The last time John Osgood saw Barbara Golding was on a certain summer
afternoon at the lonely Post, Telegraph, and Customs Station known as
Rahway, on the Queensland coast. It was at Rahway also that he first and
last saw Mr. Louis Bachelor. He had had excellent opportunities for
knowing Barbara Golding; for many years she had been governess (and
something more) to his sisters Janet, Agnes and Lorna. She had been
engaged in Sydney as governess simply, but Wandenong cattle station was
far up country, and she gradually came to perform the functions of
milliner and dressmaker, encouraged thereto by the family for her
unerring taste and skill. Her salary, however, had been proportionately
increased, and it did not decline when her office as governess became
practically a sinecure as her pupils passed beyond the sphere of the
schoolroom. Perhaps George Osgood, father of John Osgood, and owner of
Wandenong, did not make an allowance to Barbara Golding for her services
as counsellor and confidant of his family; but neither did he subtract
anything from her earnings in those infrequent years when she journeyed
alone to Sydney on those mysterious visits which so mightily puzzled the
good people of Wandenong. The boldest and most off-hand of them,
however, could never discover what Barbara Golding did not choose to
tell. She was slight, almost frail in form, and very gentle of manner;
but she also possessed that rare species of courtesy which, never
declining to fastidiousness nor lapsing into familiarity, checked all
curious intrusion, was it ever so insinuating; and the milliner and
dressmaker was not less self-poised and compelling of respect than the
governess and confidant.
In some particulars the case of Louis Bachelor was similar. Besides
being the Post, Telegraph, and Customs Officer, and Justice of the Peace
at Rahway, he was available and valuable to the Government as a
meteorologist. The Administration recognised this after a few years of
voluntary and earnest labour on Louis Bachelor's part. It was not,
however, his predictions concerning floods or droughts that roused this
official appreciation, but the fulfilment of those predictions. At
length a yearly honorarium was sent to him, and then again, after a
dignified delay, there was forwarded to him a suggestion from the Cabinet
that he should come to Brisbane and take a more important position. It
was when this patronage was declined that the Premier (dropping for a
moment into that bushman's jargon which came naturally to him) said,
irritably, that Louis Bachelor was a "old fossil who didn't know when
he'd got his dover in the dough," which, being interpreted into the slang
of the old world, means, his knife into the official loaf. But the
fossil went on as before, known by name to the merest handful of people
in the colony, though they all profited, directly or indirectly, by his
scientific services. He was as unknown to the dwellers at Wandenong as
they were to him, or he again to the citizens of the moon.
It was the custom for Janet and Agnes Osgood to say that Barbara Golding
had a history. On every occasion the sentiment was uttered with that
fresh conviction in tone which made it appear to be born again. It
seemed to have especially pregnant force one evening after Janet had been
consulting Barbara on the mysteries of the garment in which she was to be
married to Druce Stephens, part owner of Booldal Station. "Aggie,"
remarked the coming bride, "Barbara's face flushed up ever so pink when I
said to her that she seemed to know exactly what a trousseau ought to be.
I wonder! She is well-bred enough to have been anybody; and the Bishop
of Adelaide recommended her, you know."
Soon after this Druce Stephens arrived at Wandenong and occupied the
attention of Janet until suppertime, when he startled the company by the
tale of his adventures on the previous evening with Roadmaster, the
mysterious bushranger, whose name was now in every man's mouth; who
apparently worked with no confederates--a perilous proceeding, though it
reduced the chances of betrayal. Druce was about to camp on the plains
for the night, in preference to riding on to a miserable bush-tavern a
few miles away, when he was suddenly accosted in the scrub by a gallant-
looking fellow on horseback, who, from behind his mask, asked him to give
up what money he had about him, together with his watch and ring. The
request was emphasised by the presence of a revolver held at an easy but
suggestive angle. The disadvantage to the squatter was obvious. He
merely asked that he should be permitted to keep the ring, as it had many
associations, remarking at the same time that he would be pleased to give
an equivalent for it if the bushranger would come to Wandenong. At the
mention of Wandenong the highwayman asked his name. On being told, he
handed back the money, the watch, and the ring, and politely requested a
cigar, saying that the Osgoods merited consideration at his hands, and
that their friends were safe from molestation. Then he added, with some
grim humour, that if Druce had no objection to spending an hour with
Roadmaster over a fire and a billy of tea, he would be glad of his
company; for bushranging, according to his system, was but dull work.
