In her girlish days she wore short frocks, as it were, having had her
wings clipped, but the next spring she went into society, was a
debutante, wore a dress of black and white satin which shone in the
sun, and she grew so vain and flighty, and strutted about so, that it
was really ridiculous to watch her. She began also to stay out late
in the evening, which was very improper, and before going to bed
Philip would go under the lightwood with a lighted candle, and look
for her amongst the leaves, saying, "Maggie, are you there?" She
was generally fast asleep, and all she could do was to blink her
eyes, and say, "Peet, peet," and fall asleep again. But one night
she never answered at all. She was absent all next day, and many a
day after that. October came, when all the scrub, the lightwood, and
wattle were in full bloom, and the air everywhere was full of
sweetness. Philip was digging his first boiling of new potatoes,
when all at once Maggie swooped down into the garden, and began
strutting about, and picking up the worms and grubs from the soil
newly turned up.
"Oh, you impudent hussy!" he said. "Where have you been all this
time?" He stooped, and tried to stroke her head as usual with his
forefinger, but Maggie stuck her bill in the ground, turned a
complete somersault, and caught the finger with both claws, which
were very sharp. She held on for a short time, then dropped nimbly
to her feet, and said, "There, now, that will teach you to behave
yourself."
"Why, Maggie," said Philip, "what on earth is the matter with you?"
"Oh, there's nothing the matter with me, I assure you. I suppose you
didn't hear the news, you are such an old stick-in-the-mud. It was
in the papers, though--no cards--and all the best society ladies
knew it of course."
"Why, Maggie, you don't mean to say you have got a mate?"
"Of course I have, you horrid man, you are so vulgar. We were
married ages ago. I didn't invite you of course, because I knew you
would make yourself disagreeable--forbid the banns, or something,
and scare away all the ladies and gentlemen, for you are a most awful
fright, with your red hair and freckles, so I thought it best to say
nothing about the engagement until the ceremony was over. It was
performed by the Rev. Sinister Cornix, and it was a very select
affair, I assure you, and the dresses were so lovely. There were six
bridesmaids--the Misses Mudlark. The Mudlarks, you know, have a
good pedigree, they are come of the younger branch of our family. We
were united in the bonds under a cherry tree. Oh! it was a lovely
time, it was indeed, I assure you."
"And where are you living now, Maggie?"
"Oh, I am not going to tell you; you are too inquisitive. But our
mansion is on the top of a gum tree. It is among the leaves at the
end of a slender branch. If Hugh Boyle tries to kidnap my babies,
the branch will snap, and he will fall and break his neck, the
wretch. Oh, I assure you we thought of everything beforehand; for I
know you keep a lot of boys bad enough to steal anything."
"And what sort of a mate--husband, I mean--have you got?"
"Oh, he is a perfect gentleman, and so attentive to me. Latterly he
has been a little crusty, I must admit; but you must not say a word
against him. If you do, I'll peck your eyes out. A family, you
know, is so troublesome, and it takes all your time to feed them.
There are two of them, the duckiest little fluffy darlings you ever
saw. They were very hungry this morning, so when I saw you digging I
knew you wouldn't begrudge them a breakfast, and I just flew down
here for it. But bless my soul, the little darlings will be
screaming their hearts out with hunger while I am talking to you, and
himself will be swearing like a Derviner. So, by-by."
Philip found Maggie's mansion easily enough; for, in spite of all her
chatter, she had no depth of mind. The tallest gum-tree was on
Barlow's farm which adjoined the forty-acre on the east. Barlow had
been a stockman for several years on Calvert's run, and had saved
money. He invested his money in the Bank of Love, and the bank
broke. It happened in this way.
A new shepherd from the other side was living with his wife and
daughter near the Rises, and one day when Barlow was riding over the
run, he heard some strange sounds, and stopped his horse to listen.
