About five o'clock the next day the rumble of a cab was heard by Mrs.
Blenners, who was lying in wait.
"It is Mr. Marlock!" she shouted, with two concave hands at her mouth;
"show him into the best bedroom."
Bill was ushered in by the servant who had opened the door the day
before, and was swept up the stairs with his portmanteaux. When the bell
rang for tea he went down to the front parlour, where twelve lodgers
were already seated at table. Mrs. Blenners tossed her head towards
Bill, and said, "Mr. Marlock"; then made her forefinger travel round the
table, like the hour hand of a clock, while she ticked off the boarders,
one by one, and repeated their names.
Introductions over, they all fell to on the viands with the energy of
the feeder of a sewing-machine going at full speed.
Bill was on the watch, but the girl he was in search of did not appear.
He heard Mrs. Blenners say to Annie the waiting maid, "Tell Mary to make
more toast."
"This is hopeful," thought Bill; "but Mary is such a common name."
A week passed away, but he had not seen Mary. He was beginning to get
impatient, and meditated a walk into the kitchen when Mrs. Blenners was
upstairs. Just when this thought came into his mind he heard her say, in
a stage whisper, "Mary, you have forgotten the slops."
The rattle of an iron pail was heard, and a light footstep ascended the
stair. He waited, and watched for Mary to come down. When she was coming
down he was going up. They met halfway. She looked scared, as she was
caught carrying the slops, which should only be removed when no man
person was near.
She would not look him in the face, so he could not see her eyes, and
the light was bad. She was certainly something like his Mary, but not
altogether. His Mary had a bright face; this one was sad. Sorrow had
limned it, and grief had sculptured it.
He went into his room, and found that the washstand was in disorder, so
he knew the girl would come up again as soon as he was out of the way.
In the impulse of the moment he took the photograph of Mary, and the
letter she had written to her father, and placed them prominently on the
washstand; then he ostentatiously went downstairs to the parlour, and
shut the door.
As he expected, the girl went to his room, which was just overhead. In a
short time he heard a scream, and a heavy body falling. Instinctively he
understood, and ascended the stair like a flying shadow. The girl lay
white and motionless, with the letter in her hand. The scene required no
explanation. It told its own tale. She reminded him of the old man,
lying stiff and stark, by the side of the creek. He ran to the door,
and, with a voice of urgency, shouted, "Mrs. Blenners!"
"Mercy! that's the new lodger," said Mrs. Blenners to Annie; "do you
think he's mad, or dr----, I mean elevated?"
She dropped the rolling-pin on the paste-board with a clatter, and
dashed her face with flour in her excitement, then fled upstairs as fast
as her tottering legs would carry her. From the top of the landing she
looked into the best bedroom, and there, to her horror, she saw Mary
lying on the floor, apparently dead.
"Murder!" she screamed.
Annie, hearing this blood-curdling word, rushed out of the front door,
and fell into the arms of a policeman, whispering "Murder."
The policeman, seeing the open door, went into the hall, and saw Mrs.
Blenners wringing her hands, like wet cloths, over the banisters.
He took four flying leaps, and stood beside her.
"What's the matter?" he said.
She silently pointed at the best bedroom.
At that moment Bill put his head out at the door, and said, "She'll be
all right soon!"
He had dashed water in her face, and had put a pillow under her head.
Mrs. Blenners and the policeman bent over her as she was opening her
eyes.
"She fainted," said Bill.
A doctor was sent for. He bustled up the stairs in a few minutes, and
said to Mary, "How are you now?"
She gave him no answer.
"Ah, ah! I see," he said, "we must exhibit a little sal-volatile."
"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Blenners. "We don't want to exhibit her any
more. She's made an exhibition of herself enough already. Such a thing
never happened in my house before. Mr. Marlock, I'm sorry this has
occurred in your room."
"I'm not," said Bill; "I've been hoping and praying to find her for a
long time. Look at that photograph, and tell me if it is Mary's
portrait."
"Yes! it's the very moral of her."
"Well! I've found her."
"Found her out, do you mean?" said Mrs. Blenners. "Are you a detective?
A wolf in sheep's clothing--which devour widows' houses! I thought you
was a respectable single gentleman. I'm ashamed of you! Mary's as good a
girl as you'll find in a summer day's march."
"You mistake my meaning, Mrs. Blenners; Mary has been left some money,
and I have been looking for her, and have found her here, like a
diamond in a--a--gutter," he said, for want of a better word at the
moment.
"Gutter! forsooth," she said. "Do you liken my house to a gutter?"
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Blenners; I meant to say like a diamond
glittering in the golden setting of your most respectable house.
Besides, I have to thank you for giving me the opportunity of finding
her here. I'm sure you've been kind to her."
"Kind! I've been a mother to that girl."
"Where is my father?" said Mary, looking wildly around.
"Poor girl!" said Mrs. Blenners; "she hasn't heard from her father for
months, and she thinks he's dead."
"He is dead," Bill whispered to Mrs. Blenners.
"Then she might have seen his ghost."
Mary now sat up, and pointed to the letter which was still in her hand.
"Where did you get that?" she said to Bill, "and that?" pointing to the
photograph.
Bill told as much as he thought necessary, while the girl rose to her
feet. Gradually, and as gently as possible, he told her of her father's
death, also that he had advertised for her, and now, after a long time,
had found her, and that she was the owner of thousands of pounds.
Mary could hardly believe her ears. She seemed to hear the words in a
dream, and did not understand the meaning of them. They appeared to be
the echo of something she had heard long ago.
In a short time she had recovered her usual composure, and was told, in
the privacy of Mrs. Blenners' own room, the sad particulars of the
finding of her father's body. She wept as if her heart would break.
Then, bit by bit, he told the rest of the story--about the inquest, the
funeral, the gold-reef, its great richness, and that the wealth obtained
from it, amounting to thousands of pounds, was hers. At the same time he
handed her the bank deposit receipt, and said, "It is all yours."
"No!" she said, "you are too generous."
She positively declined to take it till she had time to think the matter
over.
"This is all high falutin!" said Mrs. Blenners.
She took the practical view of the question, and hurried away, with
Mary under her wing, to one of the best shops in Bourke Street, where
she bought, greatly to her delight, the best black materials for many
dresses, besides bonnets, hats, gloves, etc. Mary was a passive
instrument to be played on for her delectation. Mrs. Blenners spent a
few happy hours. Shopping was a fine art which thrilled her soul. Money
was of no consequence. It was like the "Old Man" plain of
Riverina--there was no end to it.
Bill Marlock had told her to spend as much as she liked.
"That's a large order!" she said.
"Cut and come again; she's rolling in riches," said Bill.
So Mrs. Blenners had set off on the shopping campaign with a light
heart.
For the next few weeks Mary and Bill were much together, she
questioning, he informing her of everything she wished to know about her
father, and of all that he himself had done on her father's behalf.
She thought Bill was one of the kindest and most disinterested of men.
When she was suitably attired in deep mourning, she was allowed to
accompany Bill to the bank, to draw such moneys as were required, but
Mrs. Blenners insisted on going with them for propriety's sake. They
often, however, managed to get away when she was busy with her household
duties, and had many pleasant excursions into the city and suburbs. They
were both happy in each other's company.
On one of these excursions, Bill advised her to apply for a lease of the
land comprised in the Devil's Punch Bowl, and have it thoroughly worked
for the rich gold which was there.
"There is a great fortune lying there, and it's all yours, Mary," he
said.
"And what will you do if I apply for the lease?"
"You might make me manager of the mine, if you can trust me," he said.
"Trust you! I would trust you with all I have got."
"If you will trust me with yourself, Mary, that is all I ask. I have
loved you ever since I saw your photograph in the tent."
They looked at each other, and saw the honest light of love shining in
each other's eyes.
She trusted him with herself, and has never regretted doing so.
The lease was applied for, and granted. The Devil's Punch Bowl became a
scene of activity. A house was built on its rim for Bill and Mary. Men
were employed to work the mine. Machinery was erected, and the stampers
were soon playing merrily to the tune of five hundred ounces of gold a
week.
Many years have passed away, but the mine is still worked with fair
results. Bill and Mary have every reason to rejoice at the good fortune
brewed for them in the Devil's Punch Bowl.
Bill has not forgotten his old friends of Yantala woolshed; for Norman
Campbell, Jack Jewell, Tom Wren, Peter Amos, Sandy McKerrow, the
stalwart giant with the shock of red hair, and others, are in positions
of trust at the mine, and swear by him. Their children grow up and call
him blessed.
