he regained footing, I was lying flat
against the side of his neck, to help his centre of gravity and give him
a hold with his front feet, when he brushed under a low coolibah,
and the spur of a broken branch or something started at the neck
of the undergarment which I cannot bring myself to name, and ripped it
to the very tail, nearly dragging me off the saddle. When we reached
level ground, the vestment alluded to was hanging, wet and sticky, on my arms,
like a child's pinny unfastened behind, or, to use a more elegant simile,
like the front half of a herald's tabard. What I should have done
was to have reversed the thing, and put it on like a jacket; but, being
in a desperate hurry, and slightly annoyed by the accident, and not feeling
the sun after just leaving the water, I whipped the rag off altogether,
and threw it aside. In two seconds more, Cleopatra was stretching away,
with his long, eager, untiring stride, towards Yoongoolee home-station,
distant about sixteen miles.
Slackening speed now and then to cross creeks and rough places,
I found myself following a pad, and noticed the fresh tracks of the bullocks,
mile after mile. At last I heard across the lignum the jangle of a brass bell,
and the 'plock, plock' of an iron frog, and presently my quarry appeared
in sight a couple of hundred yards ahead.
To do the boundary-rider justice, he was driving the cattle quietly
and considerately. He looked round on hearing the clatter of horse's feet,
but my Mazeppa aspect seemed neither to surprise nor disconcert him.
He was n't altogether a stranger to me. For several years I had known him
by sight as a solid, phlegmatic man, on a solid, phlegmatic cob; and I suppose
he had his own crude estimate of me, though we had never had occasion
to exchange civilities.
But now, after a five miles' chase, the sight of the man acted on my moral
nature as vinegar is erroneously supposed to act on nitre. I reined-up
beside him. The Irresistible was about to encounter the Immovable;
and, even in the excitement of the time, I awaited the result with
scientific interest. When a collision of this kind takes place, it sometimes
happens that the Irresistible bounces off in a more or less damaged state;
at other times, the Immovable is scattered to the four winds of heaven
in the form of scrap, while the Irresistible, slightly checked, perhaps,
in speed, sails on its way. But you can never tell.
"Where are you taking these bullocks?" I demanded in a tone which,
I am sorry to say, reflected as little credit on my politeness
as on my philosophy.
"Steation yaads," he replied indifferently, and with a strong English accent.
"Did you take them off purchased land?" I asked, eyeing him keenly.
"Oi teuk 'e (animals) horf of 'e run," he remarked, rather than replied,
without condescending to look at me.
"Do you know what day this is?" I inquired magisterially.
"Zabbath," he replied kindly.
"And do you know there's a new act passed--'Parkes's Act,' they call it--that
makes the removing of working-bullocks from pastoral leasehold, on Sundays,
a misdemeanour, punishable by a term of imprisonment not exceeding
twelve months, with or without hard labour?"
"Granny!" he remarked.
Driven back in disorder, I hurried up my second line.----
"Do you know who these bullocks belong to?" I inquired ominously.
Something akin to a smile flickered round the shaven lips of the descendant
of Hengist as, contemplating the lop ears of his horse, he observedly
contentedly,
"Ees, shure; an' 'hat's f'r w'y Oi be a-teakin' of 'em."
"Well, Alf's laid-up; not able to look after them"----
"Oi 've 'eard 'at yaan afoor."
----"so I've come to take them back, and leave them at his camp
on Mondunbarra."
"Horrite. Oi wants wun-an'-twenty bob horf o' you afoor 'em (bullocks)
tehns reaoun'."
"Will you have it now, or wait till you get it?" I asked, betrayed
by the annoyance of the moment into a species of vulgarity unbecoming
an officer and gentleman. "I don't mind paying you the money, provided
it clears the bullocks for the future--not otherwise. In the meantime
I'm going to take them back-pay or no pay."
"Be 'e a-gwean to resky 'em?" he inquired, slightly reining his hippopotamus,
and looking me frankly in the face, whilst an almost merry twinkle
animated his small blue eyes.
"By no means," I replied suavely; and we rode together for a few minutes
in silence.
I had wakened the wrong man. The Immovable had scored, simply because
he was a person of one idea, and that idea panoplied in impenetrable ignorance.
A compound idea, by the way: namely, that Alf's bullocks were going
to the station yards, and that he, Fitz-Hengist, was taking them there.
All this was apparent to me as I regarded him out of the comer of my eye.
"Foak bea n't a-gwean ter walk on hutheh foak," he remarked calmly.
"A gentleman against the world for bull-headedness," I sneered, aiming,
in desperation, at the heel by which mother Nature had held him during
his baptism in the thick, slab bath of undiluted oxy-obstinacy
(scientific symbol, Jn Bl).
"Hordehs is hordehs," he argued, as the good arrow-point penetrated
his epidermis, fair in the vulnerable spot.
I laughed contemptuously. "Fat lot you care for orders! A man in your position
talking about orders! Get out!"
"Wot's a (person) to diew?" The point was forcing its way through
the sensitive second-skin, or cutis.
"Do!" I repeated, with increasing scorn. "Strikes me, you can do pretty well
as you like on this station."
"Bea n't Oi a-diewin' my diewty?" he asked in wavering expostulation--the point
now settling in the vascular tissues.