There was nobody in sight in any direction, and Barlow said,
"There's something the matter at the new shepherd's hut," and he rode
swiftly towards it. As he approached the hut, he heard the screams of
women and the voice of a blackfellow, who was hammering on the door
with his waddy. He was a tame blackfellow who had been educated at
the Missionary Station. He could write English, say prayers, sing
hymns, read the Bible, and was therefore named Parson Bedford by the
Derviners, after the Tasmanian Missionary. He could box and wrestle
so well that few white men could throw him. He could also drink rum;
so whenever he got any white money he knew how to spend it. He was
the best thief and the worst bully of all the blacks about Nyalong,
because he had been so well educated. I knew him well, and attended
his funeral, walking in the procession with the doctor and twenty
blackfellows. He had a white man's funeral, but there was no live
parson present, so king Coco Quine made an oration, waving his hands
over the coffin, "All same as whitefellow parson," then we all threw
clods on the lid.
So much noise was made by the women screaming and the Parson
hammering, that the stockman was able to launch one crack of his
stock-whip on the Parson's back before his arrival was observed. The
Parson sprang up into the air like a shot deer, and then took to his
heels. He did not run towards the open plains, but made a straight
line for the nearest part of the Rises. As he ran, Frank followed at
an easy canter, and over and over again he landed his lash with a
crack like a pistol on the behind of the black, who sprang among the
rough rocks which the horse could not cross, and where the lash could
not reach him.
[ILLUSTRATION 3.]
Then there was a parley. The Parson was smarting and furious. He
had learned the colonial art of blowing along with the language. He
threw down his waddy and said:
"You stockman, Frank, come off that horse, drop your whip, and I'll
fight you fair, same as whitefellow. I am as good a man as you any
day."
"Do you take me for a blooming fool, Parson? No fear. If ever I see
you at that hut again, or anywhere on the run, I'll cut the shirt off
your back. I shall tell Mr. Calvert what you have been after, and
you'll soon find yourself in chokey with a rope round your neck."
The Parson left Nyalong, and when he returned he was dying of rum and
rheumatism.
Frank rode back to the hut. The mother and daughter had stood at the
door watching him flog the Parson. He was in their eyes a hero; he
had scourged their savage enemy, and had driven him to the rocks.
They were weeping beauties--at least the daughter was a beauty in
Frank's eyes--but now they wiped away their tears, smoothed their
hair, and thanked their gallant knight over and over again. Two at a
time they repeated their story, how they saw the blackfellow coming,
how they bolted the door, and how he battered it with his club,
threatening to kill them if they did not open it.
Frank had never before been so much praised and flattered, at least
not since his mother weaned him; but he pretended not to care. He
said:
"Tut, tut, it's not worth mentioning. Say no more about it. I would
of course have done as much for anybody."
Of course he could not leave the ladies again to the mercy of the
Parson, so he waited until the shepherd returned with his flock.
Then Frank rode away with a new sensation, a something as near akin
to love as a rough stockman could be expected to feel.
Neddy, the shepherd, asked Mr. Calvert for the loan of arms, and he
taught his wife and daughter the use of old Tower muskets. He said,
"If ever that Parson comes to the hut again, put a couple of bullets
through him."
After that Frank called at the hut nearly every day, enquiring if the
Parson had been seen anywhere abroad.
"No," said Cecily, "we haven't seen him any more;" and she smiled so
sweetly, and lowered her eyes, and spoke low, with a bewitching
Tasmanian accent.
Frank was in the mud, and sinking daily deeper and deeper. At last
he resolved to turn farmer and leave the run, so he rented the land
adjoining Philip's garden and the forty-acre. There was on it a
four-roomed, weather-board house and outbuildings, quite a bush
palace. Farming was then profitable. Frank ploughed a large paddock
and sowed it with wheat and oats. Then while the grain was ripening
he resolved to ask Cecily a very important question. One Sunday he
rode to the hut with a spare horse and side saddle. Both horses were
well groomed, the side saddle was new, the bits, buckles, and
stirrup-irons were like burnished silver. Cecily could ride well
even without a saddle, but had never owned one. She yielded to
temptation, but with becoming coyness and modesty. Frank put one
hand on his knee, holding the bridle with the other; then Cicely
raised one of her little feet, was lifted lightly on to the saddle,
and the happy pair cantered gaily over the plain to their future home.
Frank showed his bride-elect the land and the crops, the cows and the
horses, the garden and the house. Cecily looked at everything, but
said next to nothing. "She is shy," Frank thought, "and I must treat
her gently." But the opportunity must not be thrown away, and on
their way over the plains Frank told his tale of love. I don't know
precisely what he said or how he said it, not having been present,
but he did not hook his fish that day, and he took home with him the
bait, the horse, and the empty side-saddle. But he persevered with
his suit, and before the wheat was ripe, Cecily consented to be his
bride.
