Henry Kingsley, younger brother of Charles Kingsley, was born
at Barnack, Northamptonshire, England, Jan. 2, 1830. Leaving
Worcester College, Oxford, in 1853, he, with a number of
fellow-students, emigrated to the Australian goldfields. After
some five years of unremunerative toil he returned to England,
poor in pocket, but possessing sufficient knowledge of life to
justify his adoption of a literary career. His first attempt,
and perhaps his most successful, was "The Recollections of
Geoffry Hamlyn," published in 1859, which was based largely on
his own experiences in Australia. From that time until his
death on May 24, 1876, some nineteen stories flowed in quick
succession from his pen, none of them, however, reaching the
high standard of his first two--"Geoffry Hamlyn" and
"Ravenshoe." In 1869 Kingsley became editor of the Edinburgh
"Daily Review," and on the outbreak of the Franco-German War
represented that paper at the front. He was present at the
battle of Sedan, and was the first Englishman to enter the
town afterwards.
_I.--In a Devonshire Village_
The twilight of a winter's evening was fast falling into night, and old
John Thornton sat dozing by the fire. His face looked worn and aged, and
anyone might see the old man was unhappy.
What could there be to vex him? Not poverty, at all events, for not a
year ago a relation had left him £5,000, and a like sum to his daughter,
Mary. And his sister--a quiet, good old maid--had come to live with him,
so that now he was comfortably off, and had with him the only two
relations he cared about to make his old age happy. His daughter Mary--a
beautiful girl, merry, impetuous, and thoughtless--was standing at the
window.
The white gate swings on its hinges, and a tall man comes, with rapid,
eager steps, up the walk. The maid, bringing in candles, announces: "Mr.
George Hawker!"
As the light fell on him, any man or woman might have exclaimed
instantly, and with justice, "What a handsome fellow!" Handsome he was,
without doubt, and yet the more you looked at him the less you liked
him. The thin lips, the everlasting smile, the quick, suspicious glance
were fearfully repulsive. He was the only son of a small farmer in one
of the outlying hamlets of Drumston. His mother had died when he was
very young, and he had had little education, and strange stories were in
circulation about that lonely farmhouse, not much to the credit of
father or son; which stories John Thornton must, in his position of
clergyman, have heard somewhat of; so that one need hardly wonder at his
uneasiness when he saw him enter.
For Mary Thornton adored him. The rest of the village disliked and
mistrusted him; but she, with a strange perversity, loved him with her
whole heart and soul. After a few words, the lovers were whispering in
the window.
Presently the gate goes again, and another footfall is heard
approaching.
That is James Stockbridge. I should know that step in a thousand. As he
entered the parlour, John's face grew bright, and he held out his hand
to him; but he got rather a cool reception from the pair at the window.
Old John and he were as father and son, and sat there before the
cheerful blaze smoking their pipes.
"How are your Southdowns looking, Jim?" says the vicar. "How is
Scapegrace Hamlyn?"
"He is very well, sir. He and I are thinking of selling up and going to
New South Wales."
The vicar was "knocked all of a heap" at Jim's announcement; but,
recovering a little, said, "You hear him? He is going to sell his
estate--250 acres of the best land in Devon--and go and live among the
convicts. And who is going with him? Hamlyn, the wise! Oh, dear me! And
what is he going for?"
That was a question apparently hard to answer. Yet I think the real
cause was standing there, with a look of unbounded astonishment upon her
pretty face.
"Going to leave us, James!" she cried. "Why, whatever shall I do without
you?"
"Yes, Miss Mary," said James huskily. "I think I may say we've settled
to go. Hamlyn has got a letter from a cousin of his, who is making a
fortune; and besides, I've got tired of the old place somehow lately."
Time went on, and May was well advanced. That had at last reached the
vicar's ears which had driven him to risk a quarrel with his daughter
and forbid George Hawker the house.
George went home one evening and found Madge, the gipsy woman who had
brought him up, sitting before the kitchen fire.
"Well, old woman, where's the old man?"
"Away at Colyton fair," she answered.
"I hope he'll have the sense to stay there to-night He'll fall off his
horse, coming home drunk one night, and be found dead in a ditch."
"Good thing for you if he was."
"Maybe," said George; "but I'd be sorry for him, too."
"He's been a good father to you, George, and I like you for speaking up
for him. He's an awful old rascal, my boy, but you'll be a worse if you
live."
"Now stop that, Madge! I want your help, old girl."
"Ay, and you'll get it, my pretty boy. Bend over the fire, and whisper
in my ear, lad."