"It's in the blood, right enough," I retorted, with insolent frankness,
and still regarding him out of the comer of my eye. "I believe you're
Viscount Canterbury's brother, on the wrong side of the blanket."
"Keep 'e tempeh; keep 'e tempeh," said he deprecatingly, as the poison
filtered through his system. "Zpeak 'e moind feear atwixt man an' man.
Bea n't Oi a-diewin' wot Oi be a-peead f'r diewin'? Coomh!"
"Well, you are a rum character," I remarked, judiciously assisting the action
of the virus. "I'm surprised at a gentleman in your position making excuses
like that. Do you know"--and my tones became soft and confidential--"something
struck me that you were an Englishman." (Even this was n't too strong).
"I wish you were, both for my sake and your own. However, that can't
be helped. Now, for the future, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing
that you had your own way, and that you walked a man's bullocks off
to the yard while he was helpless. Yes, sir; I 'm glad you're not
an Englishman. But the sun's too hot for my bare skin, so I must be
getting back; and if I've said anything to offend you, I 'm sorry for it,
and I beg your pardon." Then, still regarding him out of the comer of my eye,
I turned Cleopatra slowly round.
"'Ole 'aad!" he snorted. "Oi calls 'e a (adj.) feul!"
With this sop to his own dignity, the boundary man slapped his Episcopalian
charger round the barrel--not round the flank, for the animal had none--with
his doubled cart-whip, and turned off the track at a right-angle, beckoning me
to follow. When he had gone twenty yards, he pulled steadily on one rein
and, so to speak, wore his ship of the plains round till we faced the cattle
again--for I had simultaneously pirouetted Cleopatra on one hind foot.
"Fetch 'em back, Jack," said he authoritatively. "Put 'em weare 'e got 'em,
an' leab'm boide. Iggerant (people) we be; dunno nuffik; carnt diew
noffik roight."
The black collie was sitting where he had stopped on the instant that we had
turned off; sitting with his head slightly canted to one side; one ear limp
and pendant, the other partly erect, and with something like a smile
on his expectant face. On hearing the order, he made a wide circuit round
the cattle, and quietly turned them back along the track, where he followed
them as before. Meanwhile, Sollicker sullenly slipped off his linen coat,
and handed it to me with a low growl. I thanked him with great sincerity,
and put it on.
But his glance at me as we fell-in behind the cattle seemed to demand
further appreciation; and I was not slow to respond--partly from a sense
of obligation, but principally from a broadening hope of extended concession.
I had already selected him as a singularly eligible guardian for Alf's
bullocks; and I knew that if I could once get him to accept the trust,
nothing short of dynamite would shift him. But the seduction of a
direct-action, single-cylinder purpose is a contract not to be taken by any
of your mushroom mental firms; and this was a large order. Of course,
the diplomatic flunkey-touch of nature has served as a letter of introduction
to the man; now I would follow up the national phase of this delicate
point of contact.
"No use," I remarked doggedly. "I give it up. I can't find words.
This is not a personal favour. It's an evidence of the principle that makes
an Englishman respected all over the world. All over the world, sir; for,
you know, the sun follows the English drum-beat right round the earth.
Now, I can't flatter you; I'd see you in the bottomless pit first;
I'm above anything of that kind; it sort of sticks in my throat; but I can
assure you that, in all my experience"----
"'Ees, 'ees; 'at 's horrite; 'at 's horrite. What d'y' think o' thet
(collie) f'r a dorg?"
There was impatience in the first half of the speech, and arrogance
in the last. I eased off, and took the branch track.
"He just knocks spots off any dog I've seen working cattle!" I burst-out.
"But you can't beat the Scotch collie"----
"Scotch coolie be dang! Doan' 'e know a Smiffiel' coolie? Chork an' cheese,
Oi calls 'em."
"Smithfield collie, of course! Did I say Scotch collie? Of course,
the Smithfield collie has been in good hands for hundreds of years;
and when you get the pure breed--Just look at that dog! How did you get such
a dog as that? Bred him yourself, I suppose?"
"Noa," he replied good-naturedly. "Oi g'e 'e foor moor troys. Coomh!"
"Bought him a pup?"
"Troy ageean."
"Got him a present?"
"Troy ageean?"
"Found him?"
"Not dezackly. Troy ageean."
I shook my head hopelessly, though I could have suggested another title
to the ownership of dogs--a very common one, too, and good enough till
the proper person comes interfering. Boys' dogs are generally held
under this tenure. My companion, seeing me at fault, remarked
with elephantine waggishness,
"'At (dog) coomed deaoun t' me f'm ebm!"
I assumed the look of a man who conceals staggering bewilderment under
the transparent disguise of incredulity; and Sollicker, looking, like Thurlow,
wiser than any man ever was, enjoyed my discomfiture as much as he was capable
of enjoying anything. Then he proceeded with great deliberation to interpret
his oracular utterance; but first, with a powerful facial exertion,
he wrenched his mouth and nose to one side, inhaling vigorously through
the lee nostril, then cleared his throat with the sound of a strongly-driven
wood-rasp catching on an old nail, and sent the result whirling from his mouth
at a butterfly on a stem of lignum--sent it with such accurate calculation
of the distance of his object, the trajectory of his missile, and the pace
of his horse, that the mucous disc smote the ornamental insect fair
on the back, laying it out, never to rise again. This was but a ceremonious
prologue, intended to deepen the impression of the coming revelation.