LANKY TIM
CHAPTER I
The evening air was hot and oppressive. Whisperings of a north wind came
over the hills. The old gum-tree, which grew over the homestead,
quivered, and turned the edges of its leaves to catch the silvery light
of a new moon, which cut its way across the sky. The swish-swish of wild
cats and the cries of opossums were heard. A weird boom, from bittern or
bunyip, came from the swamp, and the curlew's solemn call echoed in the
ranges.
"Just the time for love!" So thought Lanky Tim, who stood leaning
against the doorpost of the kitchen. He seemed to be holding it up with
the angle of his left shoulder. The light of a great, blazing fire fell
upon his sharp, handsome face.
Annie Coonie, the cook, was bending over a large basin into which honey
was dripping from a sack hanging by a hook over the mantelpiece. Two of
the station hands had cut down a "bee-tree" on Vinegar Hill, and had
brought home the contents of the hive. The honey was coming from the
sack as clear as amber and smelling of wattle-blossom.
"Now, listen to me, Annie," said Tim; "you're as sweet as honey, by a
deal: that's the blasted truth, an' no mistake about it."
"Oh, go away, Tim! you'll not earn your pound a week, an' found, by
holdin' up that post--chances are you'll carry it away like as Samson
carried off the gates of Gaza."
"Who's he, Annie? Seems I've heard o' him. I'd more likely carry you
off. I'll make a lady of you if you'll only say yes. You'll have a silk
dress, a diamond ring, an' servants to wait on you. I've got 640 acres
of good land, two houses in Melbourne, an' money in the bank. Just say
you'll be mine, and they are yours!"
"Nonsense! Rich men don't work for twenty shillin' a week, an' live in a
slab-hut."
"I only do it, Annie, to be near you, an' that's no lie."
"'Near, an' yet so far,' as the dog said to the 'possum up the
gum-tree."
"If you'll only marry me, you'll never need to work another stroke,
Annie. We'll go to the theayter every night, an' be as happy as the day
is long."
"Samson carried the jawbone of the ass in his hand; you carry it in your
head. Clear out! If Alec comes he'll give you a good hiding."
Alec was Annie's sweetheart, and she expected him any moment. She was
loyal to him, never allowing her thoughts to wander to any of the many
suitors for her hand. She was a selector's daughter, and the _belle_ of
all the Broken River district.
"Alec's a poor sort of chap for a handsome girl like you to marry," said
Jim.
Annie's face was aflame in a moment. Before a rough sarcasm could rattle
out of her mouth, a big figure darted across the open door. An arm shot
out and gave Lanky Tim a clout in the ear, which sent him sprawling on
the ground. He scrambled up in a hurry, and disappeared behind the
projecting stone chimney.
Alec, for it was he, went into the kitchen laughing, and rubbing his
knuckles, which had been jarred by coming in contact with Tim's ear.
"I saw Tim making love to you, Annie," said Alec.
"What did you say to him?"
"Not a word; but he'll hear my reply tingling in his ear for a long
time."
"I told him you would give him a good hiding. He said he had 640 acres
of land, two houses in Melbourne, an' money in the bank. He offered to
give me all if I would marry him."
"The hound!" said Alec; "he hasn't 640 pence to bless himself with. He's
the greatest bragger in Australia. When the boss took him on he had
hardly a shirt to his back. He hadn't been a week on the station when he
made out as how he was a nobleman's son in disguise, an' that his uncle
had left him a stack of money, but he wouldn't take it yet, as he wanted
to get Colonial experience."
"It's my opinion," said Annie, "that he left the shirt you speak of
with his uncle, to raise the wind which blew him up here. It's all blow
with him!"
"Blowed if I can make him out," said Alec. "Last week he said he had
found a gold-mine. Yesterday he bragged he had discovered diamonds. The
more a man brags the less in his bags. The less a man knows the more he
blows."
"That basin is about full of honey, Alec. Reach down another, an' put it
under the bag while I take the full one away. So, that will do."
Alec seated himself on a chair, as far from the fire as he could, and
mopped his brow with a whitey-brown handkerchief. The heat of the
kitchen was stifling. It was hot enough outside; here it was almost
unbearable. Annie was as cool as a cucumber. She was accustomed to a
roaring fire, even when the thermometer stood at a hundred degrees in
the shade.
A fit of silence came over Alec. He knitted his brows, and looked
thoughtful. Jealousy was creeping into his heart, although he did all he
could to shut it out. There it was, however, and had taken possession.
Annie took a wicked delight in his misery. She saw what was the matter
with him.
"Lanky Tim said I was as sweet as honey."
"Blast Lanky!" said Alec, scowling.
"You can't brag like Lanky Tim!" retorted Annie.
"No, I give him best at that! Dang him, if I don't give him pepper
before I go to bed this night."
"Or mustard," said Annie.
"He may need a poultice."
Silence reigned for awhile, broken only by the loud tick of the clock on
the mantelpiece and the drip of the honey. How long this state of things
would have lasted no one knows. Just at this acute stage a loud scream
was heard from the front of the homestead. A rushing of feet and banging
of doors followed. Annie and Alec jumped up, made for the door, ran
round the dwelling-house to the end of the verandah, and listened.
CHAPTER II
Woorong station was owned by an old Scotchman named McKeel. He was of
medium height, red-haired, somewhat bald, with blue eyes, aquiline nose,
large mouth, and an inquiring face, sprinkled with freckles, like
patches of clay on a ploughed field; wrinkled with the chiselling of
many years and the rubs of fortune.
He was standing in one of the front rooms, speaking to Mrs. McKeel, and
David, his son.
"Ma dears, this wee eenstrument ye see in ma han' is desteened to save
the lives o' mony o' the sons o' Adam wha may be bruised i' the heel, as
the Scripture has it, by the serpent; which I tak' to mean ony beast o'
the breed, either whip snake, black snake, brown snake, or tiger snake.
If a man or woman, or bairn for that matter, is bitten by a snake, let
them be brocht to me, as quick as may be, an' I'll inject into their
foreairm a drap or twa o' ammonia, which I hae got frae Melbourne this
vera day, alang wi' this eenstrument, by post."
"How wonderful, papa!" said Mrs. McKeel.
"I don't believe it," said David.
"What can ye expec' frae a pig but a grunt," said his father, turning
savagely round; "ye are sceptical, Daavid, in things above an' things
beneath. Ye dinna follow the sayings o' ye'r namesake the sweet singer
o' Israel. A greater than him said, 'Ye will not believe.'"
"Well, father, I wasn't meaning to say I did not believe you; but what I
wanted to say was I did not think this hypodermic injection of ammonia,
by the instrument you speak of, will cure snake-bite."
"Weel, weel, seein's beleevin'! The proof o' the pudden is the preein'
o't. When ye'r opeenion is asked ye may speak; no till then!"
"I am sorry, father."
"Sorry here, sorry there, will never cure a man who is bitten by a
snake, or by the Auld Serpent himsel', wha is the Deevil. Pit that in
ye'r pipe an' smoke it!"
This was a knock-down blow from which David could not come up smiling.
He raked the ashes of the fire smouldering within him, and smothered it.
He had to let off the smoke by breathing hard.
His father looked at him and said, "Ye'r namesake says, 'he puffeth at
them.' My advice is keep ye'r breath to cool ye'r porridge."
David was about to reply, but a warning touch, under the table, from his
mother's foot, made him pause.
A piercing scream was heard outside, and a rushing of feet. The old man
looked over his spectacles towards the door in momentary fright. David
stood up waiting. Mrs. McKeel said, in a low voice, "Papa! what's that?"
They had not long to wait. A man bounded over the low fence which
enclosed the verandah, then ran to the door and opened it with a loud
bang. It was Lanky Tim. His eyes were starting from their sockets. He
had no hat. His hair hung in a dishevelled mass over his forehead, like
an inverted last year's nest. He had the look of a madman. He sank on
the sofa and moaned.
"What is the maiter wi' ye, Lanky?" said old McKeel, now thoroughly
alarmed.
"I have been bitten by a snake," groaned Lanky, through his set teeth.
"Ma sang!" said McKeel, "ye've come to the richt shop. Whaur's the
bite?"
"Here," said Lanky, pointing to the calf of his left leg. Then he curved
his body like a bent bow, and made the most hideous grimaces, lapsing
into an idiotic stare.
"Jist the seemptoms," said McKeel, as he quietly filled the little
instrument, which he still held in his hand, with a drop of liquid
ammonia.
