The Squire’s offer—Tim decides to go home—Our heroine’s advice
to Mat—Our forester takes to gardening—The “new chum’s”
difficulties and troubles.
The squire, one evening after the inmates of Bulinda Creek had once
more settled down to their quiet every-day life, beckoned Mat on to
the verandah for a smoke. When they had made themselves comfortable in
a couple of “squatters,” or easy seats made of canvas, propped on two
poles, the old man spoke.
“Mat, my lad, I have heard the opinion of the doctor, that Tim should
go home. I hope that you and he will accept the offer that I am going
to make to you. If he wishes to go, and I believe he does, I propose
to pay his passage to the old country in the best ship that we can
find, and I intend to start him in the forest with a thousand pounds,
so that he can take a little farm, or buy a bit of land, and he shall
draw upon me for any farther sum he may require.”
Mat was about to thank him for this generous proposal, but the squire
stopped him.
“I know that you will never take money without working for it and all
that, but remember, should you wish to ease your conscience, you can
repay me when you are a rich man, and I intend to put you on a road
by which you may attain this, the particulars of my scheme I will
explain to you in good time. Another thing, you can also help your
brother and yourself by accepting the purse that was subscribed for
you, and which money I long ago placed out at interest in the bank,
and then there are your nuggets worth at least three pounds sterling
an ounce, and—”
“True enough, squire,” interrupted Mat, “_they_ are what brought all
the misery to your house, and to Tim too, for ’twas Magan, of course,
that shot him. I wish I had put _them_ in the bank, when I landed in
Sydney.”
“Very well, Mat, and now I have a proposition to make which concerns
yourself. No one in this country could have rescued my daughter
under the peculiarly difficult circumstances of the case, as you did
it”—here Bell paused to light up another pipe, whilst our forester
waited with impatience, he scarcely knew why, for his next words. The
squire quietly puffed at his pipe, and continued, “Had the police come
up with this Magan, I feel convinced that, proof as he was against
their bullets, he would have retreated fighting to the cave, and
rather than surrender would have killed Annie, for the brute would
as soon have shot a woman as a man; and, bear in mind, I never shall
forget that that gallant chief of yours saved your life, and thus the
lives of others, and I will make it one of my first cares to reward
him and his wife, and the whole of his tribe, in any way you think
they will most appreciate. But to come back to yourself, Mat. You of
all men will appreciate deeds rather than words, and I propose that
from this date you take up your abode with us, and go equal shares
with me in all the property I possess.
“Tom wishes this as well. Remember that you will be, as the younger
man, the working partner, and will consequently be of the greatest
assistance to me, who am getting a bit portly and old. Now go and
sleep over all this. To-morrow I will show you my books, and then you
can tell me if you agree. Tom, who is well provided for, says you
_must_, and I say you _shall_.”
Mat did not “sleep over it,” but lay _awake_ that night thinking
over the squire’s proposal. To his own way of thinking, he had not
done anything so wonderful after all in the way that he had rescued
Annie; though true he recollected that Dromoora had praised him in the
matter, which praise, coming from the lips of that old warrior, meant
a very great deal indeed. He plainly saw what a splendid opening lay
before him; such a career had never occurred to him in his wildest
dreams. And then he thought how splendid it would be if Tim could join
him in anything of the sort; or should he go home with Tim? No, _that_
would be no advantage to either; besides, he thought he _would_ like
to stay at Bulinda. Thus, reasoning the matter over in every possible
way, in trying to come to a conclusion, he went to sleep.
Our forester was sauntering along the verandah the next day, thinking
of what he should say to the squire, when Annie came softly out of
Tim’s room, and Mat almost ran against her, so absorbed was he in his
thoughts.
“Oh, Mat,” she said, “I was coming to look for you. Tim would like to
speak to you, and after that I want you to help me get some bananas
for him.”