"Useter 'ev a 'oss Oi'd ketch hanyweares. 'Wo, Bob! 'n' 'ud stan' loike
a statoot t' Oi'd ketch 'e (animal), 'n' git onter 'im 'n' shove me hutheh
'osses in 'e yaad, 'n' ketch wich (one) Oi want. B't 'e doid hautumn afoor
las'--leas'ways, 'e got 'ees 'oine leg deaoun a crack, an' cou'n't recoverate,
loike; f'r 'e (beast) wur moo'n twenty y'r ole, 'n' stun blin', 'e wur.
Ahterwahs, by gully! Oi got pepper-follerin' ahteh me 'osses hevery mo'nin'
afoot. Wet 'n' droy; day hin, day heaout; tiew, three, foor heaours runnin';
'n' 'ey (horses) spankin' abeaout, kickin' oop 'er 'eels loike wun o'clock.
'Ed ter wark 'em deaoun afoot, loike."
"But why did n't you hobble them?"
His face reddened slightly. "Me 'obble my 'osses! Tell 'e wot, lad:
'at 's f'r w'y 'e C'lonian 'osses bea n't no good, aside o' Hinglish 'osses.
Ain't got n' moor g-ts 'n a snoipe. G-ts shooked outen 'em a-gallerpin'
in 'obbles. Tell 'e, Oi seed my (horses) a-gallerpin' foor good heaours,
'n' me ahteh 'em all 'e toime. Noo 'osses 'ud dure sich gallerpin' in 'obbles.
Doan' 'e preach 'obbles ter me, lad. Oi got good 'osses; noo man betteh;
'osses fit f'r a gentleman; on'y C'lonian 'osses 'es C'lonian fau'ts--ahd
ter ketch--'ell ter ketch. Fifteen monce--hevery day on it--wet 'n' droy;
day hin, day heaout; tiew, three, foor heaours runnin'; 'n' 'ey (horses)
spankin' abeaout, kickin' oop 'er 'eels loike wun o'clock, 'n' gittin' wuss 'n'
wuss, steed o' betteh 'n' betteh. Toimes, Oi see me a'moos' losin' tempeh."
I turned away my face to conceal my emotion. Sollicker went on----
"Accohdbl', wun mo'nin' las' winteh, heaout Oi goos, o' course; 'n' my 'osses
'ed n't n' moo 'rn stahted trampin' loike; 'n' heverythink quiet 's zabbath,
'n' nubbody abeout f'r moiles; 'n' horf goos 'em 'osses loike billy-o; horf
'ey goos 'arf-ways reaoun' 'he paddick, 'n' inter 'e stockyaad 'n' 'ere
'ey boides; 'n' 'at dorg a-settin' in 'e panel, a-watchin' of 'em, loike Neaow,
'ow d'ye ceaount f'r 'at, lad? Doan' 'at nonpulse 'e? Coomh!"
"It does, indeed! You did n't put him on the horses?"
"Noa, s'elp me bob. Neveh clapped heyes honter 'im, not t' Oi seed 'im hahteh
my 'osses, a-yaadin' of 'em f'r me. My Missus, she 'lows a hangel fetched 'e
(dog) deaown f'm ebm! At 's w'y Oi calls 'm 'Jack'."
"I see!" said I admiringly. Which, the censorious reader will not fail
to notice, marked a slight deflection from my moral code. "And he stayed
with you, sir?"
"Follered hahteh me 'oss's 'eels heveh since. (Dog) dews heverythink loike
a Christian--heverythink b't tork. Hevery mo'nin', hit 's 'Cyows, Jack;
we's y' cyows?' An' horf goos Jack, 'ees hown self, 'n' fetches 'e cyows.
Hahteh breakfas' hit 's ''Osses, Jack; fetch y' 'osses'. An' horf trots Jack,
'n' presinkly 'e 'osses be in 'e yaad, 'n' 'e (dog) a-settin' in 'e panel,
a-watchin' of 'em."
"Beats all!" I murmured, thinking how the Munchausens run in all shapes;
then, desiring to minister occasion to this somewhat clumsy practitioner,
I continued, "I suppose you drop across some whoppers of snakes
in your rounds, sir?"
"Sceace none. Hain't seed b't wun f'r tiew year pas'; 'n' 'e (reptile)
wah n't noo biggeh 'n me w'ip-an'l."
"Grand horse you're riding," I remarked, after a pause.
This neatly-placed comment opened afresh Solicker's well of English undefiled;
and another hour passed pleasantly enough, except that Alf's bullocks preyed
on my mind, and I wanted them to prey on Yoongoolee instead. I therefore
modestly opened my mouth in parable, recounting some half-dozen noteworthy
reminiscences, as they occurred to my imagination, and always slightly
or scornfully referring to the magnanimous and indomitable hero of my yarn
as 'one of these open-hearted English fools,' or as 'an ass of a John Bull
that had n't sense enough to mind his own business.' These apologues
all seemed to point toward chivalrous succour of the helpless and afflicted
as a conspicuous weakness of the English character; and Sollicker listened
with a stolid approbation unfortunately altogether objective in character.