"Madge, old girl," he whispered, "I've wrote the old man's name where I
oughtn't to have done."
"What, again!" she answered. "Three times! For God's sake, George, mind
what you're at! Why, you must be mad! What's this last?"
"Why, the five hundred. I only did it twice."
"You mustn't do it again, George. He likes you best of anything next his
money, and sometimes I think he wouldn't spare you if he knew he'd been
robbed. You might make yourself safe for any storm if you liked."
"How?"
"Marry that little doll Thornton, and get her money."
"Well," said George, "I am pushing that on. The old man won't come
round, and I want her to go off with me; but she can't get up her
courage yet."
But in a few days Mary had consented. They had left the village at
midnight, and were married in London. Within a year George Hawker had
spent all his wife's money, and had told her to her face he was tired of
her. He fell from bad to worse, and finally becoming the ally of a
coiner, was arrested and transported for life.
Mary Hawker, with a baby, tramped her way home to the village she had
left.
_II.--A General Exodus_
The vicar had only slowly recovered from the fit in which he had fallen
on the morning of Mary's departure, to find himself hopelessly
paralytic. When Mary's letter, written just after her marriage, came, it
was a great relief. They had kept from him all knowledge of George
Hawker's forgery, which had been communicated to them by Major Buckley,
old John Thornton's very good friend and near neighbour.
But George' Hawker burnt the loving letters they wrote in reply, and
Mary remained under the impression that they had cast her off. So when,
one bright Sunday morning, old Miss Thornton found a poor woman sitting
on the doorstep, Mary rose, prepared to ask forgiveness. Her aunt rushed
forward wildly, and hugged her to her honest heart.
When they were quieted, Miss Thornton went up to tell the vicar. The
poor old man was far gone beyond feeling joy or grief to any great
extent. Mary, looking in, saw he was so altered she hardly knew him.
The good news soon got up to Major Buckley's, and he was seen striding
up the path, leading the pony carrying his wife and child. While they
were still busy welcoming Mary came a ring at the door. Who but her
cousin, Tom Troubridge? Who else was there to raise her four good feet
from the floor and call her his darling little sister?
This was her welcome home--to the home she had dreaded to come to, where
she had meant to come only as a penitent, to leave her child and go
forth to die.
After dinner, Mrs. Buckley told Mary all the news, how her husband had
heard from Stockbridge, how he and Hamlyn were so flourishing, and had
written such an account of the country that Major Buckley, half
persuaded before, had now made up his mind to go there himself, and Tom
Troubridge was much inclined to go too. Mary was sad to think of losing
them all so soon, but Mrs. Buckley pointed out her father's state gently
to her, and asked her to think what she would do when he was gone. Miss
Thornton said she had made up her mind to go wherever Mary went, if it
were to the other end of the earth.
Scarcely more than a week had passed when another messenger came to old
John Thornton, and one so peremptory that he rose and followed it in the
dead of night.
It was two months yet before the major intended to sail, and long before
they had passed Mary and Miss Thornton had determined to cast in their
lot with the others, and cross the sea towards a more hopeful land.
_III.--The New World_
A new heaven, and a new earth. All creation is new and strange. The
trees, the graceful shrubs, the bright-coloured flowers, ay, the very
grass itself, are of species unknown in Europe, while flaming lories and
brilliant paroquets fly whistling through the gloomy forest, and
overhead countless cockatoos wheel and scream in noisy joy, as we may
see the gulls do in England.
We are in Australia, three hundred and fifty miles south of Sydney, on
the great watershed which divides the Belloury from the Maryburnong.
As the sun was going down, James Stockbridge and I, Geoffry Hamlyn,
reined up our horses and gazed down the long gully at our feet. For five
days we had been passing from run to run, making inquiries about some
cattle we had lost, and were now fifty long miles from home.
At this time Stockbridge and I had been settled in our new home about
two years, and were beginning to get comfortable and settled. We had had
but little trouble with the blacks, and having taken possession of a
fine piece of country, were flourishing and well-to-do. I dismounted to
set right some strap or other, and stood looking at the prospect, glad
to ease my legs for a time, cramped with many hours' riding.
Stockbridge sat immovable and silent as a statue, and I saw that his
heart travelled farther than his eye could reach.
"Jim," said I, "I wonder what is going on at Drumston now?"
"I wonder," he said softly.
"Jim," I began again, "do you ever think of poor little Mary now?"
"Yes, old boy, I do," he replied. "I was thinking of her then--I am
always thinking of her. I wonder if she married that fellow Hawker?"
