MISS GRANTLEY'S BROTHER.
MARIMOO, HOBART TOWN,
December 27th, 18--.
DEAR BESSIE,--It's time you came out here instead of staying in the old
country, even though you haven't learnt to make butter and cheese, and
don't know how to bake bread, or even to make "damper" properly. The
fact is, you must come; and if you like to take classes, you can make
use of your science degrees here, I can tell you, for they want "sweet
girl-graduates;" and even if they have grown to be severe and exacting
female professors, we take very kindly to them.
The fact is, Bess, I waited as long as I could for you to come over this
side to look after me, that I might cease wandering and settle down. As
you know, I've tried my hand at a good many occupations, often for the
freak of the thing, but always with a reserve force for doing the right
thing at last, and somehow I've mostly made bread and cheese and a
little more. The gold fever was over long before I reached Australia,
but I had a turn at the cradle and pan for all that, and turned up a
pretty good "claim"--enough to take me on my travels afterwards. I've
been out prospecting; I've had a turn in the great grazing grounds,
though I didn't care to sink the little money I had in a fancy flock in
the hope of turning it into a herd, or to spend my life on horseback
galloping after half-wild cattle on the plains. I wasn't long "beating
about the bush," though I've once or twice been out with the natives and
have had a brush with the rangers, one of whom--Black Jack--carried a
bullet of mine about in his shoulder for some time before he fell in a
fight with the police just outside Melbourne. His skeleton's in the
museum now; but the worst time I ever had was when I was driving----;
but I'll tell you that another time. I meant when I began this letter to
start with an announcement that ought to take your breath away, and
somehow I'm as shy of saying it on paper as I should be if you were
standing before me with those "clear cold eyes" of yours, that yet were
always shining with love to your wild brother, though you always "looked
him through." The plain truth is, I now invite you to come over here and
live with _us_. Do you read that?--US. For I am--we are--_married_. Yes;
a fact. And who do you think _we_ are? There's me to begin with, and
who's the other party, the "Co.," should you fancy? Well, don't guess.
I'll tell you. Mary Deane. You remember how I used to sing:
"I'm sitting on the stile, Ma-ree,"
in the old house at home, when she was a little wisp of a dark-eyed
lassie, just thinking about going to the old farm belonging to her Uncle
Deane, in Herefordshire; and how she ran away and hid herself when I
wanted to say "good-bye" to her before I left. Well, her uncle made up
his mind to come to this side--as you wrote me he had--and I'd nearly
forgotten all about it, until one day, as I was strolling along towards
the bank in Sydney, who should I come upon quite suddenly but Mr. Deane,
and walking beside him a slim, elegant, bright-eyed beauty, to whom I
raised my hat, not knowing who she was, till a peal of silvery laughter
brought back my memory to the days of old, when we used to sit in the
garden on a summer evening at Barnes, and slip down the lawn to the
boat-house, that we might launch the dear old pater's wherry, and have a
moonlight trip, with soft singing of part songs, to which I know I
growled a villainous bass. Dear pater, had he lived I might have stayed
in the old country, and tried to keep up the old place; but I fear I
should have disappointed him, and so--well, all may be for the best.
Perhaps it was the remembrance of the dear balmy evenings "under the
Abeles" that put me in mind of proposing a picnic, for it was the
winter before last that I met the Deanes, and therefore our midsummer,
and a precious hot one too I can tell you, so that all the ripe fruit,
bottled beer, champagne, and everything else that was cool and slaking
was at a premium.
Mr. Deane was not altogether unacquainted with Sydney. He had been for
some time in the colony, and had done a good thing in cattle agency. "I
landed a pretty fair commission out of one lot that I had out beyond
Gomaree Flats," he said to me, "a wild lot they were too, and I bought
them on spec and sold them three weeks after with my own brand upon
them."
"You don't mean to say that they were at Goobong station and branded D,"
said I.
"Just so, have you seen any of 'em?"
"Why I _helped_ brand them," I cried; "I was on the station and rode out
after a bull that had gone away. I must have been within a couple of
miles of your place if you were at Gomaree; and--was Miss Deane with
you?"
"Mary was with me, Tom Grantley," says Mr. Deane, "and I don't think you
used to say 'Miss' in the old time when I knew your father."