“Is that you, Mat?” said a faint voice, as our hero entered the
sick-room. “I want to talk to you about what we were saying the other
day, when I wasn’t allowed to talk any more. I’m much better this
morning. The doctor says I can never ride, or do anything worth doing
again, _that’s_ what pains me; ’taint the wound so much as that. But
I ought to be very thankful, I know, ’taint no worse, cos t’ parson
says I oughter. Oh! he is just like an angel; steals in and prays;
yes, prays at night, when he thinks I’m asleep; but I can hear him
whispering his prayers. And Miss Annie, she _do_ just about take care
of me; I never have to ask for anything I want. I feel better in body
and in mind when those two are here, and they come different times,
and never bother me with ‘How did you sleep last night?’ because they
_know_; they tell each other. And I told t’ parson as how I’d like
to get back to t’ forest, and he said the doctor told him that he
wished I _was_ back, and if I went on so well as now, I might go in a
few weeks; and that is why I wanted to see you, to ask you, is there
enough money as my share, do you think, for me to go?”
Tim broke down at this point from exhaustion, and Mat gave him a
cooling drink from a bottle which his brother pointed out, and begged
him not to talk any more.
“You only _listen_, Tim,” he said. “I’ve settled all about the money;
you’ll have plenty, and _will_ go home. I’ll tell you all about it
another time. I am going now to get some bananas for you.”
“Will you come again after I’ve had a sleep, Mat? for I feel so much
happier now I’ve seen you, I shall get to sleep and dream of home.”
Mat promised, then stepped out and rejoined Annie, and they proceeded
to the garden, where he cut a large bunch of “Lady’s Finger” bananas
which she showed him, and carried it back to the house.
When he had deposited his burden, Mat turned to Annie.
“I am afraid I nearly pushed you over just now, Miss Annie, when you
were coming out of Tim’s room, but I never looked up in time. I was
stupidly going along with my head down, thinking so much of what your
father said to me last night.”
“Why, what _did_ he say?”
“I’ll tell you in a few words. He asked me to live with him and be his
partner.”
“I guessed that might be it, for we were all talking about it. And
what was your answer?”
“Why, he told me to give him an answer this morning; and it’s such a
grand prospect for a poor man like myself. But then, I am not used to
live amongst your class, Miss Annie, and I don’t know _what_ to say.”
“Well, then, I will tell you what to say; and you must say it to
please me. Tell my father that you will be glad to avail yourself of
his terms. And as to what you say about ‘class,’ I daresay you will
get accustomed to ours, and all the other ‘classes’ round about here,
in time.”
“Then, Miss Annie, I’ll say as you tell me.”
There was a noble specimen of the crimson-flowered “poinciania-tree”
growing near to the entrance of the house, and a seat had been put up
under its shady branches. This tree was a favourite resort of various
members of the family, by reason of the cool currents of air which
played around it. The verandah, though perfectly shady, was rather
confined as to atmosphere; the perfume of the creepers which shut it
in was also rather overpowering.
After his conversation with Annie, our forester departed to look for
the squire, but not finding him thought that he would smoke a pipe
under the “poinciania-tree,” and there await his return.
Strolling up to the seat, he found it already occupied by Annie, who
had brought her work there.
“I cannot find your father. Miss Annie, do you know, I was thinking,
before I spoke with you just now, that I would go back to England with
Tim.”
“Why, Mat? do you like England so much better?”
“No, I don’t think I do, since you said I might stay here.”
“Yes, I would rather you _would_ stay,” said Annie, as she went on
rapidly with her knitting. “I should not like to think that the man
who risked his life to save mine was going away for ever.”
“Miss Annie, do you know that during the whole of that wild, savage
life I was leading, I used often to get out a book that I saved, and
think of the young lady who gave it me.”
“Was she such a _very_ nice girl, then?” inquired Annie.
“She _was_—she was Miss Annie Bell!”
“_Me! me_ give you a book! I never _did_, Mat.”
“I think perhaps you will remember when I show it you.” And Mat
went off to his room, and returning presently, laid an old and
much-battered copy of “Robinson Crusoe” in her lap.
“There!” he said triumphantly.
“I _do_ remember it,” said Annie, after looking at the old
yellow-leaved volume. “I gave it you in the forest, when I was a
school-girl.”
“Yes; I never expected to show it to you again.”
“Do you always keep presents like that, Mat?”
“No; but that is the only present I ever had from a lady who was kind
to me, and I _was_ pleased when it was washed up from the wreck.
By-the-bye, would you like to see my journal? I have been writing it
out as carefully as I can, because a publisher in Sydney has offered
me a good price if I’ll let him print it, and it will be so nice if
Tim and I can make a few pounds by it.”
“I should _like_ to hear it, if you will read it to me, Mat.”