I never dealt better since I was a man. No one has dealt better since
Antony harangued the Sollickers of his day on dead Caesar's behalf;
but I differed from Antony so largely in result that the comparison
is seriously disturbed. There was no more spring in my auditor than in a bag
of sand. The honest fellow's double-breasted ignorance stood solidly
in the way, rendering prevarication or quibble, or any form of subterfuge
unnecessary on his part. He merely formed himself into a hollow square
and casually glanced at the impossibility of those particular bullocks
loafing on his paddock. If they came across the river again, he would
hunt them back into Mondunbarra--he would do that much--but Muster M'Intyre's
orders were orders. Two bullock drivers (here a truculent look came over
the retainer's face) had selected in sight of the very wool-shed;
and now all working bullocks found loafing on the run were to be yarded
at the station--this lot being specially noticed, for Muster M'Intyre
had a bit of a derry on Alf.
By way of changing the subject, Sollicker became confidential. He had been
in his present employ ever since his arrival in the country, ten years before,
and had never set foot outside the run during that time. He was married,
three years ago come Boxing Day, to the station bullockdriver's daughter;
a girl who had been in service at the house, but could n't hit it
with the missus. Muster M'Intyre wanted to see him settled down,
and had fetched the parson a-purpose to do the job. He had only one
of a family; a little boy, called Roderick, in honour of Muster M'Intyre.
His own name (true to the 9th rule of the Higher Nomenology) was
Edward Stanley Vivian--not Zedekiah Backband, as the novel-devouring reader
might be prone to imagine--and his age was forty-four. If I knew anyone
in straits for a bit of ready cash, I was to send that afflicted person
to him for relief. He liked to oblige people; and his tariff was fifteen
per cent. per annum; but the security must be unexceptionable.
I gave him some details of Alf's sickness, and asked whether he had
any medicine at home--Pain-killer, by preference. I have great faith
in this specific; and I'll tell you the reason.
A few years before the date of these events, it had been my fortune to be
associated, in arduous and unhealthy work, with fifteen or twenty
fellow-representatives of the order of society which Daniel O'Connell
was accustomed to refer to as 'that highly important and respectable class,
the men of no property'--true makers of history, if the fools only knew,
or could be taught, their power and responsibility. Occasionally one of these
potential rulers and practical slaves would come to me with white lips
and unsteady pace----
"I say, Tom; I ain't a man to jack-up while I got a sanguinary leg to stan' on;
but I'm gone in the inside, some road. I jist bin slingin' up every
insect-infected sanguinary thing I've et for the last month; an' I 'm as weak
as a sanguinary cat. I must ding it. Mebbe I'll be right to-morrow,
if I jist step over to the pub., an' git"----
Here I would stop him, and endeavour to establish a diagnosis. But a man
with the vocabulary of a Stratford wool-comber (whatever a woolcomber may be)
of the 16th century--a vocabulary of about two hundred and fifty words,
mostly obscene--is placed at a grave disadvantage when confronted by
scientific terminology; and my patient, casting symptomatic precision
to the winds, and roughly averaging his malady, would succinctly describe
himself as sanguinary bad. That was all that was wrong with him.
Nevertheless, having a little theory of my own respecting sickness,
I always undertook to grapple with the complaint. I had noticed as a singular
feature in Pain-killer, that the more it is diluted, the more unspeakably
nauseous and suffocating it becomes; wherefore, my medicine chest consisted
merely of a couple of bottles of this rousing drug. My practice was to exhibit
half-a-dozen tablespoonfuls of the panacea in a quart of oxide of hydrogen
(vulgarly known as water). When my patient had swallowed that lot,
I caused him to lie down in some shady place till the internal conflagration
produced by the potent long-sleever had subsided to cherry-red; and then
sent him back to his work like a giant refreshed with new wine. I never knew
one of those potentates to be sick the second time.
Sollicker did n't know whether his wife had any medicine, but we could see.
Accordingly, when the twenty bullocks and the horse had landed themselves
on Mondunbarra, close to Alf's camp, we started at a canter, and, after riding
a couple of miles, pulled up at a comfortable two-roomed cottage,
half-concealed by the drooping, silvery foliage of a clump of myall.
Sollicker turned his moke loose in the paddock; I tied my horse to the fence;
and we entered the house. A tall, slight, sunburnt, and decidedly handsome
young woman, with a brown moustache, was replenishing the fire.
"Theas (gentleman) 'e be a-wantin' zoom zorter vizik f'r a zick man,"
remarked the boundary rider, taking a seat.
"D----d if I know whether I got any," replied his wife, with kindly concern,
and with an easy mastery of expression seldom attained by her sex.
"I'll fine out in about two twinklin's of a goat's tail. Sit down an' rest
your weary bones, as the sayin' is. I shoved the kettle on when I seen you
comin'." She opened a box, and produced a small, octagonal blue bottle,
which she held up to the light. "Chlorodyne," she explained; "an there's
some left, better luck. Good thing to keep about the house, but it ain't
equal to Pain-killer for straightenin' a person up." She handed me the bottle,
and proceeded to lay the table. I endeavoured to make friends with Roddy,
but he was very shy, as bush children usually are.
"He's a fine little fellow, ma'am," I remarked. "How old is he?"
"He was two years an' seven months on last Friday week," she replied,
with ill-concealed vainglory.