"I fear there's but little doubt of it," I said. "Try to forget her,
James; you'll make all your life unhappy if you don't."
He laughed.
"That's all very well, Jeff, but it's easier said than done. Do you hear
that? There are cattle down the gully!"
There was some noise in the air beside the evening rustle of the south
wind among the tree-tops. Now it sounded like a far-off hubbub of
waters, now swelled up harmonious, like the booming of cathedral bells
across some rich old English valley on a still summer's afternoon.
"I'll tell you what I think it is, old Jeff; it's some new chums going
to cross the watershed, and look for new country to the south. Let us go
down to meet them; they will come down by the river yonder."
All doubt about what the newcomers were was solved before we reached the
river; so we sat and watched the scene so venerable and ancient--the
patriarchs moving into the desert, to find new pasture-ground.
First came the cattle lowing loudly, then horsemen, six or seven in
number, and last, four drays came crawling up the pass.
Suddenly James dashed forward with a shout, and when I came up with him,
wondering, I found myself shaking hands, talking and laughing, with
Major Buckley and Tom Troubridge.
They told us all the news as we rode with them to the drays, where sat
Mrs. Buckley,--a noble, happy matron, laughing at her son, as he toddled
about busy gathering sticks for the fire. Beside her sat Mary, looking
sad and worn, with her child on her lap, and poor old Miss Thornton,
glancing uneasily round.
Mary sprang up, burst into hysterical weeping. I saw how his big heart
yearned to comfort his old sweetheart in her distress, as he took the
child of his rival to his bosom.
"Is nobody going to notice me or my boy, I wonder?" said Mrs. Buckley.
"Come here immediately, Mr. Stockbridge, before we quarrel."
Soon we were all restored to our equanimity, and laying plans for future
meetings.
Next morning, with many hearty farewells, and having promised to spend
Christmastide with them, I turned my horse homewards, and went my
solitary way. Jim was going on with them to see them settled.
_IV.--Father and Son_
There is a long period of dull prosperity coming to our friends. Go on
two years. See Baroona, the Buckley's place, now. That hut where we
spent the pleasant Christmas-day is degraded into the kitchen, for a new
house is built--a long, low house, with deep, cool verandas all round,
already festooned with passion flowers, and young grape-vines.
Mary and Miss Thornton had stayed with the Buckleys till good Cousin Tom
had got a house ready for them--a charming house covered with creepers,
and backed by huts, sheep-yards, and all the usual concomitants of a
flourishing Australian sheep-station. This is Toonarbin, where Mary
Hawker is living with her son Charles as happy and uninteresting an
existence as ever fell to the lot of a handsome woman yet. The old dark
days seem like a bad dream. She had heard of her husband's re-conviction
and life sentence--finally death, and George Hawker is as one who has
never lived.
So sixteen years rolled peacefully away, until Tom Troubridge returned
from a journey up country with news of a great gang of bushrangers being
"out." He had actually sat hob-nob with the captain in a public house,
without knowing it. But his servant, William Lee, an ex-convict, knew
him, and told them that the great Captain Tonan, with whose crimes the
whole country was ringing, was George Hawker himself. Mary's terrible
fear that father and son might meet made her ill and delirious for
weeks; Tom and his trusty servant kept watch, then heard from a passing
cattle-dealer that the gang had been "utterly obliterated" by Captain
Desborough, the chief of police--but the captain had escaped.
Things went on quietly for two months, and no one thought about
bushrangers--but Mary, at her watch up at the lonely forest station--
till one morning Lee's body was found dead in his hut, with a pistol
lying near with "G. Hawker" scratched upon it. A messenger was sent post
haste to fetch Desborough and his troopers, who came, declared the
country in a state of siege, and kept us all staying at Major Buckley's.
We were sitting merrily over our wine one day, when hasty steps came
through the house. The bushrangers had attacked a station not far off,
killed the owner, and were now riding towards Captain Brentford's, the
major's nearest neighbour and old friend. Captain Desborough rose with
deadly wrath in his face. The laughing Irishman was gone, and a stern,
gloomy man stood in his place. But the villains had done their work of
destruction before we reached Garoopm, and gone off to the mountains.
"We shall have them in the morning," said Desborough. "More particularly
as they have in their drunken madness hampered themselves in the
mountains."
We started before daybreak; each man of us armed with swords and
pistols, and every man knew the use of his weapons well.
As we entered the mouth of the glen to which we were bound, one of the
most beautiful gullies I have ever seen, I turned to the man beside me.