Mat fetched the manuscript, and, taking his seat by Annie said,—
“I won’t give you all this beginning part, because you heard most
of that at the lecture; but do listen to this page, because, when I
read that part to the publisher, he threw himself back in his chair,
shoved his spectacles on the top of his forehead, put his thumbs
into his waistcoat, and said, ‘Um—ah!—yes; just so. I believe there
_are_ some curious freaks of nature in those northern parts, but this
is—well—er—er—a _little_ strong.’ What he _really_ meant was—‘You and
your brother are terrible liars.’
“This is the account, as I wrote it, only I’ve had the ‘wording’
improved:—
“Tim and I were returning to the camp on a moonlight night, along a
chain of small water-holes, which were fringed with ‘blady’ grass,
when some beast or other suddenly floundered into the water, but
never rose to the surface again. Whilst I watched, Tim went off to
the camp close by, and soon returned with half a dozen blacks with
their clap-nets. These entered the little pool, and, after working
their nets for some time, one of them jumped out with a fish of about
six pounds in his net. ‘Very good,’ I said to my black friend, ‘but
that is not the beast we heard in the dry grass.’ ‘Yes, that is it,’
he replied. ‘Look! he has two sorts of legs on his stomach, and he
eats grass at night, like a kangaroo, and we call him “Barramundi”
(_Ceratodus forsteri_); and sometimes we have caught him on the banks
of water-holes on moonlight nights. He can breathe in the water
because he has _these_ things, showing me his gills; and he can
breathe on land because he has _these_—I will show you;’ upon which
the black cut open the fish, and showed me his lungs.”
“I can only say,” said Mat, as he stopped reading, “that we both _saw_
all this, and, after all, it’s not much more wonderful than some of
the tree-snakes. I can show you, on the next one I kill, two little
short points or legs under his stomach, to help him to grip getting
about trees.”
Before Mat could continue his journal they were summoned to dinner, so
Annie took up the book, saying,—
“We must go on with it this evening. I am sure that I shall like it so
much.”
When, however, the evening came, Annie remembered that her garden
_must_ be watered, for she had neglected this of late; so she asked
Mat to come and help her to carry the buckets, saying,—
“If you will fill the buckets at the water-hole, and then carry them
across the paddock to those trees—that is where my garden is—I will
walk on first, for I do not suppose that there are any bushrangers
about now.”
Mat had often passed this garden, with its hedge of prickly “Osage
orange,” but had never penetrated through the little gate.
He soon filled his buckets, and was by Annie’s side, in her garden,
waiting for orders.
She pointed out those shrubs and flowers which were specially thirsty
subjects, and told him the names of many of the plants.
“These many-coloured flowers are Balsams; that great bush, with its
deep red flowers, is a Bouganvillia; and the creeper joining it,
over the summer-house, with its bunches of waxy flowers, is called
Stephanotis; it scents the whole garden at night.”
“I know the smell of _that_,” said Mat, “if I do not know the name,
for you had a nosegay of it when I saw you in Sydney.”
“Yes, I _had_, and I wear it at all the balls and parties I go to. It
is my favourite flower.”
Our hero watered everything he was told to, and a good many dead
sticks and cuttings that he was not told to. When they had finished,
he asked Annie whether they should come again the next evening to
water; also whether he might look after her garden a bit, for that it
was “terrible” weedy.
“Yes,” she returned, “I should be glad if you would help me this dry
weather. What funny expressions you _do_ use sometimes!”
“And,” continued Mat, “will you give me a bit of the—the—sweet-smelling
plant.”
“Certainly I will,” she said, as she plucked a spray and gave it him,
“and I will write down those difficult names for you. Now we will go
in; they will wonder what has become of us.”
Mat told his brother that evening, before he went to bed, that
he had heard of three plants quite new to him, called “Balsam,”
“Boug-and-villia,” and “Ste-phen-oh-tis;” and Tim agreed that whatever
the plants were like, the names were very wonderful.
The following day our forester found the squire and Tom alone in the
former’s room. Parson Tabor had been away a great deal of late upon
affairs connected with the station in Sydney, with Tom as companion.
“Our Parson” was always taken into the confidence of the family in
matters both temporal and spiritual; he was one of those men who
seldom ventured an opinion upon any important matter until it was
asked for; but when he _did_ speak, his remarks and advice were worth
considering, and to the point.