"Noo, Daavid," he said, "rax me the brandy bottle, an' pit it doon
beside me; then hold Lanky's leg while I mak' the injection."
David did as he was told. His father pinched the leg, just above the
marks of the snake-bite; then he inserted the point of the instrument
into the flesh.
Lanky jumped as if he had been shot, and capered about the room. The
injector fell from the old man's hand. An oath nearly slipped off his
tongue, but he caught it back just in time, and said:
"Dog-on it, man! you're deed as a sheep in a butcher's shop if ye'll no
be still till I get the ammonia inside o' ye!"
"Brandy," said Lanky faintly, sinking again on the sofa.
Mrs. McKeel poured out a tumblerful, and handed it to David, who put it
to Lanky's lips. The liquor went down his throat with a gurgle like
storm-water into a culvert.
"I feel better," he said faintly; "that did me good!"
"Don't you lippen to brandy," said McKeel, "it never cured a true case
o' snake-bite. You jist let me inject a drop o' ammonia into ye, there's
a good fallow! It's the new pan-a-kee."
"Panacea! father," said David.
"Pan-a-fiddlestick," said the old man.
"If that's it, fire away!" said Lanky.
Old Mr. McKeel filled the injector again, and inserted it in the
puncture he had already made, then squirted its full contents in the
flesh, with a force that sent the needle-point nearly to the bone.
The effect was magical. Lanky roared like a bull, and threw up his
legs, knocking old McKeel head-over-heels. In the fall he struck the
ammonia bottle, which was standing on a chair, and tipped it over,
spilling the contents.
"That was the effec' o' the mediceen! It was instantaneous! He got the
strength o' three men in a meenit. He's a'richt; he's cured!" said
McKeel.
Lanky fell back on the sofa, writhing and wriggling like one possessed.
Alec and Annie Coonie, who had heard and seen everything through the
window, which had no curtain, now opened the door and came in.
"Can we do anything?" they said.
"Yes, Alec," said old McKeel; "you tak' a horse an' ride across the
range to the mine for Max Hicsh. He's a sort o' doctor body, who was a
student at Gott-again."
"Göttingen, father," said David.
"I have na time to argal-bargle wi' ye," said his father, "but I say
it's Gott-again. Weel! he has a decree, I believe."
"Degree, father," said David.
"Losh! I'm no sayin' there is na degrees among doctors; some wise an'
some foolish, jist the same as sons. Ye mind me o' a preacher, servin'
what he calls the gospel frae an empty spoon oot o' a hogshead fou o'
naething. Howsoever, it's life an' death noo! Sa, bring Max as quick as
ye can, Alec."
Alec ran to do the old man's bidding, with Annie at his heels.
"Tell my mother to come," she said; "she knows as much about snake-bite
as any doctor."
When she had given him this message she went back to the room where
Lanky was lying.
CHAPTER III
A great change had now taken place in the patient's condition.
Convulsive movements of a violent kind had set in. Old McKeel was
alarmed. David was cynical, and doubted the symptoms.
"Brandy," said Lanky, in a whisper.
He gulped a tumblerful down, smacked his lips, and stared around.
"Where am I?" he said; "oh! I see."
"That's a guid sign!" said old McKeel. "The ammonia's workin'."
"Mr. McKeel," said Lanky very feebly, "I'm goin' to die, an' I want to
make my will."
"Vera weel; I'm a magistrate, an' I'll attest it. Ma wife an' son will
be witnesses."
Mrs. McKeel, with tears in her eyes, placed pens, ink, and paper on the
table. The old man seated himself, and adjusted his spectacles. He
looked over them and said, "What d'ye want me to say?"
"I leave everything I have to Annie Coonie."
"My!" said Annie, in a whisper.
McKeel scribbled away as fast as he could, shedding ink all around him.
After writing for a few minutes he turned to his son and said, "Give him
mair brandy, and don't let him sleep."
"Can ye gi' me some parteeclars o' what ye want to leave Annie Coonie?"
McKeel said to Lanky.
"Yes; £500 in the Savings Bank, £750 in the Union Bank, and £1000 in the
Bank of Australasia."
"Gosh!" ejaculated McKeel.
"O my!" said Annie, as she threw her apron over her head.
"Ony other parteeclars?"
"Yes, six hundred and forty acres of land."
"The man's cracked!" muttered McKeel to himself. "It's the ammonia
makin' his heed licht. They a' get crazy on land."
"Ony other parteeclars?"
"Yes, two houses in Melbourne."
"Ony other?" said McKeel, looking dubiously at Lanky.
"Yes, £15,000 left me by my Uncle Tom."
McKeel looked up in astonishment. Seeing Annie at the door he could not
help saying, "I congratulate you, Annie."
"Is Annie here?" whispered the patient.
"Step forrit, Annie," said McKeel.
Lanky took her hand. She was crying.
"Don't cry for me," he said; "only say you love me. It will be a great
consolation to me. You see how _I_ love you."
"Oh yes," she sobbed; "I hope you will not die. You'll soon be better."
"Never! but I die happy with your hand in mine."
At this moment Mrs. Coonie, Annie's mother, came in. She was a little
woman, with a clay-coloured face, and dressed in the same hue.
She took possession of the case at once with a business-like air.
"Plenty of brandy," she said; "then march him up and down. If he is
allowed to sleep, he is a dead man. Black snake, or tiger?"
"Tiger," whispered Lanky.
"Then there's no hope," she said, turning to McKeel; "he'll die when the
moon goes down. That's the time they die when bitten by a tiger-snake.
At the sea it's when the tide goes out."
"Then there's nae time to lose," said the old man; "I'll read the will
in the hearin' o' ye a'. Attend to what I say, Lanky."
"I'm listenin'," he whispered.
McKeel pulled the lamp nearer, adjusted his spectacles, and read as
follows:--
"_This is the last Will and Testament of me, Timothy Wilber, at present
residing at Woorong Station in the Colony of Victoria. I hereby revoke
all Wills by me at any time heretofore made. I appoint----_"
"Timothy Wilber, who do you appoint your executor?" said the old man.
"I appoint you, Mr. McKeel."
McKeel wrote his own name, and continued to read:--
"_I appoint Dugald McKeel, of Woorong Station, in the Colony of Victoria
aforesaid, to be my Executor; and direct that all my just debts and
funeral and testamentary expenses shall be paid as soon as conveniently
may be after my decease. I give, devise, and bequeath unto Annie Coonie,
Spinster: £500 in the Savings Bank, £750 in the Union Bank, £1000 in the
Bank of Australasia, 640 acres of land----_"
"What parish?" said McKeel.
"Parish of Ayre."
"Parish of Air," wrote McKeel.
"_Parish of Air, two houses in Melbourne, also £15,000 left to me by my
Uncle Thomas. In witness whereof, I, the said Timothy Wilber, have, to
this, my last Will and Testament, set my name, this fifteenth day of
November, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-six._"
Then came the attestation clause. Lanky signed the Will with much
effort. The two witnesses signed, and the document was complete.
When Mrs. Coonie heard in the reading of the will that her daughter was
left a legacy of £500 she clucked her tongue in astonishment. The next
item of £750 made her start. The £1000 one caused her face to glow like
fire, and her eye to sparkle like a diamond.
"You are a rich woman, Annie," she said, nudging the girl; "but where
in thunder did he get the money?"
"I don't believe a word he says," Annie replied.
"Do you think," said her mother indignantly, "that a man standing at
Death's door is going to stagger in with a pack of lies on his back?"
When McKeel read about the six hundred and forty acres of land, Mrs.
Coonie jumped up, and looked over his shoulder to make quite sure the
words were written down. When he came to the £15,000 she rushed out, and
danced a jig on the verandah to relieve her feelings. When she was
sufficiently calm she went back to the room. The will was now signed.
"There is only one thing to be done," said Lanky very feebly and with
great difficulty. "I want Annie to say she loves me."
"Oh no, no!" she said, bursting into a fit of crying.
"Say it to please him!" said her mother. "Don't you see he's dying?"
Before Annie knew what she was doing she said, "I am sorry for you, and
love you."
"More brandy," said Lanky; "I feel the poison working."
"Poor fellow! poor fellow!" said Mrs. Coonie, rubbing her eyes.
"It does me good to hear that Annie loves me. I want her to say if I
live she will marry me."
Her mother touched her, and said, "Say yes, you little fool! Don't you
see he's going out with the moon?"
"Yes," said Annie, in a hysterical fit of weeping, adding under her
breath, "Oh, Alec! it's for your sake."
Lanky fell back, and shut his eyes, muttering, "That's all right."
