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TINY LUTTRELL
BY ERNEST WILLIAM HORNUNG
AUTHOR OF "A BRIDE FROM THE BUSH," "UNDER TWO SKIES"
NEW YORK
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY.
All rights reserved.
THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
RAHWAY, N. J.
TO
C. A. M. D.
FROM
E. W. H.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COMING OF TINY, 1
II. SWIFT OF WALLANDOON, 21
III. THE TAIL OF THE SEASON, 44
IV. RUTH AND CHRISTINA, 63
V. ESSINGHAM RECTORY, 84
VI. A MATTER OF ANCIENT HISTORY, 102
VII. THE SHADOW OF THE HALL, 116
VIII. COUNTESS DROMARD AT HOME, 133
IX. MOTHER AND SON, 148
X. A THREATENING DAWN, 162
XI. IN THE LADIES' TENT, 176
XII. ORDEAL BY BATTLE, 193
XIII. HER HOUR OF TRIUMPH, 213
XIV. A CYCLE OF MOODS, 233
XV. THE INVISIBLE IDEAL, 248
XVI. FOREIGN SOIL, 263
XVII. THE HIGH SEAS, 286
XVIII. THE THIRD TIME OF ASKING, 306
XIX. COUNSEL'S OPINION, 317
XX. IN HONOR BOUND, 327
XXI. A DEAF EAR, 339
XXII. SUMMUM BONUM, 348
TINY LUTTRELL.
CHAPTER I.
THE COMING OF TINY.
Swift of Wallandoon was visibly distraught. He had driven over to the
township in the heat of the afternoon to meet the coach. The coach was
just in sight, which meant that it could not arrive for at least half an
hour. Yet nothing would induce Swift to wait quietly in the hotel
veranda; he paid no sort of attention to the publican who pressed him to
do so. The iron roofs of the little township crackled in the sun with a
sound as of distant musketry; their sharp-edged shadows lay on the sand
like sheets of zinc that might be lifted up in one piece; and a hot wind
in full blast played steadily upon Swift's neck and ears. He had pulled
up in the shade, and was leaning forward, with his wide-awake tilted
over his nose, and his eyes on a cloud of dust between the bellying
sand-hills and the dark blue sky. The cloud advanced, revealing from
time to time a growing speck. That speck was the coach which Swift had
come to meet.
He was a young man with broad shoulders and good arms, and a general air
of smartness and alacrity about which there could be no mistake. He had
dark hair and a fair mustache; his eye was brown and alert; and much
wind and sun had reddened a face that commonly gave the impression of
complete capability with a sufficiency of force. This afternoon,
however, Swift lacked the confident look of the thoroughly capable young
man. And he was even younger than he looked; he was young enough to
fancy that the owner of Wallandoon, who was a passenger by the
approaching coach, had traveled five hundred miles expressly to deprive
John Swift of the fine position to which recent good luck had promoted
him.
He could think of nothing else to bring Mr. Luttrell all the way from
Melbourne at the time of year when a sheep station causes least anxiety.
The month was April, there had been a fair rainfall since Christmas, and
only in his last letter Mr. Luttrell had told Swift that all he need do
for the present was to take care of the fences and let the sheep take
care of themselves. The next news was a telegram to the effect that Mr.
Luttrell was coming up country to see for himself how things were going
at Wallandoon. Having stepped into the managership by an accident, and
even so merely as a trial man, young Swift at once made sure that his
trial was at an end. It did not strike him that in spite of his youth he
was the ideal person for the post. Yet this was obvious. He had five
years' experience of the station he was to manage. The like merit is not
often in the market. Swift seemed to forget that. Neither did he take
comfort from the fact that Mr. Luttrell was an old friend of his family
in Victoria, and hitherto his own highly satisfied employer. Hitherto,
or until the last three months, he had not tried to manage Mr.
Luttrell's station. If he had failed in that time to satisfy its owner,
then he would at once go elsewhere; but for many things he wished most
keenly to stay at Wallandoon; and he was thinking of these things now,
while the coach grew before his eyes.