Mat had hoped when he entered the squire’s room that the clergyman
would have been there too, but in this he was disappointed: the parson
was too busy writing, they said, to attend; besides, they had not much
to discuss, for, said Bell,—
“I’ve got a new chum coming, but _first_, what is your decision Mat,
with reference to the matter we were discussing the other night?”
Mat replied that if the squire and Tom still wished him really to have
a share in the station, and become one of the partners, he would do
his very best, and certainly would be very proud of such a distinction
being conferred upon him. He would like, he said, to begin work
at once, and be off to the out-station in a couple of days’ time.
(Mat did not say so, but the fact was he had taken a great fancy to
gardening all at once, and wished to have a couple more evenings at
that delightful occupation.)
Bell and his son were much pleased at having secured such a powerful
and useful aid as our forester for the working of the station, and Mat
was as delighted at having achieved the very height of his ambition,
though he could never conceive that such a possibility would be
afforded him in Australia, when he left the New Forest, as to rise
suddenly to the position of partner in one of the finest properties
in the country; for though the “books” of the station were at present
a little beyond his understanding, yet by this time he was well
acquainted with the whole of the “run,” and the thousands of cattle
and horses upon it, and during frequent visits to Sydney for purposes
connected with Bell’s affairs, he had heard nothing but praise on all
sides of the squire’s management, and of the “solidity” attached to
his name.
When Mat proposed to lose no time in commencing his work at the
out-station, Bell replied that he wished him to wait at Bulinda until
a “new chum” arrived from England, who was expected daily.
“Fact is,” he said. “I thought I had done with ‘new chums,’ but a
letter I received some time ago reminded me of a promise I once made
to an old friend at home, that I would take his son on my station.
He says it’s his only son, who will enter into no profession, loves
horses, and can ‘rough it’ to any extent. I know what _that_ means by
experience,” growled Bell. “Anyhow he comes—‘The Honourable Lionel
Fulrake;’ the ship was in a week ago. We will do our best to welcome
him anyhow, and we shall soon see how he ‘shapes.’”
A few hours after this conversation, Mat was in his room tidying up
his things, arranging his “manavlins,” as Tom dubbed his odds and
ends, when the sound of wheels caught his ear; so he stole round the
building to see who had arrived.
A buggy and pair of horses, driven by a coachman in livery, was just
pulling up at the verandah. The vehicle was laden, or rather piled
up, with every conceivable description of luggage: portmanteaux,
hatboxes, guns, fishing-rods, a tent, and, perched on the top of all,
an enormous canteen.
Presently, a young man could be seen clearing out of these
impedimenta, and descending the vehicle. “What a swell!” thought Mat;
and the new arrival certainly _was_, if one judged by his clothes: a
tall white hat, an irreproachable collar, a scarf with two pins in it,
dust coat, nankeen trousers, and patent boots.
“Brought over in a bandbox,” whispered Tom, who had joined Mat in the
inspection. “I don’t think _he_ will ‘shape’ much!”
“I don’t know,” rejoined his companion; “I’ve seen swells just like
him at home, and I’ve seen them _fight_!”
Mr. Fulrake, for he it was, had now ascended to the verandah, and,
looking about for a bell, but finding none, subsided languidly into a
“squatter,” and lit a cigarette.
Having finished this without seeing anyone, he got up to examine
the house, and finally entered a room, which happened to be the one
occupied by the ladies and the squire.
“Welcome to Bulinda!” said Bell, coming forward. “I know it must be
Mr. Fulrake from the family likeness!”
“Thanks!” replied the new arrival, as he exchanged bows with Mrs. Bell
and her daughter. “I’ve been outside for about a quarter of an hour;
couldn’t find any one, you know. Will you send the servant to bring
in my luggage?”
“All right,” returned Bell; “we’ll get in your traps, but it’s not
_here_. I’ll tell the man to drive round to the bachelors’ quarters;
your room is all ready there. Sorry we never heard you come. You
should have walked in at once!”
“Thanks! I’m awfully tired with that jolting cart!”
“Well, then, rest here; the ladies will look after you!”
Saying which, the squire went out, called his son and Mat, and with
their help proceeded to attack the pile of luggage.