They stood round him, watching and waiting. McKeel was confident his
patient would pull through, for he was sure he got a full dose of
ammonia.
CHAPTER IV
A big man, with a broad face and yellow beard, came in. This was Max
Hicsh, the mine manager, and sometime medical student of Göttingen.
"Vell, Mr. McKeel, how vas you now?" he said, in his bustling way.
Seeing Lanky, breathing hard, on the sofa, he added, "Mine Gott! vat is
dis?"
McKeel told him, in a few words, what had been done, and that he had
successfully injected the ammonia.
"Dat is good, mine friend! dat is good. You haf safe his life."
"I thocht," said McKeel, "that it wad be mair satisfactory to hae a
medical man here to gae the poor fallow every chance."
Max drew up his coat sleeves, turned back his shirt cuffs, gave a tug
at his collar, put one hand over Lanky's heart and the other on his
pulse. He wore a serious look, then a puzzled one: his lip curled, and a
smile danced over his face.
"Heart goot; ferry goot! poolse goot; ferry goot!! preething goot; ferry
goot!!!"
McKeel jumped up and skipped about, snapping his fingers. He was
jubilant at the effect of the ammonia.
"What de ye think o' the heap-odermic injection o' ammonia noo, Daavid?
I'll write to the _Argus_ aboot this won'erfu' escape frae the grave, or
the bottomless pit for that maiter. Lanky may tak' a thocht an' mend
frae the error o' his ways after this meeracle."
"All right, father, all right!" said David.
"'A' richt, a' richt!' ye say. I should say it's a' richt! Here am I,
fechtin' wi' the case, an' ye havena lifted a han' to help me. I'm
thinkin', but for me, Death wad hae his dart or his scythe into him by
noo, an' whar wad his soul be, I should like to ken?"
Max stood up, and began to laugh. "_Donner und blitzen!_ I haf not look
at de pite of the snake. Vare is him?"
"On the calf o' his left leg," said McKeel.
Max peered at the place for a few minutes.
"Dat is no more like de pite of a snake dan it is like de pite of a
flea!"
"I tell ye," said McKeel, "it was a tiger-snake that bit him. Your
remarks are clipped o' common sense."
"Mine friend, Mr. McKeel, I do not pelieve, I say, I do not pelieve he
has been pitten at all!"
"What! Do you mean to tell me that he's no been bitten by a snake, when
I ken better?"
"No, mine friend! He is dronk! dronk as a man who the fiddle plays."
"Drunk as a fiddler, you mean," said David.
"Ya! dronk as two fiddlers!"
"Ma sang! I hae a verra sma' opeenion o' the University o' Got-again, if
that's a' ye ken aboot snake-bite!" said McKeel.
"Mine friend, he is what you call sham."
"Do you think a man would sham," said Mrs. Coonie indignantly, "when he
is dying?"
"Mine goot friend, Mrs. Coonie, he has not grappled mit de King of
Terrors yet. It's King Alcohol dat's got hold of him."
"Don't you tell me! I've lived in the bush, maid and wife, twenty years,
and know snakebite. Besides, hasn't he settled his affairs--made his
will, in fact, most sensibly, and left all he has to my Annie."
"She vill not haf a heavy boondle to carry; dat is what I say."
"Indeed! You know nothing about it. It turns out, as I always said, that
he is a rich man in disguise, and fell in love with my daughter and
wanted to marry her. Now he has left her all he has."
"How much?" said Max.
"Six hundred and forty acres of land, two houses in Melbourne, £15,000,
besides other sums in the bank."
Max laughed loud and long, bursting out again and again. David joined in
the fun, to the disgust of his father and the indignation of Mrs.
Coonie. Annie wept bitterly, with compensations for her grief floating
before her of untold wealth.
"Dis is goot fun," said Max; "goot fun! plain as _blitzen_. Lanky
wanted to marry Annie. He pricks himself mit a pin, shams he has got a
snake-pite up his legs, flams he is going to kick de pucket, makes his
will, leaves £15,000, two houses, and six hundred and forty acres of
land to her mit his great love. He vill recover. Oh yes! Annie vill
marry him to-morrow. Do you all tvig?"
"For shame, man!" said Mrs. Coonie.
Annie shed floods of tears, and wrung her hands. McKeel glowered over
his spectacles, darting fiery glances at Max from his ferret-like eyes.
"I tell ye, Max, ye are jist jealous o' the new cure for snake-bite. The
honour an' glory of savin' his life is mine; for the poison was workin'
in him like yeast when I tackled him. It was gallopin' through his
veins, like a wild horse fleein' up the hills."
"Mine friend! if he had any poison in his insides, he must haf svallowed
some of his own venom; or maybe it vas de brandy?"
"Hoot, toot! what's a spoonful' o' brandy here or there! Nae mair than a
grain o' common sense in a hogshead o' wishy-washy Got-again University
stuff!"
Lanky stretched himself, opened his eyes, yawned, and looked round in a
dazed sort of way. All eyes were turned to him.
"Where am I?" said he; "I thought I was dead. Oh! I remember; I was
bitten by a snake. I feel better. I think I'll get over it."
"Give God the thanks, Lanky!" said McKeel solemnly, "an' me, as the
humble eenstrument."
"I'll never forget your kindness, Mr. McKeel, never!"
"I'll tak' a little brandy, jist to steady ma nerves after this excitin'
nicht," said McKeel. He reached over for the bottle. "Losh! it's empty.
It's as toom as a whistle!"
"Has he dronk de whole bottle?" Max asked.
"Every drap!" McKeel replied; "so, if he's drunk, nae wonder, but that
does not dimeenish the vertues o' the ammonia."
Lanky staggered to his feet, and tottered to Annie. When he reached her
his legs became entangled and gave way. He sank into a chair beside
her. His mind and tongue were sober, but his legs were intoxicated.
"You are mine now, Annie! You said you loved me, and you promised to
marry me."
"Yes, Tim," said Annie, with a simper.
"Then we'll get out o' this. When I'm in the open air, an' souse my head
in a bucket of water, I'll be all right. That ammonia did the trick, Mr.
McKeel!"
"I declare!" said Mr. McKeel, "the feelin's o' the patient is mair tae
be relied on than a' the opeenions o' the doctors."
Lanky rose to his feet, supported by Mrs. Coonie and Annie. They went
away, by the back door, to the kitchen, saying as they were going,
"Thank you, Mr. McKeel."
"Weel, it's pleasant," said he, "to meet wi' thankfu' folks, no like
some I could name, wha are no far aff but winna."
"Good-bye, Mr. McKeel," said Max; "I must be what you call toddling. You
haf your opinion, I haf mine. You'll see all I haf said vill come true."
"Good-bye, Max," Mr. McKeel said. "But I say it was a genuine case of
snake-bite, for I saw the patient frae the first, an' you didna; but
thank ye a' the same for comin', though we'll differ aboot some things
tae the end o' the chapter."
Max shook hands with Mrs. McKeel and David, and then went home.
In about an hour after this McKeel went to the kitchen to see how Lanky
was getting on. He found him as sober as a judge. In the meantime he had
soused his head in a bucket, and had drunk a pint of water.
"Ma sang!" said the old man, as he went to his bedroom, "that fallow had
a near shave! But for me he wad be a corp!"
Lanky went to the men's hut, and Mrs. Coonie shared Annie's bed for the
night.
CHAPTER V
Mother and daughter lay for hours talking about the wonderful change
that had come over their lives, like shadows changing into gold on the
mountains. It was a fairy tale, full of romance. A prince had come, in a
golden coach, to carry Cinderella away.
"What a blessing, Annie, that I came and ordered brandy. That's what
saved him! As for ammonia, it's the first time I ever heard of it for
snake-bite. When I was a girl it was used as smelling-salts. If old
McKeel had put it to Mr. Wilber's nose, it might have done him good."
"He drank an awful lot of brandy, mother."
"Yes; in cases of snake-bite they can take bucketsful and not be drunk."
"But he was drunk, mother!"
"No, only his legs, and no wonder, after being bitten by a tiger-snake.
However, it's a good thing for you he got over it."
"I don't see that, mother. If he hadn't got over it, I would have got
the money, land, and houses all the same."
"And marry a low fellow like Alec! Fancy him riding in a carriage beside
you!"
"I would rather marry Alec, an' sit beside him in a kitchen, than marry
Lanky, an' drive in a carriage."
"Well, I am astonished at you! Where is your thankfulness to your Maker
for pitchforking you into a silk gown and carriage?"