The young squatter consented, and together they sat for two hours, the
highwayman, however, never removing his mask. They talked of many
things, and at last Druce ventured to ask his companion about the death
of Blood Finchley, the owner of Tarawan sheep-run. At this Roadmaster
became weary, and rose to leave; but as if on second thought, he said
that Finchley's companion, whom he allowed to go unrobbed and untouched,
was both a coward and a liar; that the slain man had fired thrice
needlessly, and had wounded him in the neck (the scar of which he showed)
before he drew trigger. Druce then told him that besides a posse of
police, a number of squatters and bushmen had banded to hunt him down,
and advised him to make for the coast if he could, and leave the country.
At this Roadmaster laughed, and said that his fancy was not sea-ward yet,
though that might come; and then, with a courteous wave of his hand, he
jumped on his horse and rode away.
The Osgoods speculated curiously and futilely on Roadmaster's identity,
as indeed the whole colony had done. And here it may be said that people
of any observation (though, of necessity, they were few, since Rahway
attracted only busy sugar-planters and their workmen) were used to speak
of Louis Bachelor as one who must certainly have a history. The person
most likely to have the power of inquisition into his affairs was his
faithful aboriginal servant, Gongi. But records and history were only
understood by Gongi when they were restricted to the number of heads
taken in tribal battle. At the same time he was a devoted slave to the
man who, at the risk of his own life, had rescued him from the murderous
spears of his aboriginal foes. That was a kind of record within Gongi's
comprehension, from the contemplation of which he turned to speak of
Louis Bachelor as "That fellow budgery marmi b'longin' to me," which, in
civilised language, means "my good master." Gongi often dilated on this
rescue, and he would, for purposes of illustration, take down from his
master's wall an artillery officer's sabre and show how his assailants
had been dispersed.
From the presence of this sword it was not unreasonably assumed that
Louis Bachelor had at some time been in the army. He was not, however,
communicative on this point, though he shrewdly commented on European
wars and rumours of wars when they occurred. He also held strenuous
opinions of the conduct of Government and the suppression of public
evils, based obviously upon military views of things. . For bushrangers
he would have a modern Tyburn, but this and other tragic suggestions
lacked conviction when confronted with his verdicts given as Justice of
the Peace. He pronounced judgments in a grand and airy fashion, but as
if he were speaking by a card, the Don Quixote whose mercy would be
vaster than his wrath. This was the impression he gave, to, John Osgood
on the day when the young squatter introduced himself to Rahway, where he
had come on a mission to its one official. The young man's father had a
taste for many things; astronomy was his latest, and he had bought from
the Government a telescope which, excellent in its day, had been
superseded by others of later official purchase. He had brought it to
Wandenong, had built a home for it, and had got it into trouble. He had
then sent to Brisbane for assistance, and the astronomer of the
Government had referred him to the postmaster at Rahway, "Prognosticator"
of the meteorological column in The Courier, who would be instructed to
give Mr. Osgood every help, especially as the occultation of Venus was
near. Men do not send letters by post in a new country when personal
communication is possible, and John Osgood was asked by his father to go
to Rahway. When John wished for the name of this rare official, the
astronomer's letter was handed over with a sarcastic request that the
name might be deciphered; but the son was not more of an antiquary than
his father, and he had to leave without it. He rode to the coast, and
there took a passing steamer to Rahway. From the sea Rahway looked a
tropical paradise. The bright green palisades of mangrove on the right
crowded down to the water's edge; on the left was the luxuriance of a
tropical jungle; in the centre was an are of opal shore fringed with
cocoa-palms, and beyond the sea a handful of white dwellings. Behind was
a sweeping monotony of verdure stretching back into the great valley of
the Popri, and over all the heavy languor of the South.
But the beauty was a delusion. When John Osgood's small boat swept up
the sands on the white crest of a league-long roller, how different was
the scene! He saw a group of dilapidated huts, a tavern called The
Angel's Rest, a blackfellow's hut, and the bareness of three Government
offices, all built on piles, that the white ants should not humble them
suddenly to the dust; a fever-making mangrove swamp, black at the base as
the filthiest moat, and tenanted by reptiles; feeble palms, and a sickly
breath creeping from the jungle to mingle with the heavy scent of the
last consignment of augar from the Popri valley. It brought him to a
melancholy standstill, disturbed at last by Gongi touching him on the arm
and pointing towards the post-office. His language to Gongi was strong;
he called the place by names that were not polite; and even on the
threshold of the official domain said that the Devil would have his last
big muster there. But from that instant his glibness declined. The
squatters are the aristocracy of Australia, and rural postmasters are not
always considered eligible for a dinner-party at Government House; but
when Louis Bachelor came forward to meet his visitor the young fellow's
fingers quickly caught his hat from his head, and an off-hand greeting
became a respectful salute.