Our “new chum’s” appearance was distinctly _striking_, in one especial
peculiarity—that of his _hair_. It was the lightest possible hair
ever seen, almost white in colour, whilst his moustache and the down
on his cheeks was only a shade darker. The contour of his delicately
pink-hued face denoted an equal mixture of good temper and languor,
whilst a pair of thin legs supported an apparently frail body, and a
pair of remarkably long arms.
As soon as the squire had disappeared, Fulrake threw himself into an
easy armchair, which Annie offered him, and, first gazing in a vacant
sort of way round the room, prepared to rest himself, and answer
questions.
“’Ad you a good passage,” inquired Mrs. Bell.
“Pretty fair, only a horribly dirty ship, not a very first-class lot
of people on board, bad cook, and all that sort of thing, don’t you
know.”
“You must find your first impressions out here rather different to
those of the old country—we live in a very simple way, you know, Mr.
Fulrake.”
“Oh, well, it’s rather hot, and all that sort of thing, but I’m rather
used to roughing it, you know—led quite a wild life in Norway, had to
cook my own food.”
“You did not find that so _very_ hard, did you,” inquired Annie, with
a smile; “how long had you to do it?”
“Why, quite three weeks, last time I was there.”
“_Dear me_, but could you not find any one to cook?”
“As a matter of fact, there _was_ a man with me, but he was so dirty I
would not let him cook, and my interpreter pretended he _couldn’t_.”
“I really do not think you were so badly off with two men,” remarked
Annie, “unless, of course, you had any _real_ discomforts.”
“Yes, but I had, though. One night I got drenched, and had to have my
clothes dried at the canteen fire; never travel without a portable
stove. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get a change and hot bath, I’m
so dusty, don’t you know.”
“_Well_,” said Annie, as soon as he had gone, “‘Mr. Matter-of-fact
don’t you know,’ has a pretty good opinion of himself and his personal
comforts, I should think, with his short answers, too; what do _you_
think, mother.”
“My dear, I don’t like your talking in that light way about him, he
is evidently a gentleman of good education and talents, and we _know_
that he comes of a good family. We have seen little of him as yet,
I’ve no _doubt_ but what he speaks Fren—, no, I mean I daresay you
will like him when you know him better, you must take him in hand a
little.”
“_Me!_” answered Annie, in a tone of scorn, “_me_ take him in hand! No
thank you; my opinion is, that at his best he’s an amusing _fop_—what
a funny-looking little creature he is. But don’t you think, my dear
mother, that you are rather too fond of being taken with strangers
directly you see them? remember that wretched sham Frenchman.”
“Yes, yes, my dear; there, you know I never can abide an argument, but
only remember that Mr. Fulrake is a thorough-bred English gentleman.”
Meantime, Fulrake had been shown the way to his room, and entering
it, sat down perfectly aghast, uttering his thoughts out loud. “Why,
hang it, no better than a Norwegian log-hut—worse—earthen floor! no
armchair! no toilet-table! no bell! no _nothing_!” “Hi, you there,” he
called out, hearing some one in the next apartment.
And a man in moleskin trousers, and flannel shirt with sleeves tucked
up, appeared at his summons.
“I want a warm bath, and my things put out, and a dressing-table, and
above all a glass.”
“All right,” said Mat, for he it was, “I’ll speak to the squire, a
glass of _what_ shall I tell him, he only keeps whisky.”
“Idiot,” was on Fulrake’s lips, but on second thoughts, he said, “a
_looking_-glass, please.”
“Queer place and queer people,” he muttered, as Mat disappeared. “What
a rummy sort of flunky! and who on earth is the squire, I wonder?”
However, as Bell never appeared, he had to unpack his boxes himself,
and after much hunting and bad language, got out his dress clothes,
but without the aid of a looking-glass he could neither arrange his
moustaches nor put on his tie.
“The bath I’ll go without for once,” he said, “but a glass I must, and
_will_ have.”
After considerable searching, he found the segment of a looking-glass
containing a minimum degree of quicksilver; and finally he reached the
house as the family were sitting down to supper.
Upon arriving in the room, he was introduced to Parson Tabor, Tom, and
Mat, with all of whom he exchanged bows.
“Is this the fellow,” he thought, as he eyed our forester, “that I
took for the ‘bush flunky,’ I suppose though they have their servants
in to dinner in these parts; at least he’s had the decency to change
his things, and put on a collar.”