Of his five years on Wallandoon the last two had been infinitely less
enjoyable than the three that had gone before. There was a simple
reason for the difference. Until two years ago Mr. Luttrell had himself
managed the station, and had lived there with his wife and family. That
had answered fairly well while the family were young, thanks to a
competent governess for the girls. But when the girls grew up it became
time to make a change. The squatter was a wealthy man, and he could
perfectly well afford the substantial house which he had already built
for himself in a Melbourne suburb. The social splashing of his wife and
daughters after their long seclusion in the wilderness was also easily
within his means, if not entirely to his liking; but he was a mild man
married to a weak woman; and he happened to be bent on a little splash
on his own account in politics. Choosing out of many applicants the best
possible manager for Wallandoon, the squatter presently entered the
Victorian legislature, and embraced the new interests so heartily that
he was nearly two years in discovering his best possible manager to be
both a failure and a fraud.
It was this discovery that had given Swift an opening whose very
splendor accounted for his present doubts and fears. Had his chance
been spoilt by Herbert Luttrell, who had lately been on Wallandoon as
Swift's overseer, for some ten days only, when the two young fellows had
failed to pull together? This was not likely, for Herbert at his worst
was an honest ruffian, who had taken the whole blame (indeed it was no
more than his share) of that fiasco. Swift, however, could think of
nothing else; nor was there time; for now the coach was so close that
the crack of the driver's whip was plainly heard, and above the cluster
of heads on the box a white handkerchief fluttered against the sky.
The publican whom Swift had snubbed addressed another remark to him from
the veranda:
"There's a petticoat on board."
"So I see."
The coach came nearer.
"She's your boss's daughter," affirmed the publican--"the best of 'em."
"So you're cracking!"
"Well, wait a minute. What now?"
Swift prolonged the minute. "You're right," he said, hastily tying his
reins to the brake.
"I am so."
"Heaven help me!" muttered Swift as he jumped to the ground. "There's
nothing ready for her. They might have told one!"
A moment later five heaving horses stood sweating in the sun, and Swift,
reaching up his hand, received from a gray-bearded gentleman on the box
seat a grip from which his doubts and fears should have died on the
spot. If they did, however, it was only to make way for a new and
unlooked-for anxiety, for little Miss Luttrell was smiling down at him
through a brown gauze veil, as she poked away the handkerchief she had
waved, leaving a corner showing against her dark brown jacket; and how
she was to be made comfortable at the homestead, all in a minute, Swift
did not know.
"She insisted on coming," said Mr. Luttrell, with a smile. "Is it any
good her getting down?"
"Can you take me in?" asked the girl.
"We'll do our best," said Swift, holding the ladder for her descent.
Her shoes made a daintier imprint in the sand than it had known for two
whole years. She smiled as she gave her hand to Swift; it was small,
too, and Swift had not touched a lady's hand for many months. There was
very little of her altogether, but the little was entirely pleasing.
Embarrassed though he was, Swift was more than pleased to see the young
girl again, and her smiles that struggled through the brown gauze like
sunshine through a mist. She had not worn gauze veils two years ago; and
two years ago she had been content with fare that would scarcely please
her to-day, while naturally the living at the station was rougher now
than in the days of the ladies. It was all very well for her to smile.
She ought never to have come without a word of warning. Swift felt
responsible and aggrieved.
He helped Mr. Luttrell to carry their baggage from the coach to the
buggy drawn up in the shade. Miss Luttrell went to the horses' heads and
stroked their noses; they were Bushman and Brownlock, the old safe pair
she had many a time driven herself. In a moment she was bidden to jump
up. There had been very little luggage to transfer. The most cumbrous
piece was a hamper, of which Swift formed expectations that were
speedily confirmed. For Miss Luttrell remarked, pointing to the hamper
as she took her seat:
"At least we have brought our own rations; but I am afraid they will
make you horribly uncomfortable behind there?"