Annie began to cry. Misery was creeping in. Happiness was melting away
like sugar in a teacup.
She fell asleep, and forgot her troubles. Mrs. Coonie kept awake all
night, turning over in her mind Annie's fortune on one side, and her
love to Alec on the other. Her thoughts were bright, or dark, at
intervals, like the revolving lantern on a lighthouse.
The sun rose like a red-hot cannon-ball, hitting the bull's-eye in the
window pane, and splintering fragments of light over Mrs. Coonie's face.
"This is no time to lie in bed," she said to herself; "I'll get up, for
I've much to say and do. I must go home and tell him" (meaning her
husband). "I'll be bound he's snoring in bed, and knowing no more about
all this than a sucking baby."
Suiting action to words, she jumped out of bed and dressed herself.
Annie awoke from a troubled dream. Tears stuck in her eyelashes like
dewdrops in the grass. She wiped them away, and looked up with a
woebegone face.
"Annie," said her mother, "I am going home to tell your father. We'll
come over by ten o'clock with the buggy. Dress yourself in your best
frock. We'll all go to Benalla, and if Mr. Wilber wants to marry you
off-hand, he can, this very day. The sooner the better. He won't want to
see you work as a servant another minute, I'm sure."
Annie looked through the window. In a moment she was out of bed, and had
thrown her clothes on, anyhow; then she ran into the kitchen, opened
the door, and stared out. A horse, with a saddle on, was cropping the
short, yellow grass. The bridle was muddy, and trailing on the ground.
"Mother," she said, "that's Alec's horse. He must have been thrown off,
perhaps killed."
A man was chopping wood about a hundred yards away. Running up to him,
she said, "Where is Alec?"
"'Spose he stayed at the mine all night. Never saw him after he went
away to fetch Max Hicsh."
"But there's his horse saddled an' bridled!" said Annie.
"That's nothing," said the man. "Like's not he hitched up the horse at
the mine, and it broke away. Do you think Alec would walk home on a dark
night? 'Not if I knows it,' says he."
"I know Alec better than that," said Annie. "He must have been thrown
off. Is there a horse in?"
"Yes, Brownie and Whalebone."
Annie ran to the stable, shot the wooden bolt, and went in. She put Mrs.
McKeel's saddle on Brownie, slipped a headstall and bridle on, then led
him out. Jumping on his back, she galloped away, across the creek, and
along the track she knew Alec must have taken when he went on his last
night's ride. In half an hour she drew up at Max Hicsh's door.
"Coo-ee!"
"Vat is dis?" said Max, putting his head out of a window, a long pipe in
his mouth, his blue eyes staring in wonder.
"Where is Alec?" said Annie, her face flushing red.
"Vare is Lanky Tim, I say! He had a fine hand of trumps last night, and
von de game. Has he revoke? I mean de vill."
"Is Alec here? Answer me that!"
"No, he is not."
"Where did he go when he was here last night?"
"He said he would go home by de short cut."
She turned her horse's head without another word, and rode up the hill,
taking a bee-line for the homestead. After riding for five minutes she
heard some one "coo-ee." Her heart beat wildly! She knew the voice! A
short search resulted in finding Alec lying in a clump of ferns.
"Oh, Annie, how I have been longing for you! I knew you would come."
"What is the matter with you, Alec? Are you hurt?"
"I was thrown last night, and my ankle's broke."
She jumped off Brownie and was down among the ferns in a moment.
"My poor Alec! Oh, how sorry I am! I'll help you on the horse, an' Max
will set the bone."
She raised him up and managed to put him on Brownie; then led the horse
down hill to the mine.
Max set the bone and put the leg in splints, then drove the patient to
the homestead, Annie following on Brownie. Alec was lifted out by David
and Max. He was placed in a spare room at the back of the house.
CHAPTER VI
Mr. and Mrs. Coonie came up in their buggy, and were joined by Lanky
Tim. He proposed that he should marry Annie at once. The nearest
clergyman lived at Benalla.
"We give our consent," said Mrs. Coonie.
"Sure-lye!" said her husband, who usually said "ditto," and played
second fiddle.
"I'll go and see if Annie is ready," said her mother.
Annie was in the kitchen. Mrs. McKeel was there also, having been
obliged to prepare breakfast. She was standing over a tub washing
dishes.
"Good morning, Mrs. McKeel," said Mrs. Coonie; "I hope it won't
inconvenience you if Annie leaves at once. She is to be married to-day."
"To Lanky?" said Mrs. McKeel.
"Yes! She's the luckiest girl in the world."
Annie began to cry. Alec's accident had brought on qualms of conscience.
She had been led into promising to marry Lanky, on the spur of the
moment, for the sake of his wealth, believing he was going to die. She
could not tell what to do. She was sitting on the middle of a see-saw,
and did not know which end to slide to.
"Come, Annie! don't be a fool!" said her mother; "you'll have a carriage
to ride in, silks and satins to wear, a fine house; and you'll hobnob
with the Governor's Lady."
"Mrs. Coonie," said Mrs. McKeel, "I think you are too hasty. Annie does
not know her own mind. Give her time. Max Hicsh and David believe that
Lanky has not a penny to bless himself with. Don't you think the account
of his wealth is only a made-up affair--a cock-and-bull story?"
"I believe every word he says. You can see he is a gentleman in
disguise," said Mrs. Coonie.
"Better sure than sorry. Make inquiries first."
"No," said Mrs. Coonie; "delays are dangerous. Come, Annie, you promised
before witnesses to marry him. Don't perjure yourself!"
The girl rose very reluctantly, and was pushed by her mother towards
the buggy, which was standing a few yards away. She was crying bitterly.
"What's all this, I would like to know?" roared Alec, who had thrust his
head out of the spare bedroom window.
No one replied. Lanky became white as a sheet, and trembled like an
aspen-leaf.
Alec, by the aid of a stick, came hopping out at the back door. He held
on by a water-butt, and said, "Annie, what's the matter with you? What's
the meaning of all this?"
"They want to force me to marry Lanky."
"And you don't want to?"
"No," she said faintly.
Hearing the hubbub, David and his father came out, and were told what
was going on. David laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"You mak' the maist solemn occasions a target for ye'r mockery, Daavid.
Hold ye'r whisht!"
"I can't, father. It's as good as a play. It's a comedy of the first
water. Ha, ha!"
"To hear a son o' mine talk o' play-actin'! If I thocht ye had ever
been in a playhouse, or theatre, as ye ca' it, I'd strike ye off wi' a
shillin'.'
"Listen to me, father, and all you people," said David, pulling a sheet
of paper out of his pocket. "I found this behind the sofa where Lanky
lay last night. It must have fallen out of his pocket as he wriggled
about. I did not know what it was till I read it, and, as the reading
will do much good, I don't think I ought to consider it a private or
privileged document. It's a letter from Lanky's mother to him. Here
goes:--
"'13, FURZE STREET, COLLINGWOOD.
"'MY DEAR SON TIM,--
"'This is to say as how my rheumatics is very bad an I done not a
days washin for a month every stick of furniture is sold I have not
a shillin Send me som money for the love of God at wanct.
"'Your pore old mother
"'BRIDGET WILBER.'"
Tim looked as if he would gladly have sunk into the earth. He was taken
aback, and said nothing.
"I think, father," said David, "I have run a coach and six horses
through the will; I think I have scotched this snake, this colossus of
wealth! Saul slew his thousands, but David has slain his ten thousands."
Mrs. Coonie went up to Lanky, with her double fists on her hips, her
face the colour of a red brick, and opened fire.
"You viper! you toad! you snake! What have you got to say for yourself?
To think that I should swallow your story as easy as you swallowed the
brandy. I'll horsewhip you, you hound!"
She was about to seize the whip from Coonie's hand to carry her threat
into execution, when old McKeel stepped forward, and said,--
"You dodrotted heepocrite, that I snatched frae the jaws o' death! To
think ye should be sa near ye'r end, an' tell a pack o' lees--red-hot
lees, I may say! Won'ner they didna burn ye'r tongue. You'll be ca'in on
Lazarus to dip the tip o' his finger yet to cool it. You seasoned leear!
I tell ye tae ye'r face that Ananias was struck deed for a hantle less
than ye hae done. An' tae think that my ammonia should be slopped like a
cup o' tea ower my carpet, insteed o' savin' the lives o' them that's
mair deservin'. Blast ye! Tak' that!"
He struck Lanky with a heavy stock-whip, which made him jump.
"It's a pack of lies!" he roared, turned round, and fled.