"No, no," said I petulantly. "What is his age, really and truly?"
"Jist what I told you!" she replied, with a sunny laugh. "Think I was tryin'
to git the loan o' you? Well, so help me God! There!"
"Helenar!" murmured her husband sadly. And, as he spoke, an inch
of Helenar's tongue shot momentarily into view as she turned her comely face,
overflowing with merriment, toward me.
"My ole man was cut out for a archdeacon," she remarked. "I tell him
it's all in the way a person takes a thing. But it's better to be that way
nor the other way; an' he ain't a bad ole sort--give the divil his due.
Anyway, that's Roddy's age, wrote in his Dad's Bible."
I laid my hand on the boundary rider's shoulder. "Look here, sir,"
said I impressively: "you're an Englishman, and you're proud of your country;
but I tell you we're going to have a race of people in these provinces
such as the world has never seen before." And, as I looked at the child,
I drifted into a labyrinth of insoluble enigmas and perplexing hypotheses--no
new thing with me, as the sympathetic reader is by this time well aware.
The boundary rider shook his head. "Noa," he replied dogmatically.
"Climate plays ole Goozeb'ry wi' heverythink hout 'ere. C'lonians bea n't got
noo chest, n' mo'n a greyhound." And he placed his hand on his own abdomen
to emphasise his teaching. "W'y leuk at 'er; leuk at 'ee ze'f; leuk at
'e 'oss, ev'n. Ees, zhure; an' Roddy'll be jis' sich anutheh.
Pore leetle (weed)!"
He took the child on his knee with an air of hopeless pity, and awkwardly
but tenderly wiped the little fellow's nose. I was still lost in thought.
We are the merest tyros in Ethnology. Nothing is easier than to build
Nankin palaces of porcelain theory, which will fall in splinters before
the first cannon-shot of unparleying fact. What authority had the boundary man
or I to dogmatise on the Coming Australian? Just the same authority
as Marcus Clarke, or Trollope, or Froude, or Francis Adams--and that is
exactly none. Deductive reasoning of this kind is seldom safe. Who,
for instance, could have deduced, from certain subtly interlaced conditions
of food, atmosphere, association, and what not, the development of those
silky honours which grace the upper lip of the Australienne? No doubt
there are certain occult laws which govern these things; but we have n't even
mastered the laws themselves, and how are we going to forecast their operation?
Here was an example: Vivian was a type Englishman, of his particular
sub-species; his wife was a type Australienne, of the station-bullock-driver
species; and their little boy was almost comically Scottish in features,
expression, and bearing. Where are your theories now? Atavism is
inadmissible; and fright is the thinnest and most unscientific subterfuge
extant. The coming Australian is a problem.
Mrs. Vivian overwhelmed me with instructions concerning Alf, and frankly
urged me to hurry back to his assistance. I paid little heed to her advice,
for I knew he would soon come round; and in the meantime, my mind was fully
occupied with his team. After drinking a cup of tea, I shook hands with her,
and lingered at the door, looking at her husband, as he amused himself
with Roddy.
"I'll leave your coat on the fence, Mr. Vivian," said I at length.
"Horrite."
"You want to be as lively as God'll let you," said the excellent woman,
accompanying me to my horse. "I won't be satisfied till I see you off."
Very well, thought I; on your own head be it. So I took off the linen coat,
and handed it to her.
"You should 'a' kep' on a inside shirt," she remarked kindly. "Them shoulders
o' yours'll give you particular hell to morrow. Why, you're like
a boiled crawfish now. Hides like that o' yours," she added, testing with her
finger and thumb the integument on my near flank, as I hastily placed
my bare foot in the stirrup, "ain't worth a tinker's dam for standin' the sun."
(For the information of people whose education may unhappily have been
neglected, it will be right to mention that the little morsel of chewed bread
which a tin-smith of the old school places on his seam to check
the inconvenient flow of the solder, is technically and appropriately termed
a 'tinker's dam.' It is the conceivable minimum of commercial value).
The sun was still above the trees when I unsaddled Cleopatra at my camp,
and resumed my clothes. The bullock-bells were ringing among the lignum,
as the animals exerted themselves to make up for lost time.
"And how are we now?" said I, assuming a cheerful professional air,
as I swung myself on the platform of the wagon. "I've secured a drop
of one of our most valuable antiphlogistics, which is precisely what
you require, as the trouble is distinctly anthrodymic. You'll be right
in a couple of days."
"No, Collins," replied Alf gently: "I'll never be right--in the sense
you mean. I won't take any medicine. I've done with everything.
Help me to turn over again, please, and give me another drink of water.
I want to tell you something."
After giving him a turn over, I took the billy and replenished it at the river.
Before getting into the wagon again, I emptied the contents of Mrs. Vivian's
bottle into half a pannikin-full of the oxide of hydrogen, and stirred
the potion thoroughly with a stick. Then returning to my patient,
I raised his head, and held the pannikin to his lips. He finished the draught,
unconscious of its medicinal virtues; and I refolded the old overcoat
which served as a pillow, and laid him down as gently as possible.
"The water seems to have a peculiar taste," he murmured. "I don't notice
my sight failing yet, but my hearing is all deranged. I hear your voice
through a ringing of bells, and a sound like a distant waterfall. I'm just
on the border-land, Collins. I've very little more to suffer; and why
should I come back, to begin it all again? How long is it since you left me?"