Swift was on the back seat. "Not a bit," he answered; "I was much more
uncomfortable until I saw the hamper."
"Don't you worry about us, Jack," said Mr. Luttrell as they drove off.
"Whatever you do, don't worry about Tiny. Give her travelers' rations
and send her to the travelers' hut. That's all she deserves, when she
wasn't on the way-bill. She insisted on coming at the last moment; I
told her it wasn't fair."
"But it's very jolly," said Swift gallantly.
"It was just like her," Mr. Luttrell chuckled; "she's as unreliable as
ever."
The girl had been looking radiantly about her as they drove along the
single broad, straggling street of the township. She now turned her head
to Swift, and her eyes shot through her veil in a smile. That abominable
veil went right over her broad-brimmed hat, and was gathered in and made
fast at the neck. Swift could have torn it from her head; he had not
seen a lady smile for months. Also, he was beginning to make the
astonishing discovery that somehow she was altered, and he was curious
to see how much, which was impossible through the gauze.
"Is that true?" he asked her. He had known her for five years.
"I suppose so," she returned carelessly; and immediately her sparkling
eyes wandered. "There's old Mackenzie in the post office veranda. He was
a detestable old man, but I must wave to him; it's so good to be back!"
"But you own to being unreliable?" persisted Swift.
"I don't know," Miss Luttrell said, tossing the words to him over her
shoulder, because her attention was not for the manager. "Is it so very
dreadful if I am? What's the good of being reliable? It's much more
amusing to take people by surprise. Your face was worth the journey when
you saw me on the coach! But you see I haven't surprised Mackenzie; he
doesn't look the least impressed; I dare say he thinks it was last week
we all went away. I hate him!"
"Here are the police barracks," said Swift, seeing that all her interest
was in the old landmarks; "we have a new sergeant since you left."
"If _he's_ in _his_ veranda I shall shout out to him who I am, and how
long I have been away, and how good it is to get back."
"She's quite capable of doing it," Mr. Luttrell chimed in, chuckling
afresh; "there's never any knowing what she'll do next."
But the barracks veranda was empty, and it was the last of the township
buildings. There was now nothing ahead but the rim of scrub, beyond
which, among the sand-hills, sweltered the homestead of Wallandoon.
"I've come back with a nice character, have I not?" the girl now
remarked, turning to Swift with another smile.
"You must have earned it; I can quite believe that you have," laughed
Swift. He had known her in short dresses.
"Ha! ha! You see he remembers all about you, my dear."
"Do you, Jack?" the girl said.
"Do I not!" said Jack.
And he said no more. He was grateful to her for addressing him, though
only once, by his Christian name. He had been intimate with the whole
family, and it seemed both sensible and pleasant to resume a friendly
footing from the first. He would have called the girl by her Christian
name too, only this was so seldom heard among her own people. Tiny she
was by nature, and Tiny she had been by name also, from her cradle.
Certainly she had been Tiny to Swift two years ago, and already she had
called him Jack; but he saw in neither circumstance any reason why she
should be Tiny to him still. It was different from a proper name. Her
proper name was Christina, but unreliable though she confessedly was,
she might perhaps be relied upon to jeer if he came out with that. And
he would not call her "Miss Luttrell." He thought about it and grew
silent; but this was because his thoughts had glided from the girl's
name to the girl herself.