Max Hicsh came up at this moment, and took in the situation at once. He,
David, and Alec laughed like to split their sides. Old McKeel was livid
with rage. Coonie was in his buggy, as stolid as a native bear, trying
to light his pipe. His wife turned to him, having no other vent for her
anger.
"You old fool! is this a time to smoke like a chimney, when you ought to
be down on your knees asking all our pardons for nearly leading Annie
into a terrible scrape?"
"My word!" was all Coonie said, as he thrust pipe and tobacco into his
pocket.
"I'll send a pound to old Mrs. Wilber by to-day's post," said David.
"Deduct a half-croon frae it to pay for my ammonia," said his father.
"I'll let her starve!" said Mrs. Coonie, as she mounted the buggy, took
the whip out of her husband's hand, and drove away without saying
another word. She looked upon them all as conspirators who had been
plotting to marry Annie against the will of her mother.
"He never vas pitten at all!" said Max. "De marks vas made by a pin vich
I found in his coat mit de plood on it."
Annie went into the kitchen, and took off her best frock, then put on
her working dress, and resumed her duties as cook.
Max helped Alec to his room, telling him to lie down, and give his leg a
rest.
"A word with you, Mr. Hicsh."
"Vat is it, Alec?"
"When I was thrown off my horse, I waited anxiously for daylight. The
time passed heavily on my hands. I looked about me, and used my eyes. I
saw a reef cropping up among the ferns, and chipped off some of the
stone. It was full of gold. What do you think of that specimen?"
He had taken from his pocket a lump of quartz studded with gold. Placing
it in Max's hand, he waited for his opinion.
"My gootness! dat is de richest bit of quartz ever seen on this place!
Your fortune is made!"
"What I propose," said Alec, "is that you go an' peg out the ground, an'
apply for a claim in your name and mine. I'll go half-shares with you."
"Mine goot friend! many tousand tanks. Do you tink I would set your
ankle's bone, and take advantages of you vile you are hopping apout on
one leg? No, no! mine friend. It is your reef. If you make me de manager
of de mine dat is all right!"
It was so arranged. Max found the reef by tracking Annie's horse from
his own door. He pegged the ground, and applied for a lease. The first
ton of quartz yielded 50 ounces of gold. The first six months' work
produced 2721 ounces.
Alec Smith was a rich man. He married Annie. They live in a comfortable
house adjoining the mine, and are very happy.
No one on the station ever heard of Lanky Tim again.
LOST IN THE BUSH
CHAPTER I
The sun sank like a bird into its nest. A pink flush spread upwards and
melted in the deep blue; the dappled clouds caught the warm glow and
spread themselves out to bask in the lingering rays. Soon a rosy red,
deepening every moment, shot higher and higher, then suddenly began to
pale and shrink, until the sun had drawn every bit of colour after him
and said "good night."
It was a quiet, peaceful spot. Hills all around--east, west, north, and
south. A mountain, in a sheet of ghostly white, stood afar off. A valley
filled the foreground with grey mist, creeping down. A burnt-sienna
track wound about "One Tree" hill like a snake, and led to Borombyee
homestead, which could be seen on the banks of a little creek.
The soft footfall of a horse was heard behind some boulders. A merry
snatch of song floated on the still air. A horse and its rider came
round a bend of the track. They were on their way to Borombyee. The
rider was Alec Keryle of Glengo Station.
Alec was in love, as any one could see at this moment. The mask was off.
When not alone the visor was down. There are times when a face can be
read like a poster on a hoarding. At other times it is a blank wall. He
gazed long and fondly at the homestead: a light streamed from the
dining-room window. "There sits my darling Elsie!" he said, as he patted
his horse's neck.
He was a laggard in love, and had never told her that he loved her. He
had shown her that he cared for her when they had once or twice been
alone, and he thought she cared for him--that was all the length he had
got on the "primrose path"; but he had screwed his courage up to-night,
and was going to tell her that he loved her and would ask her to be his.
He was a shapely young fellow, and sat his horse to perfection. He had
a long, straight nose, firm mouth, solid chin, black eyes and hair, and
an olive complexion. He was about six feet in height, and carried all
his inches without a stoop.
Elsie McLean was the elder daughter of Donald McLean of Borombyee
Station. Her father was a dark, gloomy Scotchman, with never a ray of
sunshine in his nature. She was fair, with golden hair, blue, dancing
eyes, a rosebud mouth wreathed in smiles, a Grecian nose, and with a
dimple in each cheek. She was born under Australian skies; he among
Scotia's grey, frowning mountains.
They had been coloured by their surroundings. Her mother was dead, and
she had one sister, named Maggie, aged fourteen.
Meanwhile, during this digression, Alec was guiding his horse down the
gravelly track. His eyes were still on the homestead, but they ranged
from point to point when the dining-room window became hidden from view.
As he turned into the main road which ran up the valley, he saw a light
streaming from the kitchen door and a thin column of smoke rising from
the kitchen chimney. When he opened the home-paddock gate a light in
Elsie's room caught his attention, and he threw a kiss in its direction.
Just then her ears began to tingle and grow red, for some one was surely
thinking of her. Shutting the gate, he went off at a quick canter, and
did not draw rein until he clattered across the sapling bridge, which
spanned a small dry water-course within fifty yards of the house. Four
or five dogs rushed out, barking furious defiance, until Alec said,
"Down, Rover," to the leader, who began to caper and wheel with his tail
in the air in a whirl-wind of welcome; and the younger dogs followed
suit when they were assured, on the best of authority, that the
new-comer was a friend, and not a stranger to be barked at, and bitten
if need be, or at least sworn at as a trespasser. They accompanied the
horse to the stable door, and when Alec alighted Rover jumped up and put
his nose under an outstretched hand which patted the rough head. Then
the other dogs made themselves acquainted with Alec's trousers, so that
they might know him again, anywhere and everywhere.
A man came out of the shadows.
"Good evenin', sor," said the groom, or man-of-all-work, whose duty it
was to attend to the stable, milk the cows, chop wood, and do such odd
jobs as were required.
"Good evening, Pat; all well here?" said Alec.
"All well! Glory be to God, masther Keryle, an' Miss Elsie bloomin' an'
gay, an' wishin' to see somebody I don't mane to name for the wurld."
"Now, Pat, none of your blarney!" said Alec, as he slipped half a crown
into the man's hand. Pat took the reins, and led the horse into the
stable, where a munching of teeth soon followed.
Alec went round to the front of the house, turned the button of the
little gate at the end of the verandah, and knocked. The McLeans were at
dinner. Maggie jumped from her seat, and opened the door.
"How do you do, Mr. Keryle?" she said, taking his two hands, and pulling
him into the room, which opened on the verandah. Her father rose
solemnly, with the expression of a mute at a funeral. He squeezed Alec's
hand with a warm grip. That was his one sign of welcome. He had not a
word for it in his dictionary, or he could not find it at a moment's
notice, so he left it unsaid and sat down.
Just then Aggie, the housemaid, whispered to Elsie that Mr. Bond, who
was a neighbour, had just ridden up and was coming in.
Meanwhile, Maggie, who had been sitting next to Elsie, hurriedly shifted
her plate, and motioned to Alec to take her place. He, nothing loth, did
as he was told, and sat down.
Elsie was not pleased with Maggie, and she thought Alec was too
presuming. He had no business to sit down beside her at the invitation
of a mere girl. He took it for granted that he had a right to sit by
her, and she resented it. Besides, what would Mr. Bond think? She would
teach Alec a lesson. Her smiles vanished, as sunshine before a
thundercloud. She retired within herself, and answered him in
monosyllables. He did not know where the machinery had gone wrong, but
he saw there was something out of gear. A knock was heard, and the
housemaid opened the door. She looked over her shoulder, and said, "Mr.
Bond."
McLean rose as before, dumb as usual, but he gripped Bond with two
hands, and held him as in a vice. This was his warm welcome, for Bond
was a great favourite, and the eldest son of an old friend.
Aggie, out of pure mischief, placed a knife and fork for him on the
other side of Elsie, and he sat down. She shook hands, and entered into
an animated conversation at once. Alec's spirits fell to zero as Elsie's
rose. Her face flushed, and she seemed brimming over with pleasure.
"Confound Bond!" thought Alec; "what business has he to come here
interfering with me? I'll give him a piece of my mind on the first
opportunity."
Maggie came to the rescue, and talked to Alec. She saw that the team did
not pull together, and were kicking over the traces. This was her way of
putting the case. She knew a good deal about horses, and thought they
had much in common with men and women. Her own pony always shied at a
particular tree on the track to the woolshed, but when grazing in the
paddock she would often be found rubbing herself against its rough bark.