"From four to five hours, I think. I put your bullocks together;
they re close by."
"Well, now, I would n't have the slightest idea whether it was one hour
or twelve. I've been in the spirit-world since then, or a spirit has visited
me here. I heard, plain and clear, the voice of a woman singing old familiar
songs; and that voice has been silent in death for ten years--silent to me
for three years before that. Thirteen years! That may not seem much to you;
but what an age it seems to me! It was no dream, Collins; I saw everything
as I see now, but I heard her glorious voice as I used to hear it
in our happy days; and I felt that her spirit was bringing forgiveness at last.
I'm not a religious man, Collins; I don't know what will become of me
after death; but God does, and that's sufficient for me. I never believed
on Him so devoutly as I do now that He has vindicated His justice upon me.
I praise him for avenging an act of the blindest folly and heartlessness;
and I thank Him that my punishment is over at last. There! Listen! No,
it's nothing. But it was a favourite song of hers; and while you were away
I heard her sing it, with new meaning in every syllable. My poor love!"
"Alf, Alf," I remonstrated; "compose yourself, and go to sleep if you can."
The tears of feebleness had accumulated in the hollows of his sunken eyes,
and, not having the use of his hands, he was throwing his head from side
to side to clear them away.
"Did you ever make a terrible mistake in life, Collins?" he asked, at length.
Before I could reply, he resumed absently, "When I was a boy, away
on the Queensland border, I knew a squatter--as fine a fellow as ever lived--
and this man married some young lady in Sydney, and brought her to live
on the station. A few months afterward, he came home unexpectedly
at about two o'clock one morning, and found his place occupied by
an intimate friend of his own--a young barrister, who was staying
at the station as a guest. He managed to conceal his discovery; and,
within the next few days, he got his friend to draw out a new will,
by which he left everything, without reservation, to his wife. A day or two
after completing the will, he took his gun and went out alone, turkey-shooting.
He didn't come home that night; and next day one of the station hands
found him at a wire fence, shot straight through the heart. Accidentally,
of course. But we knew better."
"It might have been accidental, Alf," I suggested. "There's a lot
of supposition in the story."
"None, Collins. Before going out with his gun, he wrote a letter to my father,
and sent it by a trustworthy blackfellow. My father got the letter
about ten o'clock at night; and he had a horse run-in at once, and started off
for the station through a raging thunderstorm, arriving next day only in time
to see his friend's body before it was moved to the house. My father was
terribly cut-up about it. He was manager of an adjoining station at the time.
"Now let me tell you another true story," pursued Alf dreamily.
"Five years ago, I knew a man on the Maroo, a tank-sinker, with a wife
and two children. The wife got soft on a young fellow at the camp;
and everybody, except the husband, saw how things stood. Presently
the husband began to circulate the report that he was going to New Zealand.
In the meantime, he sent the two children to a boarding-school in Wagga.
He was in no hurry. Afterward, he sold his plant to the station,
and bade good-bye, in the most friendly way, to all hands, including
the Don Juan. Then he started across the country to Wagga, alone
with his wife, in a wagonette. Are you listening?"
"Attentively, Alf. But suppose I boil your billy, and"----
"Two years afterward, a flock was sold off the station I was speaking of,
for Western Queensland; and one of the station men went with the drover's
party, to see the sheep delivered. Curious coincidence: he met on the new
station his old acquaintance, the tank-sinker, with his two children
and a second wife. The tank-sinker told him that his first wife had died
soon after leaving the Maroo, and that he had changed his mind about going
to New Zealand. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes; so far. You know the man you're speaking of?"
"Slightly. I delivered goods to him once on the Maroo, and casually heard
the scandal that was in the air. Well, the shearing came round on the Maroo
just as the station man got back from Queensland; and while the adjoining
station was mustering for the shed, a boundary man found, in the centre of one
of the paddocks--in the loneliest, barrenest hole of a place in
New South Wales--he found where a big fire had been made, and some bones burnt
into white cinders and smashed small with a stick. He kicked the ashes over,
and found the steel part of a woman's stays, and the charred heel of
a woman's boot, and even a thimble and a few shillings that had probably been
in her pocket. I was on the station at the time, waiting for wool,
and saw the relics when the boundary man brought them in. There are
queer things done when every man is a law unto himself."
"Supposition, Alf; and strained supposition at that. But why should you
trouble your mind about these things?"
"There was no supposition on the station where the things were found,
nor on the station the tank-sinker had left, when they compared notes.
The things were found three or four miles off a bit of a track that led
to Wagga; and there was a pine of a year and a half old growing in the ashes.
But we'll pass that story. I want you to listen to another."
"Some other time, Alf. I'll make you a drink of tea, and"----
"When I was young," continued Alf doggedly, "I was very intimate with
an American, a man of high principle and fine education. Best-informed man
I ever knew. This poor fellow was a drunkard, occasional, but incorrigible.
Misfortune had driven him to it. His wife was dead; his children had died
in infancy; and at forty-five he was a hopeless wreck. He worked
at my father's farm on the Hawkesbury for two or three years, and died at
our place when I was about twenty-five, immediately before I left home"----
"I don't like to correct you, Alf," I interposed; "but I understood you
to say that your father was a station-manager, on the Queensland border.