She had surprised him in more ways than one--in so many ways that
already he stood almost in awe of the little person whom formerly he had
known so well. Christina had changed, as it was only natural that she
should have changed; but because we are prone to picture our friends as
last we saw them, no matter how long ago, not less natural was Swift's
surprise. It was unreasoning, however, and not the kind of surprise to
last. In a few minutes his wonder was that Christina had changed so
little. To look at her she had scarcely changed at all. A certain
finality of line was perceptible in the figure, but if anything she was
thinner than of old. As for her face, what he could see of it through
the maddening gauze was the face of Swift's memory. Her voice was a
little different; in it was a ring of curiously deliberate irony,
charming at first as a mere affectation. A more noteworthy alteration
had taken place in her manner: she had acquired the manner of a finished
young woman of the world and of society. Already she had shown that she
could become considerably excited without forfeiting any of the grace
and graciousness and self-possession that were now conspicuously hers;
and before the homestead was reached she exhibited such a saintly
sweetness in repose as only enhanced the lambent deviltry playing about
most of her looks and tones. If Swift was touched with awe in her
presence, that can hardly be wondered at in one who went for months
together without setting eyes upon a lady.
The drive was a long one--so long that when they sighted the homestead
it came between them and the setting sun. The main building with its
long, regular roof lay against the red sky like some monstrous ingot.
The hot wind had fallen, and the station pines stood motionless, drawn
in ink. As they drove through the last gate they could hear the dogs
barking; and Christina distinguished the voice of her own old
short-haired collie, which she had bequeathed to Swift, who was repaid
for the sound with a final smile. He hardly knew why, but this look made
the girl's old self live to him as neither look nor word had done yet,
though her face was turned away from the light, and the stupid veil
still fell before it.
But the less fascinating side of her arrival was presently engaging his
attention. He hastily interviewed Mrs. Duncan, an elderly godsend new to
the place since the Luttrells had left it, and never so invaluable as
now. Into Mrs. Duncan's hands Christina willingly submitted herself, for
she was really tired out. Swift did not see her again until supper,
which afforded further proofs of Mrs. Duncan's merits in a time of need.
Meanwhile, Mr. Luttrell had finally disabused him of the foolish fears
he had entertained while waiting for the coach. Swift's youth, which has
shown itself in these fears, comes out also in the ease with which he
now forgot them. They had made him unhappy for three whole days; yet he
dared to feel indignant because his owner, who had confirmed his command
instead of dismissing him from it, chose to talk sheep at the supper
table. Swift seemed burning to hear of the eldest Miss Luttrell, who was
Miss Luttrell no longer, having married a globe-trotting Londoner during
her first season and gone home. He asked Christina several questions
about Ruth (whose other name he kept forgetting) and her husband. But
Mr. Luttrell lost no chance of rounding up the conversation and yarding
it in the sheep pens; and Swift had the ingratitude to resent this.
Still more did he resent the hour he was forced to spend in the store
after supper, examining the books and discussing recent results and
future plans with Mr. Luttrell, while his subordinate, the storekeeper,
enjoyed the society of Christina. The business in the store was not only
absurdly premature and irksome in itself, but it made it perfectly
impossible for Swift to hear any more that night of the late Ruth
Luttrell, whose present name was not to be remembered. He found it hard
to possess his soul in patience and to answer questions satisfactorily
under such circumstances. For an hour, indeed, he did both; but the
station store faced the main building, and when Tiny Luttrell appeared
in the veranda of the latter with a lighted candle in her hand, he could
do neither any longer. Saying candidly that he must bid her good-night,
he hurried out of the store and across the yard, and was in time to
catch Christina at one end of the broad veranda which entirely
surrounded the house.
At supper Mr. Luttrell had made him take the head of the table, by
virtue of his office, declaring that he himself was merely a visitor.
And on the strength of that Swift was perhaps justified now in adding a
host's apology to his good-night. "I'm afraid you'll have to rough it
most awfully," was what he said.
"Far from it. You have given me my old room, the one we papered with
_Australasians_, if you remember; they are only a little more fly-blown
than they used to be."
This was Christina's reply, which naturally led to more.
"But it won't be as comfortable as it used to be," said Swift
unhappily; "and it won't be what you are accustomed to nowadays."
"Never mind, it's the dearest little den in the colonies!"
"That sounds as if you were glad to get back to Riverina?"
"Glad? No one knows how glad I am."