Elsie was shying off from Alec, whom she liked, and giving all her
attention to Mr. Bond, whom she did not like one bit. Maggie would coax
the pair into better behaviour, and see if they could not pull together.
Aggie, on her way to and from the kitchen, could be seen stuffing the
corner of her apron into her mouth, and swallowing a burst of laughter
which was just about to break out.
"When did you leave home, Alec?" said Maggie.
"About four o'clock."
"A.m., or p.m.?"
Alec made no reply. He was listening to what Elsie was saying to Bond.
Jealousy was rioting in his heart, and he had no ears but for the woman
he loved.
"Morning or afternoon?" persisted Maggie.
Alec turned a perplexed face to her, and said, "It's night, of course."
"Oh, I know that," she said, in a low voice, "and very dark and gloomy."
The sarcasm did not hit the mark. He confined his attention, apparently,
to his plate; but his ears were lent to his right-hand neighbours,
whose conversation never flagged. They rattled on at a good pace over
the familiar tracks of station topics.
By-and-by dinner was over. The room in which they were seated was
dining-room and drawing-room combined. The McLeans had primitive ways,
and money was scarce, so the old house had not been added to. Everything
was plain and simple. McLean would not allow anything to be changed. The
whole place reminded him of his wife, and he would not alter or add to
the house.
The front door was thrown open; the family and the two visitors trooped
out on the verandah. Elsie sat on a short seat, and Bond placed himself
beside her. There was only room for two. Alec had not bargained for
this. He had thought that Elsie would relent, and, when they were out of
the glare of the lamps, return to her old manner with him. He could not
imagine what had offended her; but evidently something had started up
between them--some misunderstanding on her part, some rumour; some
busybody's poisonous tone; something he had unwittingly said or done.
Just now it was plain he was not wanted. He was out of the running. He
wasn't in the swim. He was out of his reckoning, and among the breakers.
He thought all the billows were going over him.
McLean retired to a corner of the verandah, and spun his own troubles
out of himself, and wound them about him in solitary companion-lessness.
Maggie put her arm into Alec's, and drew him to the end of the verandah,
and pointed to the Pleiades, which were shining with their ghost-like
light.
"Father was reading to us yesterday in the Bible where Job said, 'Canst
thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades?' and I asked Elsie to show
them to me last night. Are they seven sisters, do you think? Elsie says
they are. I wonder whether they are happy. We are only two sisters, and
I am not happy."
"Neither am I," said Alec.
"Elsie is not happy either. She does not like Mr. Bond one little bit."
"She seems happy enough. Canst thou bind the sweet influences of a
laugh? They are sweet to one and bitter to another. I can't bear to hear
her laughing like that with Charlie Bond. He and I are not very good
friends. I have a good mind to saddle my horse and ride home in the
starlight."
"Oh, do not do that!" said Maggie in alarm. "Elsie would be sorry. I am
sure she would. I won't let you go. I'll hold you tight. You are angry,
and you will require to be answered out of the whirlwind, like Job."
Alec shook his head. He was calming down under the spell of wise little
Maggie. No, he would not saddle his horse and ride away just yet. That
would be too much of a telltale. Elsie would understand, and gloat over
his trouble. Bond would triumph, and take his scalp. He looked upon
himself as wiped out, and not fit to cumber the ground any longer. He
would go away somewhere, anywhere, and make no sign. He would henceforth
be dead to Elsie, but not buried. He would get over it. He would not let
any one dance over his grave, or jeer at his tombstone.
The morbid thoughts that flit through the brain of the slighted lover
are amazing and wonderful. The figments and pigments are all wrong. It
is a mad world! and love is akin to madness.
There was a little bedroom at the end of the verandah, which the local
clergyman occupied when on his visits to Borombyee. It was called the
"prophet's chamber"; partly for this reason, and partly because Elsie
pencilled the name on the door after hearing her father read in the
Bible about the woman of Shunem, who asked her husband to make a little
chamber on the wall for the prophet Elisha.
When the clergyman was not at Borombyee Alec always had the "prophet's
chamber."
He could not stay on the verandah any longer, so he cudgelled his brains
for an excuse to get away. He would go to bed; that was the best place
for him.
"I have a dreadful toothache, Maggie," he said. "Please make my excuses
to your father and Elsie. I can hardly speak. I shall come to prayers
when the bell rings, if I am better; but do not expect me."
"I am so sorry," said Maggie; "and I hope you will soon get better."
"Good night, Maggie," he whispered.
"Good night, Alec."
He went into the "prophet's chamber," and shut the door.
CHAPTER II
Alec, having lit a match, found the bed, table, stool, and candlestick
as Elisha did in Shunem. He sat down to think. Yes, Elsie was a flirt,
and had cruelly slighted him. He had done nothing to deserve such
treatment. A girl who could act as she had done was not deserving of the
love of any man. There was a false note in her character somewhere, and
she could not be the true and gentle girl he had fondly imagined. To be
warned in time was lucky, for to be tied to such a woman was not good.
Better to be free than bound by a chain; and so on his thoughts ran,
shooting hither and thither with the speed of summer lightning.
How long he sat thus he could not tell. An opossum called to its mate in
the gum-tree that overhung the room. The "swish, swish" of a native cat
came from under the floor. A koala, or native bear, roared from the
clump of timber near the creek. A dingo howled on the hills, and a hawk
wheeled overhead. One of these sounds made him start to his feet. The
candle was burning low.
A bell rang. It was ten o'clock, the hour for "worship." He could hear
McLean clearing his throat in the dining-room, which was only separated
by a thin wooden partition from the "prophet's chamber." Then he heard
Elsie's light step, but thought it sounded sad and slow; then came
Bond's hateful creaking boots; then Maggie's quiet tread. Aggie came
from the kitchen, three men from the hut, and Pat, though a Roman
Catholic, came too, "to plase Miss Elsie. An' sure," he used to say,
"there's no praste widdin fifty moiles to give a curse to me sowl,
pinnance to me body, an' a hole in a big cheque to pay for absolution
from the sin av it."
When they had all sat down McLean opened the big family Bible,
apparently at random (but with intention, as he had been studying the
passage) at the twelfth chapter of the Book of the Revelation. He read,
with a deep, sonorous voice, to the end; then gave a long sigh, and
plunged into a commentary on the "great red dragon," which he said was
the Roman Catholic Church. He proved this, to his own satisfaction,
seeing she had shed the blood of saints and prophets, and that the
popes, cardinals, priests, and all who had the "mark of the beast" upon
them, were to be thrown into the bottomless pit. He drew a gruesome
picture of their writhing and torments in the true Calvinistic fashion
of forty years ago.
"Holy Moses!" said Pat in a loud aside. "The saints defind us!"
Elsie nudged her father's arm, but he would not stop, for he had got on
his favourite topic--the one subject on which he could be loquacious.
Pat could not sit still another moment. He glared at McLean, and made a
gesture as if he would like to throttle him; then, apparently thinking
better of it, jumped up, threw down his chair with a clatter, flung open
the front door, and stamped up and down the verandah, vowing vengeance.
Alec had heard everything. He had forgotten his troubles. He laughed
and rubbed his hands, and even capered about the room. It was all so
ludicrous and absurd, and he had to let off the steam by rolling on the
floor for a minute or two.
Some one knocked at the door, and he called out, "Who's there?"
"It's me, sor."
"Well, Pat, what's the matter?"
"Fwat's the matter? Everythin's the matter! I'm goin' to brek every bone
av' the boss's body before I say me prayers to the Vargin this blessed
noight!"
"Whist! I'll come out to you, Pat."
"Do, sor."
When Alec came out, he said: "Not a word here. Come to the hut, and tell
me all about it. What is the matter?" He pulled Pat away by sheer force
to the hut, and pushed him into a seat.
"Now what is it?" he said.
Pat told him what had happened, in his rich oily brogue, and with such
queer antics and gestures, Alec could not help going off again into a
fit of laughter.
"You'll be the death of me, Pat, if you say another word. It's too
funny!"
"I'll be the death of ould McLean, the bitter, black, Presbyterian
divil's own favourite son. Och! he'll be roasted for this loike a
herrin' on a gridiron! Och! the divil will toast him on a pitchfark.
He'll be basted an' hauled over the fire till he roars blue murther!
Och! the thafe! I shpit upon yees as I would upon Judas who was wan o'
the same kidney!"
"Here, Pat," said Alec, "is half a sovereign for you; don't say another
word about it."