"Up to the time I was twenty-one or twenty-two. Then he bought a place
on the Hawkesbury, intending, poor man! to spend the evening of his life
indulging his hobby of chemistry, while I took the care of the place
off his hands--for though I have two sisters, I was his only son.
His great ambition was to bequeath some chemical discovery to future
generations. But I demolished his castles in the air along with my own.
It's no odds about myself; but my poor father deserved better, after all
his work and worry. Ah, my God! we parted in anger; and now I don't know
whether he's alive or dead!" The prodigal paused, and sighed bitterly.
"And your mother?" I suggested experimentally.
"She was an invalid for several years before I left home," replied Alf,
his tone fulfilling my anticipation.
(Have you ever noticed that the prodigal son of real life, in nineteen cases
out of twenty, speaks spontaneously and feelingly of his father, with,
perhaps, a dash of reverent humour; whereas, to quote Menenius,
he no more remembers his mother than an eight-year-old horse? This is cruel
beyond measure, and unjust beyond comment; but, sad to say, it is true;
and the platitudinous tract-liar, for the sake of verisimilitude,
as well as of novelty, should make a memo. of it. Amongst all the hard-cases
of my acquaintance, I can only think of one whose mother's unseen presence
is a power, and her memory a holy beacon, shining, by-the-way,
with a decidedly intermittent light. Unfortunately, a glance along
the three 9ths yet to come shows me that this nobly spurious type
of prodigal-Jack the Shellback, vassal of Runnymede Station--will not come
within the scope of these memoirs).
Alf dreamily resumed his inconsequent story: "However, this Charley Cross,
or Yankee Charley, was an old Victorian digger. About twelve years before
his death, he was working on Inglewood, with a mate that he would have
trusted, and did trust, to any extent, and in any way. But it was the old,
old story. He got a friendly hint, and watched, and watched, for weeks,
without betraying any suspicion. At last he was satisfied.
Then he carefully laid down his line of action, and followed it to the end.
One day, his mate, sitting on the edge of the shaft, ready to put his foot
in the rope, suddenly overbalanced, and went down head-foremost. Of course,
Cross was close beside him at the time, and no one else was in sight.
Cross gave the alarm, and, in the meantime, went hand-under-hand down the rope,
intending, like Bruce, to 'mak sicker'; for the shaft was only about
forty feet deep. But it happened that the man's neck was broken in the fall.
Cross forgave his wife, and never breathed a word of his discovery
or his vengeance; but in spite of this, the woman seemed to live
in fear and horror. During the next couple of years, luck favoured him,
and he made an independence. He invested his money judiciously;
but there's no guarantee for domestic happiness--in fact, there's no guarantee
for anything. First, his two surviving children died of diphtheria;
then his wife followed, dying, Cross assured me, of a broken heart.
He sorrowed for her more deeply, perhaps, because she had cost him so dear;
and this, no doubt, was what drove him to drink."
"Very probably," I replied. "But, Alf, this taxing of your mind is about
as good for you just now as footballing or boxing. Are you a smoker?"
"No."
"That's what I feared. Now, take my advice, and give yourself absolute rest,
while I boil"----
"One more story, Collins, as well authenticated as any of the three
I have told. I knew a young fellow of between twenty-five and thirty"----
"This won't do," I interposed firmly, for he had become restless and excited.
"Why should you allow your mind to dwell so exclusively on the manifestations
of one particular phase of moral aberration, and, to do bare justice
to womanhood, an exceedingly rare one--except among the very highest
and the very lowest classes? Unless you handle such questions in a scientific
spirit, you'll find them--or unfortunately, you won't find them--envelop
your reasoning faculties in a most unwholesome atmosphere. The perpetual
brooding over any one evil, however fatal that evil may be, naturally
side-blinds the mind into a narrow fanaticism which is apt to condone
ten times as much wrong as it condemns; and you drift into the position
of the man who strains at the moderate drinker, and swallows the usurer.
We see this in the Good Templar, the Social Purity person, the Trades Unionist,
and the moral faddist generally. Musonius Rufus sternly reminded Epictetus
that there were other crimes besides setting the Capitol on fire."
"Have you done? " asked Alf, coldly but gently. "Let me tell you one more
story while I'm able. I'll soon be silent enough.----The man I'm thinking of
was a saw-mill owner. He had been married a couple of years, and had
one child. I could n't say that he actually loved his wife; in fact,
she was n't a woman to inspire love, though she was certainly good-looking.
At her very best, there was nothing in her; at her worst, she was ignorant,
and vain, and utterly unprincipled--no, not exactly unprincipled,
but non-principled. She was essentially low--if you understand my meaning--
low in her tastes and aspirations, low in her likes and dislikes,
low in her thoughts and her language, low in everything. She may not have
been what is called a bad woman, but--that miserable want of self-reverence--
I can't understand how----Would you give me another drink, please?"
He drank very little this time. He had been speaking with an effort,
and a haggard, hopeless look was intensifying in his face. I began to suspect
a temporary delirium. The presentiment of impending death was unreasonable,
though not ominous; so also with the determination to narrate irrelevant
stories; but the incongruity of the two associated notions set me speculating
in a sympathetic way.