At first the young man was awed by the presence of the grizzled
gentleman, and he struggled with his language to bring it up to the
classic level of the old meteorologist's speech. Before they had spoken
a dozen words John Osgood said to himself: "What a quaint team he and the
Maid of Honour would make! It's the same kind of thing in both, with the
difference of sex and circumstance." The nature of his visitor's
business pleased the old man, and infused his courtesy with warmth. Yes,
he would go to Wandenong with pleasure; the Government had communicated
with him about it; a substitute had been offered; he was quite willing to
take his first leave in four years; astronomy was a great subject, he had
a very good and obedient telescope of his own, though not nearly so large
as that at Wandenong; he would telegraph at once to Brisbane for the
substitute to be sent on the following day, and would be ready to start
in twenty-four hours. After visiting Wandenong he would go to Brisbane
for some scientific necessaries--and so on through smooth parentheses of
talk. Under all the bluntness of the Bush young Osgood had a refinement
which now found expression in an attempt to make himself agreeable--not a
difficult task, since, thanks to his father's tastes and a year or two at
college, he had a smattering of physical science. He soon won his way to
the old man's heart, and to his laboratory, which had been developed
through years of patience and ingenious toil in this desolate spot.
Left alone that evening in Louis Bachelor's sitting-room, John Osgood's
eyes were caught by a portrait on the wall, the likeness of a beautiful
girl. Something about the face puzzled him. Where had he seen it? More
than a little of an artist, he began to reproduce the head on paper. He
put it in different poses; he added to it; he took away from it; he gave
it a child's face, preserving the one striking expression; he made it
that of a woman--of an elderly, grave woman. Why, what was this?
Barbara Golding! He would not spoil the development of the drama, of
which he now held the fluttering prologue, by any blunt treatment; he
would touch this and that nerve gently to see what past connection there
was between:
"These dim blown birds beneath an alien sky."
He mooned along in this fashion, a fashion in which his bushmen friends
would not have known him, until his host entered. Then, in that
auspicious moment when his own pipe and his companion's cigarette were
being lighted, he said: "I've been amusing myself with drawing since you
left, sir, and I've produced this," handing over the paper.
Louis Bachelor took the sketch, and, walking to the window for better
light, said: "Believe me, I have a profound respect for the artistic
talent. I myself once had--ah!" He sharply paused as he saw the
pencilled head, and stood looking fixedly at it. Presently he turned
slowly, came to the portrait on the wall, and compared it with that in
his hand. Then, with a troubled face, he said: "You have much talent,
but it is--it is too old--much too old--and very sorrowful."
"I intended the face to show age and sorrow, Mr. Bachelor. Would not the
original of that have both?"
"She had sorrow--she had sorrow, but," and he looked sadly at the sketch
again, "it is too old for her. Her face was very young--always very
young."
"But has she not sorrow now, sir?" the other persisted gently.
The grey head was shaken sadly, and the unsteady voice meditatively
murmured: "Such beauty, such presence! I was but five-and-thirty then."
There was a slight pause, and then, with his hand touching the young
man's shoulder, Louis Bachelor continued: "You are young; you have a good
heart; I know men. You have the sympathy of the artist--why should I not
speak to you? I have been silent about it so long. You have brought the
past back, I know not how, so vividly! I dream here, I work here; men
come with merchandise and go again; they only bind my tongue; I am not of
them: but you are different, as it seems to me, and young. God gave me a
happy youth. My eyes were bright as yours, my heart as fond. You love--
is it not so? Ah, you smile and blush like an honest man. Well, so much
the more I can speak now. God gave me then strength and honour and love
--blessed be His name! And then He visited me with sorrow, and, if I
still mourn, I have peace, too, and a busy life." Here he looked at the
sketch again.
"Then I was a soldier. She was my world. Ah, true, love is a great
thing--a great thing! She had a brother. They two with their mother
were alone in the world, and we were to be married. One day at Gibraltar
I received a letter from her saying that our marriage could not be; that
she was going away from England; that those lines were her farewell; and
that she commended me to the love of Heaven. Such a letter it was--so
saintly, so unhappy, so mysterious! When I could get leave I went to
England. She--they--had gone, and none knew whither; or, if any of her
friends knew, none would speak. I searched for her everywhere. At last
I came to Australia, and I am here, no longer searching, but waiting, for
there is that above us!" His lips moved as if in prayer. "And this is
all I have left of her, except memory," he said, tenderly touching the
portrait.
Warmly, yet with discreet sympathy, the young man rejoined: "Sir, I
respect, and I hope I understand, your confidence." Then, a little
nervously: "Might I ask her name?"