Conceive my horror at finding it was Charles Hawker! I said fiercely,
"Get back, Charles! Go home! You don't know what you're doing, lad."
He defied me. I was speaking to him again when there came a puff of
smoke from the rocks overhead, and down I went, head over heels. A
bullet grazed my thigh, and killed my horse; so that during the fight
that followed, I was sitting on a rock very sick and very stupid.
"They've set a watch," said Captain Desborough. "They'll fight us now;
they can't help it, thank God!"
Then, under the beetling crags, the bushrangers turned like hunted
wolves, and stood at bay. Now the fight became general and confused. All
about among the ferns and flowers men fought, and fired, and cursed.
Shots were cracking on all sides, and two riderless horses were
galloping about neighing.
Desborough fought neither against small nor great, but only against one
man--George Hawker. Him he had sworn he would bring home, alive or dead.
He caught sight of his quarry, and instantly made towards him. As soon
as Hawker saw he was recognised, he made to the left, trying to reach
the only practicable way back to the mountains. They fired at one
another without effect. As the ground got more open, Desborough was
aware of one who came charging recklessly up alongside of him, and
recognised Charley Hawker. He had had no hint of the relationship.
"Good lad," he said; "come on. I must have that fellow before us. He's
the arch-devil of the lot. We must have him!"
"We'll have him safe enough!" said Charles. "Push to the left, captain,
and we shall get him among these fallen rocks."
They pushed forwards, and soon succeeded in bringing him to bay. Alas,
too well!
He reined up when he saw escape was impossible, and awaited their
coming. Desborough's horse received a bullet in the chest, and down went
horse and man together. But Charles pushed on till within ten yards of
the bushranger, and levelled his pistol to fire.
For an instant father and son glared on one another as the father made
his aim more deadly. The bullet sped, and the poor boy tumbled from his
saddle, clutching wildly at the grass and flowers--shot through the
chest. Then, ere Desborough had disentangled himself from his fallen
horse, George Hawker rode off laughing--out through the upper rock walls
into the presence of the broad snow-line that rolled above his head in
endless lofty tiers, and made for the broader valley which stretched
beyond.
There was no pursuit, he thought. How could there be? Who knew of this
route but he and his mates? No creature was stirring, but he must
onwards--onwards, across the snow. Twilight, and then night, and still
the snow but half passed. Strange ghosts and fancies crowd in upon him
thick and fast.
Morning, and the pale ghosts have departed. He reached the gully where
his refuge lay, utterly dispirited, just as the sun was setting. He
turned a sharp angle round an abrupt cliff. He saw a horseman within ten
yards of him--Captain Desborough, holding a pistol to his head! Hungry,
cold, desperate, unarmed--his pistols had gone with his horse over a
precipice--he threw up his arms, and was instantly chained fast to
Desborough's saddle, only to be loosed, he knew, by the gallows.
Without a word on either side they began their terrible journey. They
had gone two or three miles before Hawker said: "That young fellow I
shot when you were after me, is he dead?"
"By this time," said Desborough. "He was dying as I came away."
"Would you mind stopping for a moment, captain? Now tell me who was he?"
"Mr. Charles Hawker, son of Mrs. Hawker, of Toonarbin."
Desborough told me his wild, despairing cry rang in his ears for years
afterwards.
* * * * *
One wild, dreary day in spring, Major Buckley and I were admitted to the
condemned cell in the gaol in Sydney. Before us was a kind of bed place.
On it lay a man with his face buried in the pillow. I advanced towards
him, but the governor held me back.
"My God, sir," he said, "take care! Don't, as you value your life, go
within length of his chain."
The handsome head was raised, and my eyes met George Hawker's. I could
not see the fierce, desperate villain who had kept our country-side in
terror so long; I could only see the handsome, curly-headed boy who used
to play with James Stockbridge and myself in Drumston churchyard! And,
seeing him, and him only, I sat down beside him, and put my arm round
his neck.
I don't want to be instructed in my duty. My duty as a magistrate was to
stand at the farther end of the cell, and give this hardened criminal a
moral lecture. But I only hung there, with my arm round his neck, and
said, "Oh, George, George!" like a fool.
He put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me in the face, and said,
after a time, "What! Hamlyn? Old Jeff Hamlyn! Jeff, old boy, I'm to be
hung to-morrow."
"I know it," I said. "And I came to ask if I could do anything for you."
"Anything you like, old Jeff," he said, with a laugh, "so long as you
don't get me reprieved. I've murdered my own son, Jeff. Do you know
that?"