He was so overjoyed with his success that instead of waiting for the
happy day when he had to say "With this ring I thee wed, with all my
worldly goods I thee endow," he gave Cecily the worldly goods
beforehand--the horse, with the beautiful new side saddle and
bridle--and nearly all his cash, reserving only sufficient to
purchase the magic ring and a few other necessaries.
The evening before the happy day the pair were seen walking together
before sundown on a vacant lot in the township, discussing, it was
supposed, the arrangements for the morrow.
It was the time of the harvest, and Philip had been engaged to
measure the work of the reapers on a number of farms. I am aware
that he asked and received 1 pound for each paddock, irrespective of
area. On the bridal morn he walked over Frank's farm with his chain
and began the measurement, the reapers, most of them broken down
diggers, following him and watching him. Old Jimmy Gillon took one
end of the chain; he said he had been a chainman when the railway
mania first broke out in Scotland, so he knew all about land
surveying. Frank was absent, but he returned while Philip was
calculating the wages payable to each reaper, and he said: "Here's
the money, master; pay the men what's coming to 'em and send 'em
away."
Frank looked very sulky, and Philip was puzzled. He knew the
blissful ceremony was to take place that day, but there was no sign
of it, nor of any bliss whatever; no wedding garments, no parson, no
bride.
The bare matter of fact was, the bride had eloped during the night.
"For young Lochinvar had come out of the West,
And an underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he."
He was a bullock-driver of superior manners and attractive
personality, and was the only man in Australia who waxed and curled
his moustaches. Cecily had for some time been listening to
Lochinvar, who was known to have been endeavouring to "cut out"
Frank. She was staying in the township with her mother preparing for
matrimony, and her horse was in the stable at Howell's Hotel.
When Frank rode away to his farm on that fateful evening, Lochinvar
was watching him. He saw Cecily going home to her mother for the
last night, and while he was looking after her wistfully, and the
pangs of despairing love were in his heart, Bill the Butcher came up
and said:
"Well, Lock, what are you going to do?"
"Why, what can I do? She is going to marry Frank in the morning."
"I don't believe it: not if you are half the man you ought to be."
"But how can I help it?"
"Help it? Just go and take her. Saddle your horse and her own, take
'em up to the cottage, and ask her just to come outside for a minute.
And if you don't persuade her in five minutes to ride away with you
to Ballarat, I'll eat my head off. I know she don't want to marry
Frank; all she wants is an excuse not to, and it will be excuse
enough when she has married you."
These two worthy men went to the Hotel and talked the matter over
with Howell. The jolly landlord slapped his knee and laughed. He
said: "You are right, Bill. She'll go, I'll bet a fiver, and here
it is, Lock; you take it to help you along."
This base conspiracy was successful, and that was the reason Frank
was so sulky on that harvest morning.
He was meditating vengeance. Love and hate, matrimony and murder,
are sometimes not far asunder, but Frank was not by nature vengeful;
he had that "foolish hanging of the nether lip which shows a lack of
decision."
I would not advise any man to seek in a law court a sovereign remedy
for the wounds inflicted by the shafts of Cupid; but Frank tried it.
During his examination in chief his mien was gloomy and his answers
brief.
Then Mr. Aspinall rose and said: "I appear for the defendant, your
Honour, but from press of other engagements I have been unable to
give that attention to the legal aspects of this case which its
importance demands, and I have to request that your Honour will be
good enough to adjourn the court for a quarter of an hour."
The court was adjourned for half an hour, and Mr. Aspinall and his
solicitor retired to a room for a legal consultation. It began thus:
"I say, Lane, fetch me a nobbler of brandy; a stiffener, mind."
Lane fetched the stiffener in a soda-water bottle, and it cleared the
legal atmosphere.
When the court resumed business, Frank took his stand in the witness
box, and a voice said: "Now, Mr. Barlow, look at me."
Frank had been called many names in his time, but never "Mr. Barlow"
before now. He looked and saw the figure of a little man with a
large head, whose voice came through a full-grown nose like the blast
of a trumpet.
"You say you gave Cecily some money, a horse, saddle, and bridle?"
"I did."
"And you bought a wedding ring?"