"Alf," said I gravely; "it's foolish to tax your memory for anecdotes now.
Try if you can settle yourself to sleep. I'm sure I'll have great pleasure
in exchanging yarns with you at some future time, when you're more fit."
"Listen, Collins," he replied sullenly. "Our saw-mill owner got the
inevitable glimpse of the truth. He was blind before; now he was incredulous.
He condescended to play the spy, and he was soon satisfied. This time
it was a Government official-clerk of the local Court--a blackleg vagabond,
with interest at head-quarters--about the vilest rat, and certainly
the vilest-looking rat, that ever breathed the breath of life. Our hero
took no further notice of him than to terrify him into confession,
and drive him into laying the blame on his paramour. And the amusing feature
of the case was, that she, finding herself fairly run to earth,
thought she had nothing to do but to turn from the evil of her ways,
and take her husband's part against the other fellow. But no, no. Our hero,
after thinking the matter over, took her into his confidence, without giving
her any voice in the new arrangement. He sold-out to the best advantage,
and divided the proceeds with her; reserving to himself enough to start him
in a line of life that he could follow without the annoyance of being
associated with anyone. All that he earned afterward, beyond bare expenses,
he forwarded to her, to save or squander as she pleased; the only condition
being that she should acknowledge each remittance, and answer, as briefly
as possible, such questions as he chose to ask. She humbly assented
to all this, evidently looking forward to forgiveness and reconciliation,
somewhere in-time or eternity. But, by God! she mistook her mark!"
He laughed harshly, paused half-a-minute, and resumed,
"One restraint upon our hero was the thought of his little boy,
only old enough to creep about, and incredibly fond of him; though this never
softened him towards the worthless, cursed mother. Anyway, after about
three years, the little boy died; and his heart was turned to stone.
Still, through mere bitterness and obstinacy he followed the course
he had adopted; meeting with a run of success that surprised himself.
The very curse that was on him seemed to protect him from the mishaps
that befell other men in his line of work; and he found life worth living
for the sake of hating and despising the whole human race, including himself.
There's no pleasure like the pleasure of being a devil, when you feel yourself
master of the situation, and--Now I've done, Collins."
"That's right. I've been thinking how to fix things for you
till you're able to"----
"First, I have one question to ask you," persisted Alf. "You notice
that all these men acted differently. Which of them acted right?--or did any
of them? You know, there are two other courses open: to appeal to the law,
or to pass the matter over quietly, for fear of scandal. Is either of these
right? One course must be right, and all the others must be wrong."
By this time, I had made up my mind to humour him. "Well," I replied;
"it happens that I have given the subject some thought, as I intend,
if I can find time, to write a few words on the varied manifestations
of jealousy in the so-called Shakespear Plays. You're familiar with
the plays, of course?"
"I've read bits of them."
"Possibly you remember, then, that Posthumus, in Cymbeline, on receiving proofs
of his wife's infidelity (we know her to be loyal, but that does n't affect
his proofs) harbours not one thought of revenge toward the man who
has supplanted him. Indeed, as an artistic illustration of Iachimo's immunity
from retribution, Posthumus is afterward represented as disarming and sparing
him in battle--a concession he would n't have made to an ordinary enemy.
He looks to Imogen alone. Nothing but the sacrifice of her life
will satisfy him. On the eve of the same battle, we find him, though seeking
for death himself, still gloating over the handkerchief supposed to be stained
with her life-blood. Very well. Now Troilus in Troilus and Cressida,
is a man very much resembling Posthumus in temperament--brave, resolute,
truthful, unsuspicious, and more liberally endowed with muscle than brains"----
"But this has nothing to do with it," interrupted Alf. "I was asking
your opinion as to which of the four acted rightly?--or did any of them?"
"Yes, Alf; I'm coming to that. I was going to remark that, though
the temperamental conditions of Posthumus and Troilus are apparently
so similar--apparently, mind--and their position as betrayed husbands
so identical, we find them acting in directly opposite ways. Troilus
entertains no thought of revenge upon his faithless wife; he gives
his whole attention to the co-respondent. Now let us glance at Othello.
Here is a man who, allowing for his maturer age, is much like the Briton
and the Trojan in temperament, even to the extent of being more liberally
endowed with muscle than"----
"But you're not answering my question," moaned Alf. "Which of the four
acted right?"
"Well," I replied; "I'm afraid my conclusions won't have the rounded
completeness we value so much in moral inferences unless I'm allowed
to empanel Leontes, in the Winter's Tale, as well as Othello, and thus work
from a solid foundation. But we'll see. I'll put my answer in this way:
A casual thinker might pronounce it impossible to lay down any hard-and-fast
rule of conduct here, on account of necessary diversity in conditions.
He would, perhaps, argue that, though abstract Right is absolute
and unchangeable, the alternative Wrong, though never shading down into Right,
varies immeasurably in degree of turpitude; so that the action which is
intrinsically wrong may be more excusable in one man than in another,
or under certain conditions than under others. Now, I'm not going to deny
that it lies within our province, as rational beings, to classify wrongs,
provided we do so from a purely objective stand-point. I shall endeavour
to deal with that issue by-and-by. I merely notice"----
"Stop! stop!" interrupted Alf, rolling his head from side to side.
"Answer my question!"