Pat winked, and pocketed the money.
"Spache is silver, an' silence is goolden. Mum's the wurrd. Love ye're
inimy is a goolden rule. I'll obsarve that same, as I've got the Queen's
countenance for it in me pocket."
He seized a stick which was lying in a corner, whirled it round his head
three times, and brought it down with a whack on the table.
"What's that for, Pat?"
"That's wan for me inimy. It's that same he'd be afther havin' if yees
hadn't intervaned wid de gospel av paice. Sure, I repinted av takin' de
money, so I let de divil go out av me through de shtick. I feel betther
after that, bedad!"
"Well, go to bed, Pat. I hear the men coming." So saying, Alec slipped
out of the door, and crept under cover of the shadows, until he reached
the back of the house; then he paused to listen. On tiptoe he reached
the "prophet's chamber," went in and shut the door, then flung himself
on the bed. He had been a fool he thought. He should not have allowed
Elsie to see that he cared one jot whether she showed attentions to Bond
or not. But why should she so markedly slight himself? He could not
understand this, unless she had wished to make him jealous, or unless
she was a flirt, and deliberately flung away one who loved her, for a
brief amusement, _pour passer le temp_. In this case she was cruel and
heartless. Unless he had seen her conduct he could not have believed she
would have acted as she did.
What was to be done now? He could not face Elsie and Bond next morning.
He could not endure to meet them at breakfast. The air was full of
electricity. The explosives were stored, the train was laid, and a
chance spark might cause a blow-up which he would ever regret. He felt
like a volcano which might burst forth at any moment. Discretion is the
better part of valour; he would cool down before morning perhaps.
He heard low voices in the dining-room.
"Good night, Mr. Bond," said Elsie.
"Good night," said Bond.
Alec heard her footsteps and the shutting of her door.
"Good night, Mr. McLean," said Bond.
McLean shook hands in silence, and both men went to their respective
rooms.
Alec peeped out of his window, and saw a light in Elsie's room, which
was only a few feet away. If he could have seen her at that moment, he
would have perceived her lying on the bed, with her face buried in the
pillow, and sobbing bitterly.
She had discovered she had treated Alec badly, and was afraid she had
done irreparable mischief. She felt as if she could almost go down on
her knees and ask his forgiveness. She saw what a mistake she had made,
but it was made on the impulse of the moment, and her pride would not
allow her to acknowledge it, by word or look, until it was too late; but
in the morning she would make amends for the temporary eclipse by
shining all the brighter when she saw him, and, poor fellow! he had
toothache too! She was so sorry! She had arranged everything in her own
mind. There would be no more unhappiness between them. Then she went to
bed and was soon fast asleep.
Alec saw that her light was out. "Heartless!" he said, "and here am I
tossing undressed upon my bed, a prey to unrequited love, and torn by a
thousand bitter thoughts, vainly regretting what might have been. It is
all over. There is no more happiness for me in this world. Love is
dead."
He lay for hours rolling from side to side, and felt as if sleep had
fled for ever. He could not close his eyes, and he longed for daylight
that he might get up and ride away from this now hateful spot. The sight
of Bond would madden him; better they should never meet.
He could endure his thoughts no longer. They were fevering his blood,
parching his tongue, and setting his brain on fire. He jumped up, put on
his hat, and let himself out by the window, which was wide open, as he
feared the door would make a noise if he attempted to leave by it.
He felt better now. The morning air cooled his cheek; the fresh breeze
chased away his distempered fancies.
He went quietly to the stable. No dog barked, for they all knew who was
moving so stealthily. A faint flush was tinting Pepper Hill. The rosy
dawn would soon outline the picture, and colour hill and vale with a
flowing brush.
He saddled his horse and led him out, then mounted, and rode slowly
away.
The soft footfall of a horse awoke Elsie. She started up in alarm, and
looked out. What she almost feared had come to pass. In the dim light
she saw Alec riding away. She had mortally offended him. She would never
see him again. The dream of love was ended. She dropped on the bed, and
gave way to a paroxysm of weeping.
CHAPTER III
The sun was glinting in the tree-tops. A flock of yellow-crested
cockatoos awoke the echoes with their chatter. Magpies scattered the
dewdrops in the grass, and sang love songs to their mates. Bell-birds
rang their morning chimes, and the whip-bird cracked its lash, as Alec
rode up the hill with bent head and heavy heart. What a contrast to
yesterday evening, when he had ridden down with the air of a conqueror!
Now he was going up vanquished. Life is all ups and downs. To make the
simile correct he ought to have been going down hill, but the physical
map is not laid out always according to the fitness of things.
His horse had a weary climb to the top of the hill, grunting and
groaning at every step, while his rider sighed like a north wind on a
sultry day. At last the highest point on the track was reached, and the
horse stood still to rest, as he gave a snort of satisfaction because
the worst part of the road was over, and Glengo, with its cool stream
and juicy grass, lay at the foot of the hill.
Alec turned round to take a last look at Borombyee homestead, but he
could only see the top of the chimneys.
"Appropriate," he said; "all ended in smoke. Good-bye, Elsie. I shall
never see you again."
He took off his hat, and let the breeze, which rustled up from the
south, ripple through his hair. The cool air was refreshing, and he felt
better. He wouldn't think of his troubles, but let them blow off and be
carried away for ever. He felt soothed for a minute or two; but they
would come back to roost, and brood, and hatch, in spite of all he could
do.
"Confound Bond!"
He had just got the words out, when a snake glided across the track and
caused his horse to shy. Alec made a savage cut with his stock-whip at
the reptile, and left it writhing in the dust with a broken back.
"Wish it were Bond!" he said.
He dug his spur into the horse, and went cantering down the hill, with
a flush on his face; for he was ashamed of his evil thoughts, and
repented of his violence to the horse.
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" he said, patting the beast's neck, "I am
sorry."
He felt better now. The fit was going off. He hoped for the best, and
trusted time would cure him of the distemper. If only Bond did not cross
his path all would be well. He would be as a red rag to a bull, and he
would shun him as a mad dog shuns water.
He arrived at Glengo about nine o'clock, glad to be home again. He tried
to wear a smiling face, but could not succeed. His mother met him at the
door, and threw up her hands.
"Why, Alec! You must have been early afoot. Are they all well at
Borombyee? What's amiss that you are home so early? Has pleuro broken
out among the cattle, or scab in the sheep, or is the country on fire?"
"They are all well at Borombyee. There is no pleuro, or scab, or fire."
"Thank goodness! I was afraid something had happened." She saw
something was amiss--something lurking in his eyes. She guessed her
guess, and made a cast with her sweep-net of questions and caught him in
the meshes. She knew now; the secret was revealed; it lay in the depth
of his eyes. There is not much that can be hid from a mother.
She watched him at breakfast, and kept the conversation going to cover
his retreat within himself. He ate little, and said less. His father,
good, easy man, listened to his wife's talk, which rippled and flowed
like a brook in the sun. He had the gift of silence, like many bushmen
who have been much alone--who have communed with the great mountains,
the wide-spread plains, the quiet clouds, and the silent stars.
"I can't get a word in edgeways," he said, laughing.
"You've got one in flat, at last," she said, "but it will be a long time
before you can coin another;" and she rattled on with her bright talk.
After breakfast Alec's father rode to the drafting-yards, where some fat
sheep were on the point of starting for the Melbourne market. Alec
strolled down the creek on pretence of going to the killing-yard. He
wanted to be alone. He would fill up the day somehow, by "topping up" a
fence here, by straining a wire there, and by straightening a post
anywhere.
He did not go home to luncheon; he was not hungry. The longer he kept
from the search-light eyes of his mother the better it was for him. In
the dusk, or lamplight, he would be all right. He could run in under the
battery with lights out and masked fires.
At dinner he was more at ease. His mother did not appear to watch him,
excepting in the most casual way. His father told him, in the briefest,
jerkiest sentences, that he had drafted a flock of sheep for Melbourne,
picked out four lame ones, skinned one that was smothered in the yard,
and spliced a broken leg.
When Alec had gone to bed his mother had a long talk with her husband.
She hinted that their son was not looking well. She thought the hard
work of shearing-time had been too much for him, and that he required a
change.
"Hoots! do I ever get a change, or need one? No. Alec's all right;
right's a trivet. If a man thinks he wants a change, make him work. If
he wants more change, give him more work. If he wants a spell after
that, more work still. Work never killed a man. Work while it's day is
scripture an' sense."
"Yes, John; but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!"
"I say, all play and no work makes Jack as bad as a Turk!"