"No; but then you see Mary wouldn't even come to say 'good-bye,'" I
replied; and, as I looked, I saw the girl--she _is_ a lovely girl,
Bessie, though she's now Mrs. Grantley--blush like a rose, and actually,
I think, a tear stood in her eye, though she laughed again when putting
her hand in mine. She said, "Forgive me, Tom; for if you and uncle are
to continue friends, _I_ must be friendly with you too; so I make the
first overture of reconciliation."
I felt I was a "gone coon" if I let this sort of thing go on; so I asked
them what they were doing in Sydney, dined with them the same evening,
and by that day week we had made up a picnic to Parramatta, where we
could have the pleasure of a boat on the salt-water creek that people
there call the Parramatta River, and could have a pleasant country
ramble and a dinner out in the sunshine, with the thermometer at 85 deg. in
the shade, or thereabout--capital weather for plum-pudding; but we _had_
plum-pudding and roast-beef, too, with iced champagne; the plum-pudding
made beforehand and heated over a fire made of sticks in an iron
skillet; the roast-beef cold, with Sydney pickle, and bottled beer from
England, rather dearer than champagne, and, what was better than either,
some Australian wine, made from the Reisling grape, and about as good as
most of the hock we ever get in London.
Of course we had some delightful drives along the south shore to Port
Jackson, and back to Sydney along the south-head road--a drive in which
one may see most of the beauties of Sydney vegetation--the great
Eucalyptus or blue gum trees, between the giant boles of which shine
the glittering waters of the harbour; but there are a hundred healthy
orchids, and wild flowers of varied vivid hues, though but few of them
have any perfume. Parramatta is to Sydney what Richmond is to London, or
what Versailles was to Paris; but it is less secluded than it once was,
of course, and Cockatoo Island, once the penal settlement, is less
unfrequented than the Isle of Portland, where English convicts work out
their sentence. This, and Shark Island, are likely places enough to
attract strangers, but Parramatta was our resort on this Christmas Eve.
Nothing came of it, except that I found myself when I got back to the
hotel at night, and had bidden good-bye only after there was no further
pretext for staying for "another cigar," in the large, bare, cool room
which Mr. Deane had hired as a sitting-room in a large house in Sydney.
The drive home had been a merry and yet a melancholy--not a sentimental
one; there was a good deal of twilight about, and there was
laughing--but somehow, Mary Deane and I didn't seem to find much to
laugh about--I didn't, I know, for she told me they were going away to
Bathurst, and I think I heard a sob, I know I felt her hand tremble when
I took it in mine, and it was lucky I had been used to driving a team,
for to hold whip and reins in one hand might give a hard-mouthed boring
horse a chance of going at his own pace down a gully.
However, before I said my final farewells it had been settled that I was
to go with Mr. Deane and Mary as far as the Bathurst Plains, for I had a
little business of my own in the Blue Mountain district. We were to
start in a week, and I could scarcely believe that the whole affair was
other than a dream, as I sat at the open window smoking till the
pinky-gray dawn of Christmas Day broke over the scrubby garden of the
hotel. I had been in a sort of dream, in which the form of Mary Deane
was the chief figure, but there was another less pleasing shape, which
came and went in my visions in a purposeless kind of way, one which I
had seen that day lounging about the landing-stage, where he passed me
first with a scowl and then with a muttered oath.
Now, I had first made his acquaintance in this wise.
One night as I was coming into Sydney, about a mile from the town I
heard a sharp, sudden cry from the side of the road.
The cry came from a little "black fellow," who had been a sort of
retainer of mine in the bush, and on the plains a bright active lad, as
supple as a snake, and, as he used to say, the son of a chief. He was
called Jacky Fishook, and was a very useful fellow out there, for he
could follow a trail like a hound, could climb trees, kill game, and in
fact had a good many of the savage accomplishments, and few, if any, of
the vices of civilization--rather a rare thing among the natives. On my
return to Sydney we had parted company, and Fishook had passed some of
his time among his own people, and had also come into town now and then
to work as a light porter, or do other odd jobs. The wants of the
natives are few; and Jacky, unlike some of his people, did not drink rum
or other spirits, so if he earned sixpence he was able to keep it. He it
was who had given a shrill shout, and as I ran across a piece of waste
ground to see what was the matter, I saw him crouching on the ground,
while over him stood a big bully, whom I had before seen at the door of
a low grog-shop; making a vicious cut at the "nigger" with a heavy
stock-whip. He was a burly, powerful fellow, and, as Jacky was unarmed
and only half clad, the cut of a thong like that was bad punishment. As
soon as I appeared the Maori gave a yell of satisfaction. "You know
Fishook, black-fellow, sar?" he screamed. "You know, sar, Jacky not take
stink-water (the native word for rum), but he give no sixpence, sar; he
make for carry big thing, sar." Jacky pointed to a huge bale of hides,
or something of the kind, that had been pitched on the ground. Evidently
the bully had insisted on the poor fellow carrying the burden for
payment to be made in the shape of a glass of rum; and, discovering
this, Jacky had refused to go further.