One person knew now. The measure of her gladness was expressed in her
face not less than in her tones, and it was no ordinary measure. Over
the candle she held in her hand Swift was enabled for the first time to
peer unobstructedly into her face. He found it more winsome than ever,
but he noticed some ancient blemishes under the memorable eyes. She had,
in fact, some freckles, which he recognized with the keenest joy. She
might stoop to a veil--she had not sunk to doctoring her complexion; she
had come back to the bush an incomplete worldling after all. Yet there
was that in her face which made him feel a stranger to her still.
"Do you know," he said, smiling, "that I'm in a great funk of you? I
can't say quite what it is, but somehow you're so grand. I suppose it's
Melbourne."
Miss Luttrell thanked him, bowing so low that her candle shed grease
upon the boards. "You've altered too," she added in his own manner; "I
suppose it's being boss. But I haven't seen enough of you to be sure.
You evidently told off your new storekeeper to entertain me for the
evening. He is a trying young man; he _will_ talk. But of course he is a
new chum fresh from home."
"Still he's a very good little chap; but it wasn't my fault that he and
I didn't change places. Mr. Luttrell wanted to speak to me about several
things, besides glancing through the books; I thought we might have put
it off, and I wondered how you were getting on. By the way, it struck me
once or twice that your father was coming up to give me the sack; and
it's just the reverse, for now I'm permanent manager."
He told her this with a natural exultation, but she did not seem
impressed by it. "Do you know why he did come up?" she asked him.
"Yes; for his Easter holidays, chiefly."
"And why I would come with him?"
"No; I'm afraid we never mentioned you. I suppose you came for a holiday
too?"
"Shall I tell you why I did come?"
"I wish you would."
"Well, I came to say good-by to Wallandoon," said Christina solemnly.
"You're going to be married!" exclaimed Swift, with conviction, but with
perfect nonchalance.
"Not if I know it," cried Christina. "Are you?"
"Not I."
"But there's Miss Trevor of Meringul!"
"I see them once in six months."
"That may be in the bond."
"Well, never mind Miss Trevor of Meringul. You haven't told me how it is
you've come to say good-by to the station, Miss Luttrell of Wallandoon."
"Then I'll tell you, seriously: it's because I sail for England on the
4th of May."
"For England!"
"Yes, and I'm not at all keen about it, I can tell you. But I'm not
going to see England, I'm going to see Ruth; Australia's worth fifty
Englands any day."
Swift had recovered from his astonishment. "I don't know," he said
doubtfully; "most of us would like a trip home, you know, just to see
what the old country's like; though I dare say it isn't all it's cracked
up to be."
"Of course it isn't. I hate it!"
"But if you've never been there?"
"I judge from the people--from the samples they send out. Your new
storekeeper is one; you meet worse down in Melbourne. Herbert's going
with me; he's going to Cambridge, if they'll have him. Didn't you know
that? But he could go alone, and if it wasn't for Ruth I wouldn't cross
Hobson's Bay to see their old England!"
The serious bitterness of her tone struck him afterward as nothing less
than grotesque; but at the moment he was gazing into her face,
thoughtfully yet without thoughts.
"It's good for Herbert," he said presently. "I couldn't do anything with
him here; he offered to fight me when I tried to make him work. I
suppose he will be three or four years at Cambridge; but how long are
you going to stay with Mrs.--Mrs. Ruth?"
"How stupid you are at remembering a simple name! Do try to remember
that her name is Holland. I beg your pardon, Jack, but you have been
really very forgetful this evening. I think it must be Miss Trevor of
Meringul."
"It isn't. I'm very sorry. But you haven't told me how long you think
of staying at home."
"How long?" said the young girl lightly. "It may be for years and years,
and it may be forever and ever!"
He looked at her strangely, and she darted out her hand.
"Good-night again, Jack."
"Good-night again."
What with the pauses, each of them an excellent opportunity for
Christina to depart, it had taken them some ten minutes to say that
which ought not to have lasted one. But you must know that this was
nothing to their last good-night, on the self-same spot two years
before, when she had rested in his arms.