"I've got it in my pocket."
"I see. Your Honour will be glad to hear that the ring, at any rate,
is not lost. It will be ready for another Cecily, won't it, Mr.
Barlow?"
Barlow, looking down on the floor of the court and shaking his head
slowly from side to side, said:
"No, it won't No fear. There 'ull be no more Cecilies for me."
There was laughter in the court, and when Frank raised his eyes, and
saw a broad grin on every face, he, too, burst into a fit of laughter.
I saw Mr. Aspinall and Dr. Macadam walking together arm-in-arm from
the court. The long doctor and the little lawyer were a strange
pair. Everybody knew that they were sliding down the easy slope to
their tragic end, but they seemed never to think of it.
Frank returned to Nyalong, happier than either. He related the
particulars of the trial to his friends with the utmost cheerfulness.
Whether he recovered all the worldly goods with which he had endowed
Cecily is doubtful, but he faithfully kept his promise that "There
'ull be no more Cecilies for me."
There was a demon of mischief at work on Philip's hill at both sides
of the dividing fence. Sam was poisoned by a villainous butcher;
Bruin had been killed by Hugh Boyle; Maggie had eloped with a wild
native to a gum-tree; Joey had been eaten by Pussy; Barlow had been
crossed in love, and then the crowning misfortune befell the hermit.
Mrs. Chisholm was a lady who gave early tokens of her vocation. At
the age of seven she began to form benevolent plans for the colonies
of Great Britain. She built ships of broad beans, filled them with
poor families of Couchwood, sent them to sea in a wash-basin, landed
them in a bed-quilt, and started them growing wheat. Then she loaded
her fleet with a return cargo for the British pauper, one grain of
wheat in each ship, and navigated it safely to Old England. She made
many prosperous voyages, but once a storm arose which sent all her
ships to the bottom of the sea. She sent a Wesleyan minister and a
Catholic priest to Botany Bay in the same cabin, strictly enjoining
them not to quarrel during the voyage. At the age of twenty she
married Captain Chisholm, and went with him to Madras. There she
established a School of Industry for Girls, and her husband seconded
her in all her good works.
Mr. Chamier, the secretary, took a great interest in her school; Sir
Frederick Adams subscribed 20 pounds, and officers and gentlemen in
Madras contributed in five days 2,000 rupees. The school became an
extensive orphanage.
Mrs. and Captain Chisholm came to Australia in 1838 for the benefit
of his health, and they landed at Sydney. They saw Highland
immigrants who could not speak English, and they gave them tools and
wheelbarrows wherewith to cut and sell firewood.
Captain Chisholm returned to India in 1840, but the health of her
young family required Mrs. Chisholm to remain in Sydney.
Female immigrants arriving in Sydney were regularly hired on board
ship, and lured into a vicious course of life. Mrs. Chisholm went on
board each ship, and made it her business to protect and advise them,
and begged the captain and agent to act with humanity. Some place of
residence was required in which the new arrivals could be sheltered,
until respectable situations could be found for them, and in January,
1841, she applied to Lady Gipps for help. A committee of ladies was
formed, and Mrs. Chisholm at length obtained a personal audience from
the Governor, Sir George Gipps. He believed she was labouring under
an amiable delusion. He wrote to a friend:
"I expected to have seen an old lady in a white cap and spectacles,
who would have talked to me about my soul. I was amazed when my aide
introduced a handsome, stately young woman, who proceeded to reason
the question as if she thought her reason, and experience too, worth
as much as mine."
Sir George at last consented to allow her the use of a Government
building, a low wooden one. Her room was seven feet by seven feet.
Rats ran about in it in all directions, and then alighted on her
shoulders. But she outgeneraled the rats. She gave them bread and
water the first night, lit two candles, and sat up in bed reading
"Abercrombie." There came never less than seven nor more than
thirteen rats eating at the same time. The next night she gave them
another feast seasoned with arsenic.
The home for the immigrants given her by Sir George had four rooms,
and in it at one time she kept ninety girls who had no other shelter.
About six hundred females were then wandering about Sydney unprovided
for. Some slept in the recesses of the rocks on the Government
domain. She received from the ships in the harbour sixty-four girls,
and all the money they had was fourteen shillings and three
half-pence.