Again the whip was raised to strike, but I caught the uplifted arm, and
with an oath the fellow turned on me, wrenched away his wrist, and came
at me like a bull. There was nothing for it but to let him have it,
and--excuse me, Bess; you know how you used to stand by when Willie and
I had a set-to--I put in my left, and followed it up with a staggerer.
He was not easily vanquished, however, though the blow drove him back
three or four paces; and, before I could get within reach, he had
snatched a pistol from his pocket. I was obliged to close with him, and
his weight was against me. My only chance was to grip his wrist, or I
should have a bullet in me. Luckily he was giddy, and one eye had begun
to swell; so that I had his arm at the very moment he pulled the
trigger, and the ball went somewhere into space. The tussle was a short
one, for there came a quick patter of feet along the path, and two
officers of the Sydney police came up.
"Hullo, Buffalo Jim!" cried one of them, "up to your tricks again. Look
here, my fine fellow, if you once get into quad, you're not likely to
come out for a while, for there's a pretty bit of evidence likely to be
turned up when once we start. Just take yourself home, and we'll come
along to see what's in that bundle. Now, then, up you come;" and in a
second they had lifted the bundle on to the fellow's shoulder, and
marched him on before them. "We saw it all before we came up, Mr.
Grantley," said one of the men as he passed, "but I s'pose you won't
charge him."
"No," said I. "He richly deserves all I gave him; but I don't want to be
dangling for a week about the Sydney court-house."
As they went away, the fellow gave me an evil look. Jacky had vanished.
Now, I had seen this big brute again while we were at Parramatta, and I
was helping Mary out of the boat at the landing-stage. He had seen me,
too, and turned away with a scowl and a muttered oath; but happening to
glance round afterwards, I noticed that he was watching us from behind
the corner of a fence. I forgot all about him for the rest of the day;
but now, at night, his ugly face and bloated form intruded upon my
dreams. I couldn't account for it; perhaps it was prevision.
I had forgotten it all again by the time we were ready for our journey
to Bathurst. Mr. Deane was to drive with Mary in a light trap and I was
to ride, for I had a good steady horse at stable in Sydney growing fat
and restive for want of exercise. So we set out and went as far as the
inn at Gum Ferry on the Nepean before we made any change in our
arrangements. On the second day's journey we were likely to have a long
ride, and Mary was anxious for a canter over Gum Plain, and beyond the
first span of the mountain, where the way is over sand, shaded on both
sides by the dark thicket of the gum tree and the forest scrub. She had
brought her habit with her, and as she had been taught to be a
first-rate horsewoman up at her father's cattle station, I resigned the
saddle, and the horse, feeling such a light weight and such a dainty
hand, was off like a bird. It was good to watch her as we drove far
behind; good to note her pretty figure as she came cantering back and
then shot forward for a long stretch across the plain. We were
approaching the sandy course--where few passengers were seen except
wagoners--and all was still and silent till we reached the fringe of
forest and heard the chattering scream of a flight of green parrots. But
above the chatter of the birds came another cry, and there, straight
ahead of us, but beyond our power to overtake, were _two_ riders. Mary
was one; the other, a big rough-looking fellow, on a powerful horse, had
dashed out from the thicket, caught her horse by the rein, and was now
taking it at a furious gallop. The thought flashed through my brain in a
moment. It was Buffalo Jim, and this was the scoundrel's revenge. The
thought was horrible. Mary was completely in the scoundrel's power,
unless she could throw herself out of the saddle and defy him until we
came up. At the pace they were going, to overtake them was impossible,
though we urged our nag to its utmost speed, and the wheels ploughed
swiftly through the dry sand. What was to be done? There straight
ahead, and getting further and further,--but plainly seen in that clear
sunny air,--the two horses kept up the furious pace. We could even see
the brave girl lean aside, and strike with all her might at the ruffian
with the light whip she carried. We could fancy his hoarse laugh of
defiance as he checked speed for a moment, and sought to wrest the whip
from her hand. My head was on fire, but neither Mr. Deane nor I spoke a
word; our eyes were simply fixed on the two figures before us, when
suddenly there seemed to be a third--right out there in the very middle
of the sunlit course. A figure like a bronze statue, which suddenly
appeared as it were from the ground,--and now stood in midway, and with
uplifted hand as though in warning. Would the horses ride him down? No;
there was a sudden check, a scurry, a wild yell, and Buffalo Jim threw
up his arms and went backward, rolling over in the sand, while Mary's
horse, released, darted forward for fifty yards or so, and was then
brought round. She met us half-way toward the place where the riderless
horse had dashed into the forest. There in the sand lay the ruffian
transfixed by a slender native spear, which had gone with unerring aim
through his neck; we had to break off the point and draw the shank
through. Lucky for Buffalo Jim if the wound were not poisoned. All we
could do was to place him in the chaise, and for Mary to remount and
keep near us. The bronze figure had vanished, as a snake might glide
into the brushwood. Indeed, for a moment, when we reached the spot, I
fancied I saw the glint of a fierce emu eye away in the dark leaves that
hung by the bark of a mighty Eucalyptus, and I gave the _cooee_ of the
native, but no response came.
Well, to make an end of this unconscionable letter, I need not tell what
trouble we had when we took the wounded man to the next station, nor how
we were detained to be examined and questioned. Buffalo Jim died in the
prison infirmary a good while after, and though we had not forgotten the
adventure, we had about ceased to think of it by the time I had settled
here in Hobart Land, for the fact is there was a magnet here that I
could not but follow, and another Christmas picnic on the Derwent,
amidst the lovely woods and gardens that fringe a part of its banks
completely settled me. The end of all which is Mary Deane became Mary
Grantley, and here we are on our own lot, with very pretty farming and a
capital dairy, and a good heart's welcome for you if you will only come
out to us. Oh, I ought to say as a sequel that about a month after we
settled down here one of the men came in and said there was a black
fellow at the fence gate asking to speak to me. Out I went, and there,
looking at me with a smile or rather a grin, was Jacky Fishook. "How do,
sar?" said he. "Just come from Sydney, sar, to look for job. Massa take
me for man, sar? yes? Jacky, sar, good black fellow, no stink-water,
sar, ride sar, fish, shoot, fetch bullocks, sar? yes."
"And then the spear, eh?" said I, frowning, "Who was it killed Buffalo
Jim, you villain?"
"Buff'lo Jim, sar, bad white fellow, sar--he try kill Maori, but Maori
too much not kill, sar. Jacky Fishook stupid fellow, sar--not know
Maori--but Maori throw spear--yes." And there and then the muscular
lithe figure was drawn up like a statue; the beady eye glaring straight
forward, the arm poised as though to hurl a javelin. It was quite
enough--I knew who had appeared suddenly in the sandy road that day.
Buffalo Jim had come out to hunt, and had himself been tracked down and
hunted.
But Jacky Fishook stayed with us. He is at this moment cleaning up my
gun; and when I go shooting to-morrow he will carry home the
game--parrots if we can get nothing better.
Your affectionate brother,
TOM GRANTLEY.
------------------------------
Even though it is now a year or two ago that we parted with Miss
Grantley, and Mrs. Parmigan took over the school at the request of the
parents of the junior pupils, and was joined by a lady from London with
famed certificates, none of us can speak without emotion of the happy
time when we sat at work in the pretty old parlour or sat under the
trees in the pleasant orchard. We are not all at Barton now, for Annie
Bowers is studying art abroad, and Sarah Jorring, who is "engaged," is
living with her friends at Barton; but those of us who are still in the
Vale go and drink tea with Mrs. Parmigan sometimes, and none of us are
likely to forget our governess and the stories that she used to tell.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected.
Page 70, "Dyce" changed to "Dryce" (Richard Dryce sat down)
Page 85, "whieh" changed to "which" (and sight-seeing which)
Page 91, duplicate word "the" removed from text. Original read: (Dorcas
the the widow)
Page 101, "tobacoo" changed to "tobacco" (filled with tobacco)