She took them to the country, travelling with a covered cart to sleep
in. She left married families at different stations, and then sent
out decent lasses who should be married.
In those days the dead bodies of the poor were taken to the cemetery
in a common rubbish-cart.
By speeches and letters both public and private, and by interviews
with influential men, Mrs. Chisholm sought help for the emigrants
both in Sydney and England, where she opened an office in 1846.
In the year 1856 Major Chisholm took a house at Nyalong, near
Philip's school. Two of the best scholars were John and David. When
David lost his place in the class he burst into tears, and the Blakes
and the Boyles laughed. The Major spoke to the boys and girls
whenever he met them. He asked John to tell him how many
weatherboards he would have to buy to cover the walls of his house,
which contained six rooms and a lean-to, and was built of slabs.
John measured the walls and solved the problem promptly. The Major
then sent his three young children to the school, and made the
acquaintance of the master.
Mrs. Chisholm never went to Nyalong, but the Major must have given
her much information about it, for one day he read a portion of one
of her letters which completely destroyed Philip's peace of mind. It
was to the effect that he was to open a school for boarders at
Nyalong, and, as a preliminary, marry a wife. The Major said that if
Philip had no suitable young lady in view, Mrs. Chisholm, he was
sure, would undertake to produce one at a very short notice. She had
the whole matter already planned, and was actually canvassing for
pupils among the wealthiest families in the colony. The Major
smiled benevolently, and said it was of no use for Philip to think of
resisting Mrs. Chisholm; when she had once made up her mind,
everybody had to give way, and the thing was settled. Philip, too,
smiled faintly, and tried to look pleased, dissembling his outraged
feelings, but he went away in a state of indignation. He actually
made an attack on the twelve virtues, which seemed all at once to
have conspired against his happiness. He said: "If I had not kept
school so conscientiously, this thing would never have happened. I
don't want boarders, and I don't want anybody to send me a wife to
Nyalong. I am not, thank God, one of the royal family, and not even
Queen Victoria shall order me a wife."
In that way the lonely hermit put his foot down and began a
countermine, working as silently as possible.
During the Christmas holidays, after his neighbour Frank had been
jilted by Cecily, he rode away, and returned after a week's absence.
The Major informed him that Mrs. Chisholm had met with an accident
and would be unable to visit Nyalong for some time. Philip was
secretly pleased to hear the news, outwardly he expressed sorrow and
sympathy, and nobody but himself suspected how mean and deceitful he
was.
At Easter he rode away again and returned in less than a week. Next
day he called at McCarthy's farm and dined with the family. He said
he had been married the previous morning before he had started for
Nyalong, and had left his wife at the Waterholes. McCarthy began to
suspect that Philip was a little wrong in his head; it was a kind of
action that contradicted all previous experience. He could remember
various lovers running away together before marriage, but he could
not call to mind a single instance in which they ran away from one
another immediately after marriage. But he said to himself, "It will
all be explained by-and-by," and he refrained from asking any
impertinent questions merely to gratify curiosity.
After dinner Gleeson, Philip, and McCarthy rode into the bush with
the hounds. A large and heavy "old man" was sighted; and the dogs
stuck him up with his back to a tree. While they were growling and
barking around the tree Gleeson dismounted, and, going behind the
tree, seized the "old man" by the tail. The kangaroo kept springing
upwards and at the dogs, dragging Gleeson after him, who was jerking
the tail this way and that to bring his game to the ground, for the
"old man" was so tall that the dogs could not reach his throat while
he stood upright. Philip gave his horse to McCarthy and approached
the "old man" with his club.
"Shoot him with your revolver," said Gleeson. "If I let go his tail,
he'll be ripping you with his toe."
"I might shoot you instead," said Philip; "better to club him. Hold
on another moment."
Philip's first blow was dodged by the kangaroo, but the second fell
fairly on the skull; he fell down, and Ossian, a big and powerful
hound, seized him instantly by the throat and held on. The three men
mounted their horses and rode away, but Philip's mare was, as usual,
shying at every tree. As he came near one which had a large branch,
growing horizontally from the trunk, his mare spring aside, carried
him under the limb, which struck his head, and threw him to the
ground. He never spoke again.
After the funeral, McCarthy rode over to the Rocky Waterholes to make
some enquiries. He called at Mrs. Martin's residence, and he said: