[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "John Gilpin's ride was nothing to it. Scallowa
stopped short at the gate, but the boy flew over." _p._ 68.]
_In Search of Fortune._
A TALE OF THE OLD LAND AND THE NEW.
BY
GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.
(_Surgeon Royal Navy_),
AUTHOR OF "IN THE DASHING DAYS OF OLD;" "EXILES OF FORTUNE;"
"FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY;"
ETC. ETC.
NEW EDITION.
_LONDON:_
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.,
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.
HEARTS OF OAK .. .. .. By Dr. Gordon-Stables.
FOR, ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
EXILES OF FORTUNE .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
TWO SAILOR LADS .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
IN THE DASHING DAYS OF OLD .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
FACING FEARFUL ODDS .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
GRAHAM'S VICTORY .. .. .. G. Stebbing.
THE TWO CASTAWAYS .. .. .. Lady F. Dixie.
HONOURS DIVIDED .. .. .. W. C. Metcalfe.
ON TO THE RESCUE .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
BEL-MARJORY. A Tale of Conquest .. .. .. L. T. Meade.
EUSTACE MARCHMONT .. .. .. E. Everett-Green.
A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN .. .. .. Emma Marshall.
THE END CROWNS ALL. A Story of Life .. .. .. Emma Marshall.
BISHOP'S CRANWORTH .. .. .. Emma Marshall.
FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM .. .. .. Andrew Reed.
CITY SNOWDROPS .. .. .. M. E. Winchester.
COUNTESS MAUD .. .. .. Emily S. Holt.
HER HUSBAND'S HOME. A Tale .. .. .. E. Everett-Green.
IDA VANE. A Tale of the Restoration .. .. .. Andrew Reed.
ONE SNOWY NIGHT .. .. .. Emily S. Holt.
FOR HONOUR NOT HONOURS .. .. .. Dr. Gordon Stables.
WINNING AN EMPIRE .. .. .. G. Stebbing.
A REAL HERO .. .. .. G. Stebbing.
A TANGLED WEB .. .. .. Emily S. Holt.
DOROTHY'S STORY .. .. .. L. T. Meade.
BEATING THE RECORD .. .. .. G. Stebbing.
BRITAIN'S QUEEN .. .. .. T. Paul.
THE FOSTER-SISTERS .. .. .. L. E. Guernsey.
A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY .. .. .. L. T. Meade.
NEVER GIVE IN .. .. .. G. Stebbing.
EDGAR NELTHORPE .. .. .. Andrew Reed.
MARION SCATTERTHWAITE .. .. .. M. Symington.
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
CONTENTS.
Book I.
_AT BURLEY OLD FARM._
CHAPTER
I. "Ten To-morrow, Archie"
II. A Chip of the Old Block
III. A Day of Adventure
IV. In the Old Castle Tower
V. "Boys will be Boys"
VI. "Johnnie's got the Grit in Him"
VII. "They're up to some Black Work to-night"
VIII. In the Widow's Lonely Hut
IX. The whole Yard was ablaze and burning fiercely
X. "After all, it doesn't take much to make a Man Happy"
Book II.
_AT THE GOLDEN GATES._
I. Spoken like his Father's Son
II. "Keep on your Cap. I was once a Poor Man myself"
III. "Something in Soap"
IV. "The King may come in the Cadger's Way"
V. Bob's Story: Wild Life at the Diggings
VI. A Miner's Marriage
VII. Mr. Winslow in a different Light
Book III
_IN THE WILD INTERIOR._
I. "In this New Land of Ours"
II. Burley New Farm
III. Runaway Stock--Bivouac in the Bush--Night Scene
IV. A Wild Adventure--Archie's Pride receives a Fall
V. Round the Log-fire--Hurricane Bill and the
'Tiger' Snake--Gentleman Craig's Resolve
VI. At Findlayson's Farm--The great Kangaroo Hunt--A
Dinner and Concert
VII. A New Arrival
VIII. The Stream of Life flows quietly on
IX. "I'll write a letter Home"
X. Rumours of War
XI. The Massacre at Findlayson's Farm
XII. On the War Trail
XIII. Chest to Chest with Savages--How it all ended
IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE.
Book I.
CHAPTER I.
"_TEN TO-MORROW, ARCHIE._"
"So you'll be ten years old to-morrow, Archie?"
"Yes, father; ten to-morrow. Quite old, isn't it? I'll soon be a
man, dad. Won't it be fun, just?"
His father laughed, simply because Archie laughed.
"I don't know about the fun of it," he said; "for, Archie lad, your
growing a man will result in my getting old. Don't you see?"
Archie turned his handsome brown face towards the fire, and gazed at
it--or rather into it--for a few moments thoughtfully. Then he gave
his head a little negative kind of a shake, and, still looking
towards the fire as if addressing it, replied:
"No, no, no; I don't see it. Other boys' fathers may grow old; mine
won't, mine couldn't, never, never."
"Dad," said a voice from the corner. It was a very weary, rather
feeble, voice. The owner of it occupied a kind of invalid couch, on
which he half sat and half reclined--a lad of only nine years, with a
thin, pale, old-fashioned face, and big, dark, dreamy eyes that
seemed to look you through and through as you talked to him.
"Dad."
"Yes, my dear."
"Wouldn't you like to be old really?"
"Well----," the father was beginning.
"Oh," the boy went on, "I should dearly love to be old, very old, and
very wise, like one of these!" Here his glance reverted to a
story-book he had been reading, and which now lay on his lap.
His father and mother were used to the boy's odd remarks. Both
parents sat here to-night, and both looked at him with a sort of fond
pity; but the child's eyes had half closed, and presently he dropped
out of the conversation, and to all intents and purposes out of the
company.
"Yes," said Archie, "ten is terribly old, I know; but is it quite a
man though? Because mummie there said, that when Solomon became a
man, he thought, and spoke, and did everything manly, and put away
all his boy's things. I shouldn't like to put away my bow and
arrow--what say, mum? I shan't be altogether quite a man to-morrow,
shall I?"
"No, child. Who put that in your head?"
"Oh, Rupert, of course! Rupert tells me everything, and dreams such
strange dreams for me."
"You're a strange boy yourself, Archie."
His mother had been leaning back in her chair. She now slowly
resumed her knitting. The firelight fell on her face: it was still
young, still beautiful--for the lady was but little over thirty--yet
a shade of melancholy had overspread it to-night.
The firelight came from huge logs of wood, mingled with large pieces
of blazing coals and masses of half-incandescent peat. A more
cheerful fire surely never before burned on a hearth. It seemed to
take a pride in being cheerful, and in making all sorts of pleasant
noises and splutterings. There had been bark on those logs when
first heaped on, and long white bunches of lichen, that looked like
old men's beards; but tongues of fire from the bubbling, caking coals
had soon licked those off, so that both sticks and peat were soon
aglow, and the whole looked as glorious as an autumn sunset.
And firelight surely never before fell on cosier room, nor on cosier
old-world furniture. Dark pictures, in great gilt frames, hung on
the walls, almost hiding it; dark pictures, but with bright colours
standing out in them, which Time himself had not been able to dim;
albeit he had cracked the varnish. Pictures you could look
into--look in through almost--and imagine figures that perhaps were
not in them at all; pictures of old-fashioned places, with quaint,
old-fashioned people and animals; pictures in which every creature or
human being looked contented and happy. Pictures from masters' hands
many of them, and worth far more than their weight in solid gold.
And the firelight fell on curious brackets, and on a tall
corner-cabinet filled with old delf and china; fell on high,
narrow-backed chairs, and on one huge carved-oak chest that took your
mind away back to centuries long gone by and made you half believe
that there must have been "giants in those days."
The firelight fell and was reflected from silver cups, and goblets,
and candlesticks, and a glittering shield that stood on a sideboard,
their presence giving relief to the eye. Heavy, cosy-looking
curtains depended from the window cornices, and the door itself was
darkly draped.
"Ten to-morrow. How time does fly!"
It was the father who now spoke, and as he did so his hand was
stretched out as if instinctively, till it lay on the mother's lap.
Their eyes met, and there seemed something of sadness in the smile of
each.
"How time does fly!"
"Dad!"
The voice came once more from the corner.
"Dad! For years and years I've noticed that you always take mummie's
hand and just look like that on the night before Archie's birthday.
Father, why----"
But at that very moment the firelight found something else to fall
upon--something brighter and fairer by far than anything it had lit
up to-night. For the door-curtain was drawn back, and a little, wee,
girlish figure advanced on tiptoe and stood smiling in the middle of
the room, looking from one to the other. This was Elsie, Rupert's
twin-sister. His "beautiful sister" the boy called her, and she was
well worthy of the compliment. Only for a moment did she stand
there, but as she did so, with her bonnie bright face, she seemed the
one thing that had been needed to complete the picture, the centre
figure against the sombre, almost solemn, background.
The fire blazed more merrily now; a jet of white smoke, that had been
spinning forth from a little mound of melting coal, jumped suddenly
into flame; while the biggest log cracked like a popgun, and threw
off a great red spark, which flew halfway across the room.
Next instant a wealth of dark-brown hair fell on Archie's shoulder,
and soft lips were pressed to his sun-dyed cheek, then bright,
laughing eyes looked into his.
"Ten to-morrow, Archie! Aren't you proud?"
Elsie now took a footstool, and sat down close beside her invalid
brother, stretching one arm across his chest protectingly; but she
shook her head at Archie from her corner.
"Ten to-morrow, you great big, big brother Archie," she said.
Archie laughed right merrily.
"What are you going to do all?"
"Oh, such a lot of things! First of all, if it snows----"
"It is snowing now, Archie, fast."
"Well then I'm going to shoot the fox that stole poor Cock Jock. Oh,
my poor Cock Jock! We'll never see him again."
"Shooting foxes isn't sport, Archie."
"No, dad; it's revenge."
The father shook his head.
"Well, I mean something else."
"Justice?"
"Yes, that is it. Justice, dad. Oh, I did love that cock so! He
was so gentlemanly and gallant, father. Oh, so kind! And the fox
seized him just as poor Jock was carrying a crust of bread to the old
hen Ann. He threw my bonnie bird over his shoulder and ran off,
looking so sly and wicked. But I mean to kill him!
"Last time I fired off Branson's gun was at a magpie, a nasty,
chattering, unlucky magpie. Old Kate says they're unlucky."
"Did you kill the magpie, Archie?"
"No, I don't think I hurt the magpie. The gun must have gone off
when I wasn't looking; but it knocked me down, and blackened all my
shoulder, because it pushed so. Branson said I didn't grasp it tight
enough. But I will to-morrow, when I'm killing the fox. Rupert,
you'll stuff the head, and we'll hang it in the hall. Won't you,
Roup?"
Rupert smiled and nodded.
"And I'm sure," he continued, "the Ann hen was so sorry when she saw
poor Cock Jock carried away."
"Did the Ann hen eat the crust?"
"What, father? Oh, yes, she did eat the crust! But I think that was
only out of politeness. I'm sure it nearly choked her."
"Well, Archie, what will you do else to-morrow?"
"Oh, then, you know, Elsie, the fun will only just be beginning,
because we're going to open the north tower of the castle. It's
already furnished."
"And you're going to be installed as King of the North Tower?" said
his father.
"Installed, father? Rupert, what does that mean?
"Led in with honours, I suppose."
"Oh, father, I'll instal myself; or Sissie there will; or old Kate;
or Branson, the keeper, will instal me. That's easy. The fun will
all come after that."
* * * * * *
Burley Old Farm, as it was called--and sometimes Burley Castle--was,
at the time our story opens, in the heyday of its glory and beauty.
Squire Broadbent, Archie's father, had been on it for a dozen years
and over. It was all his own, and had belonged to a bachelor uncle
before his time. This uncle had never made the slightest attempt to
cause two blades of grass to grow where only one had grown before.
Not he. He was well content to live on the little estate, as his
father had done before him, so long as things paid their way; so long
as plenty of sleek beasts were seen in the fields in summer, or
wading knee-deep in the straw-yard in winter; so long as pigs, and
poultry, and feather stock of every conceivable sort, made plenty of
noise about the farm-steading, and there was plenty of human life
about, the old Squire had been content. And why shouldn't he have
been? What does a North-country farmer need, or what has he any
right to long for, if his larder and coffers are both well filled,
and he can have a day on the stubble or moor, and ride to the hounds
when the crops are in?
But his nephew was more ambitious. The truth is he came from the
South, and brought with him what the honest farmer-folks of the
Northumbrian borders call a deal of new-fangled notions. He had come
from the South himself, and he had not been a year in the place
before he went back, and in due time returned to Burley Old Farm with
a bonnie young bride. Of course there were people in the
neighbourhood who did not hesitate to say, that the Squire might have
married nearer home, and that there was no accounting for taste. For
all this and all that, both the Squire and his wife were not long in
making themselves universal favourites all round the country-side;
for they went everywhere, and did everything; and the neighbours were
all welcome to call at Burley when they liked, and had to call when
Mrs. Broadbent issued invitations.
Well, the Squire's dinners were truly excellent, and when afterwards
the men-folk joined the ladies in the big drawing-room, the evenings
flew away so quickly that, as carriage time came, nobody could ever
believe it was anything like so late.
The question of what the Squire had been previously to his coming to
Burley was sometimes asked by comparative strangers, but as nobody
could or cared to answer explicitly, it was let drop. Something in
the South, in or about London, or Deal, or Dover, but what did it
matter? he was "a jolly good fellow--aye, and a gentleman every
inch." Such was the verdict.
A gentleman the Squire undoubtedly was, though not quite the type of
build, either in body or mind, of the tall, bony, and burly men of
the North--men descended from a race of ever-unconquered soldiers,
and probably more akin to the Scotch than the English.
Sitting here in the green parlour to-night, with the firelight
playing on his smiling face as he talked to or teased his eldest boy,
Squire Broadbent was seen to advantage. Not big in body, and rather
round than angular, inclining even to the portly, with a frank, rosy
face and a bold blue eye, you could not have been in his company ten
minutes without feeling sorry you had not known him all his life.
Amiability was the chief characteristic of Mrs. Broadbent. She was a
refined and genuine English lady. There is little more to say after
that.
But what about the Squire's new fangled notions? Well, they were
really what they call "fads" now-a-days, or, taken collectively, they
were one gigantic fad. Although he had never been in the
agricultural interest before he became Squire, even while in city
chambers theoretical farming had been his pet study, and he made no
secret of it to his fellow-men.
"This uncle of mine," he would say, "whom I go to see every
Christmas, is pretty old, and I'm his heir. Mind," he would add, "he
is a genuine, good man, and I'll be genuinely sorry for him when he
goes under. But that is the way of the world, and then I'll have my
fling. My uncle hasn't done the best for his land; he has been
content to go--not run; there is little running about the dear old
boy--in the same groove as his fathers, but I'm going to cut out a
new one."
The week that the then Mr. Broadbent was in the habit of spending
with his uncle, in the festive season, was not the only holiday he
took in the year. No; for regularly as the month of April came
round, he started for the States of America, and England saw no more
of him till well on in June, by which time the hot weather had driven
him home.
But he swore by the Yankees; that is, he would have sworn by them,
had he sworn at all. The Yankees in Mr. Broadbent's opinion were far
ahead of the English in everything pertaining to the economy of life,
and the best manner of living. He was too much of a John Bull to
admit that the Americans possessed any superiority over this tight
little isle, in the matter of either politics or knowledge of
warfare. England always had been, and always would be, mistress of
the seas, and master of and over every country with a foreshore on
it. "But," he would say, "look at the Yanks as inventors. Why, sir,
they beat us in everything from button-hook----Look at them as
farmers, especially as wheat growers and fruit raisers. They are as
far above Englishmen, with their insular prejudices, and insular
dread of taking a step forward for fear of going into a hole, as a
Berkshire steam ploughman is ahead of a Skyeman with his wooden
turf-turner. And look at them at home round their own firesides, or
look at their houses outside and in, and you will have some faint
notion of what comfort combined with luxury really means."
It will be observed that Mr. Broadbent had a bold, straightforward
way of talking to his peers. He really had, and it will be seen
presently that he had, "the courage of his own convictions," to use a
hackneyed phrase.
He brought those convictions with him to Burley, and the courage also.
Why, in a single year--and a busy, bustling one it had been--the new
Squire had worked a revolution about the place. Lucky for him, he
had a well-lined purse to begin with, or he could hardly have come to
the root of things, or made such radical reforms as he did.
When he first took a look round the farm-steading, he felt puzzled
where to begin first. But he went to work steadily, and kept it up,
and it is truly wonderful what an amount of solid usefulness can be
effected by either man or boy, if he has the courage to adopt such a
plan.
CHAPTER II.
_A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK._
It was no part of Squire Broadbent's plan to turn away old and
faithful servants. He had to weed them though, and this meant
thinning out to such an extent that not over many were left.
The young and healthy creatures of inutility had to shift; but the
very old, the decrepit--those who had become stiff and grey in his
uncle's service--were pensioned off. They were to stay for the rest
of their lives in the rural village adown the glen--bask in the sun
in summer, sit by the fire of a winter, and talk of the times when "t
'old Squire was aboot."
The servants settled with, and fresh ones with suitable "go" in them
established in their place, the live stock came in for reformation.
"St. Mary! what a medley!" exclaimed the Squire, as he walked through
the byres and stables, and past the styes. "Everything bred anyhow.
No method in my uncle's madness. No rules followed, no type. Why
the quickest plan will be to put them all to the hammer."
This was cutting the Gordian-knot with a vengeance, but it was
perhaps best in the long run.
Next came renovation of the farm-steading itself; pulling down and
building, enlarging, and what not, and while this was going on, the
land itself was not being forgotten. Fences were levelled and carted
away, and newer and airier ones put up, and for the most part three
and sometimes even five fields were opened into one. There were
woods also to be seen to. The new Squire liked woods, but the trees
in some of these were positively poisoning each other. Here was a
larch-wood, for instance--those logs with the long, grey lichens on
them are part of some of the trees. So closely do the larches grow
together, so white with moss, so stunted and old-looking, that it
would have made a merry-andrew melancholy to walk among them. What
good were they? Down they must come, and down they had come; and
after the ground had been stirred up a bit, and left for a summer to
let the sunshine and air into it, all the hill was replanted with
young, green, smiling pines, larches, and spruces, and that was
assuredly an improvement. In a few years the trees were well
advanced; grass and primroses grew where the moss had crept about,
and the wood in spring was alive with the song of birds.
The mansion-house had been left intact. Nothing could have added
much to the beauty of that. It stood high up on a knoll, with rising
park-like fields behind, and at some considerable distance the blue
slate roofs of the farm-steading peeping up through the greenery of
the trees. A solid yellow-grey house, with sturdy porch before the
hall-door, and sturdy mullioned windows, one wing ivy-clad, a broad
sweep of gravel in front, and beyond that, lawns and terraces, and
flower and rose-gardens. And the whole overlooked a river or stream,
that went winding away clear and silvery till it lost itself in
wooded glens.
The scenery was really beautiful all round, and in some parts even
wild; while the distant views of the Cheviot Hills lent a charm to
everything.
There was something else held sacred by the Squire as well as the
habitable mansion, and that was Burley Old Castle. Undoubtedly a
fortress of considerable strength it had been in bygone days, when
the wild Scots used to come raiding here, but there was no name for
it now save that of a "ruin." The great north tower still stood firm
and bold, and three walls of the lordly hall, its floor green with
long, rank grass; the walls themselves partly covered with ivy, with
broom growing on the top, which was broad enough for the half-wild
goats to scamper along.
There was also the donjon keep, and the remains of a _fosse_; but all
the rest of this feudal castle had been unceremoniously carted away,
to erect cowsheds and pigstyes with it.
"So sinks the pride of former days,
When glory's thrill is o'er."
No, Squire Broadbent did not interfere with the castle; he left it to
the goats and to Archie, who took to it as a favourite resort from
the time he could crawl.
But these--all these--new-fangled notions the neighbouring squires
and farmers bold could easily have forgiven, had Broadbent not
carried his craze for machinery to the very verge of folly. So they
thought. Such things might be all very well in America, but they
were not called for here. Extraordinary mills driven by steam, no
less wonderful-looking harrows, uncanny-like drags and drilling
machines, sowing and reaping machines that were fearfully and
wonderfully made, and ploughs that, like the mills, were worked by
steam.
Terrible inventions these; and even the men that were connected with
them had to be brought from the far South, and did not talk a homely,
wholesome _lingua_, nor live in a homely, wholesome way.
His neighbours confessed that his crops were heavier, and the cereals
and roots finer; but they said to each other knowingly, "What about
the expense of down-put?" And as far as their own fields went, the
plough-boy still whistled to and from his work.
Then the new live stock, why, type was followed; type was everything
in the Squire's eye and opinion. No matter what they were, horses,
cattle, pigs, sheep, and feather-stock, even the dogs and birds were
the best and purest of the sort to be had.
But for all the head-shaking there had been at first, things really
appeared to prosper with the Squire; his big, yellow-painted wagons,
with their fine Clydesdale horses, were as well known in the district
and town of B---- as the brewer's dray itself. The "nags" were
capitally harnessed. What with jet-black, shining leather,
brass-work that shone like burnished gold, and crimson-flashing
fringes, it was no wonder that the men who drove them were proud, and
that they were favourites at every house of call. Even the bailiff
himself, on his spirited hunter, looked imposing with his whip in his
hand, and in his spotless cords.
Breakfast at Burley was a favourite meal, and a pretty early one, and
the capital habit of inviting friends thereto was kept up. Mrs.
Broadbent's tea was something to taste and remember; while the cold
beef, or that early spring lamb on the sideboard, would have
converted the veriest vegetarian as soon as he clapped eyes on it.
On his spring lamb the Squire rather prided himself, and he liked his
due meed of praise for having reared it. To be sure he got it;
though some of the straight-forward Northumbrians would occasionally
quizzingly enquire what it cost him to put on the table.
Squire Broadbent would not get out of temper whatever was said, and
really, to do the man justice, it must be allowed that there was a
glorious halo of self-reliance around his head; and altogether such
spirit, dash, and independence with all he said and did, that those
who breakfasted with him seemed to catch the infection. Their farms
and they themselves appeared quite behind the times, when viewed in
comparison with Broadbent's and with Broadbent himself.
If ever a father was loved and admired by a son, the Squire was that
man, and Archie was that particular son. His father was Archie's
_beau ideal_ indeed of all that was worth being, or saying, or
knowing, in this world; and Rupert's as well.
He really was his boys' hero, but behaved more to them as if he had
been just a big brother. It was a great grief to both of them that
Rupert could not join in their games out on the lawn in summer--the
little cricket matches, the tennis tournaments, the jumping, and
romping, and racing. The tutor was younger than the Squire by many
years, but he could not beat him in any manly game you could mention.
Yes, it was sad about Rupert, but with all the little lad's suffering
and weariness, he was such a sunny-faced chap. He never complained,
and when sturdy, great, brown-faced Archie carried him out as if he
had been a baby, and laid him on the couch where he could witness the
games, he was delighted beyond description.
I'm quite sure that the Squire often and often kept on playing longer
than he would otherwise have done just to please the child, as he was
generally called. As for Elsie, she did all her brother did, and a
good deal more besides, and yet no one could have called her a tom
girl.
As the Squire was Archie's hero, I suppose the boy could not help
taking after his hero to some extent; but it was not only surprising
but even amusing to notice how like to his "dad" in all his ways
Archie had at the age of ten become. The same in walk, the same in
talk, the same in giving his opinion, and the same in bright,
determined looks. Archie really was what his father's friends called
him, "a chip of the old block."
He was a kind of a lad, too, that grown-up men folks could not help
having a good, romping lark with. Not a young farmer that ever came
to the place could have beaten Archie at a race; but when some of
them did get hold of him out on the lawn of an evening, then there
would be a bit of fun, and Archie was in it.
These burly Northumbrians would positively play a kind of pitch and
toss with him, standing in a square or triangle and throwing him hack
and fore as if he had been a cricket ball. And there was one very
tall, wiry young fellow who treated Archie as if he had been a sort
of dumb-bell, and took any amount of exercise out of him; holding him
high aloft with one hand, swaying him round and round and up and
down, changing hands, and, in a word, going through as many motions
with the laughing boy as if he had been inanimate.
* * * * * *
I do not think that Archie ever dressed more quickly in his life,
than he did on the morning of that auspicious day which saw him ten
years old. To tell the truth, he had never been very much struck
over the benefits of early rising, especially on mornings in winter.
The parting between the boy and his warm bed was often of a most
affecting character. The servant would knock, and the gong would go,
and sometimes he would even hear his father's voice in the hall
before he made up his mind to tear himself away.
But on this particular morning, no sooner had he rubbed his eyes and
began to remember things, than he sprang nimbly to the floor. The
bath was never a terrible ordeal to Archie, as it is to some lads.
He liked it because it made him feel light and buoyant, and made him
sing like the happy birds in spring time; but to-day he did think it
would be a saving of time to omit it. Yes, but it would be cowardly,
and on this morning of all mornings; so in he plunged, and plied the
sponge manfully. He did not draw up the blinds till well-nigh
dressed. For all he could see when he did do so, he might as well
have left them down. The windows--the month was January--were hard
frozen; had it been any other day, he would have paused to admire the
beautiful frost foliage and frost ferns that nature had etched on the
panes. He blew his breath on the glass instead, and made a clean
round hole thereon.
Glorious! It had been snowing pretty heavily, but now the sky was
clear. The footprints of the wily fox could be tracked. Archie
would follow him to his den in the wild woods, and his Skye terriers
would unearth him. Then----the boy knelt to pray, just reviewing the
past for a short time before he did so, and thinking what a deal he
had to be thankful for; how kind the good Father was to have given
him such parents, such a beautiful home, and such health, and
thinking too what a deal he had to be sorry for in the year that was
gone; then he gave thanks, and prayer for strength to resist
temptation in the time to come; and, it is needless to say, he prayed
for poor invalid Rupert.
When he got up from his knees he heard the great gong sounded, and
smiled to himself to think how early he was. Then he blew on the
pane and looked out again. The sky was blue and clear, and there was
not a breath of wind; the trees on the lawn, laden with their weight
of powdery snow, their branches bending earthwards, especially the
larches and spruces, were a sight to see. And the snow-covered lawn
itself, oh, how beautiful! Archie wondered if the streets of heaven
even could be more pure, more dazzlingly white.
Whick, whick, whick, whir--r--r--r--r!
It was a big yellow-billed blackbird, that flew out with startled cry
from a small Austrian pine tree. As it did so, a cloud of powdery
snow rose in the air, showing how hard the frost was.
Early though it was--only a little past eight--Archie found his
father and mother in the breakfast-room, and greetings and blessings
fell on his head; brief but tender.
By-and-bye the tutor came in, looking tired; and Archie exulted over
him, as cocks crow over a fallen foe, because he was down first.
Mr. Walton was a young man of five or six and twenty, and had been in
the family for over three years, so he was quite an old friend.
Moreover, he was a man after the Squire's own heart; he was manly,
and taught Archie manliness, and had a quiet way of helping him out
of every difficulty of thought or action. Besides, Archie and Rupert
liked him.
After breakfast Archie went up to see his brother, then downstairs,
and straight away out through the servants' hall to the barn-yards.
He had showers of blessings, and not a few gifts from the servants;
but old Scotch Kate was most sincere, for this somewhat aged spinster
really loved the lad.
At the farm-steading he had many friends to see, both hairy and
feathered. He found some oats, which he scattered among the last,
and laughed to see them scramble, and to hear them talk. Well,
Archie at all events believed firmly that fowls can converse. One
very lovely red game bird, came boldly up and pecked his oats from
Archie's palm. This was the new Cock Jock, a son of the old bird,
which the fox had taken. The Ann hen was there too. She was bold,
and bonnie, and saucy, and seemed quite to have given up mourning for
her lost lord. Ann came at Archie's call, flew on to his wrist, and
after steadying herself and grumbling a little because Archie moved
his arm too much, she shoved her head and neck into the boy's pocket,
and found oats in abundance. That was Ann's way of doing business,
and she preferred it.
The ducks were insolent and noisy; the geese, instead of taking
higher views of life, as they are wont to do, bent down their stately
necks, and went in for the scramble with the rest. The hen turkeys
grumbled a great deal, but got their share nevertheless; while the
great gobbler strutted around doing attitudes, and rustling himself,
his neck and head blood-red and blue, and every feather as stiff as
an oyster-shell. He looked like some Indian chief arrayed for the
war-path. Having hurriedly fed his feathered favourites, Archie went
bounding off to let out a few dogs. He opened the door and went
right into their house, and the consequence was that one of the
Newfoundlands threw him over in the straw, and licked his face; and
the Skye terriers came trooping round, and they also paid their
addresses to him, some of the young ones jumping over his head, while
Archie could do nothing for laughing. When he got up he sang out
"Attention!" and lo and behold the dogs, every one looking wiser than
another, some with their considering-caps on apparently, and their
heads held knowingly to one side.
"Attention!" cried the boy. "I am going to-day to shoot the fox that
ran off with the hen Ann's husband. I shall want some of you. You
Bounder, and you little Fuss, and you Tackler, come."
And come those three dogs did, while the rest, with lowered tails and
pitiful looks, slunk away to their straw. Bounder was an enormous
Newfoundland, and Fuss and Tackler were terriers, the former a Skye,
the latter a very tiny but exceedingly game Yorkie.
Yonder, gun on shoulder, came tall, stately Branson, the keeper, clad
in velveteen, with gaiters on. Branson was a Northumbrian, and a
grand specimen too. He might have been somewhat slow of speech, but
he was not slow to act whenever it came to a scuffle with poachers
and this last was not an unfrequent occurrence.
"My gun, Branson?"
"It's in the kitchen, Master Archie, clean and ready; and old Kate
has put a couple of corks in it, for fear it should go off."
"Oh, it is loaded then--really loaded!"
"Aye, lad; and I've got to teach you how to carry it. This is your
first day on the hill, mind, and a rough one it is."
Archie soon got his leggings on, and his shot-belt and shooting-cap
and everything else, in true sportsman fashion.
"What!" he said at the hall door, when he met Mr. Walton, "am I to
have my tutor with me _to-day_?"
He put strong emphasis on the last word.
"You know, Mr. Walton, that I am ten to-day. I suppose I am
conceited, but I almost feel a man."
His tutor laughed, but by no means offensively.
"My dear Archie, I _am_ going to the hill; but don't imagine I'm
going as your tutor, or to look after you. Oh, no! I want to go as
your friend."
This certainly put a different complexion on the matter.
Archie considered for a moment, then replied, with charming
condescension:
"Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Walton! You are welcome, I'm sure, to come
_as a friend_."
CHAPTER III.
_A DAY OF ADVENTURE._
If we have any tears all ready to flow, it is satisfactory to know
that they will not be required at present. If we have poetic fire
and genius, even these gifts may for the time being be held in
reservation. No "Ode to a Dying Fox" or "Elegy on the Death and
Burial of Reynard" will be necessary. For Reynard did not die; nor
was he shot; at least, not sufficiently shot.
In one sense this was a pity. It resulted in mingled humiliation and
bitterness for Archie and for the dogs. He had pictured to himself a
brief moment of triumph when he should return from the chase, bearing
in his hand the head of his enemy--the murderer of the Ann hen's
husband--and having the brush sticking out of his jacket pocket;
return to be crowned, figuratively speaking, with festive laurel by
Elsie, his sister, and looked upon by all the servants with a feeling
of awe as a future Nimrod.
In another sense it was not a pity; that is, for the fox. This sable
gentleman had enjoyed a good run, which made him hungry, and as happy
as only a fox can be who knows the road through the woods and wilds
to a distant burrow, where a bed of withered weeds awaits him, and
where a nice fat hen is hidden. When Reynard had eaten his dinner
and licked his chops, he laid down to sleep, no doubt laughing in his
paw at the boy's futile efforts to capture or kill him, and promising
himself the pleasure of a future moonlight visit to Burley Old Farm,
from which he should return with the Ann hen herself on his shoulder.
Yes, Archie's hunt had been unsuccessful, though the day had not
ended without adventure, and he had enjoyed the pleasures of the
chase.
Bounder, the big Newfoundland, first took up the scent, and away he
went with Fuss and Tackler at his heels, the others following as well
as they could, restraining the dogs by voice and gesture. Through
the spruce woods, through a patch of pine forest, through a wild
tangle of tall, snow-laden furze, out into the open, over a stream,
and across a wide stretch of heathery moorland, round quarries and
rocks, and once more into a wood. This time it was stunted larch,
and in the very centre of it, close by a cairn of stones, Bounder
said--and both Fuss and Tackler acquiesced--that Reynard had his den.
But how to get him out?
"You two little chaps get inside," Bounder seemed to say. "I'll
stand here; and as soon as he bolts, I shall make the sawdust fly out
of him, you see!"
Escape for the fox seemed an impossibility. He had more than one
entrance to his den, but all were carefully blocked up by the keeper
except his back and front door. Bounder guarded the latter, Archie
went to watch by the former.
"Keep quiet and cool now, and aim right behind the shoulder."
Quiet and cool indeed! how could he? Under such exciting
circumstances, his heart was thumping like a frightened pigeon's, and
his cheeks burning with the rush of blood to them.
He knelt down with his gun ready, and kept his eyes on the hole. He
prayed that Reynard might not bolt by the front door, for that would
spoil his sport.
The terrier made it very warm for the fox in his den. Small though
the little Yorkie was, his valour was wonderful. Out in the open
Reynard could have killed them one by one, but here the battle was
unfair, so after a few minutes of a terrible scrimmage the fox
concluded to bolt.
Archie saw his head at the hole, half protruded then drawn back, and
his heart thumped now almost audibly.
Would he come? Would he dare it?
Yes, the fox dared it, and came. He dashed out with a wild rush,
like a little hairy hurricane. "Aim behind the shoulder!" Where was
the shoulder? Where was anything but a long sable stream of
something feathering through the snow?
Bang! bang! both barrels. And down rolled the fox. Yes, no. Oh
dear, it was poor Fuss! The fox was half a mile away in a minute.
Fuss lost blood that stained the snow brown as it fell on it. And
Archie shed bitter tears of sorrow and humiliation.
"Oh, Fuss, my dear, dear doggie!" he cried, "I didn't mean to hurt
you."
The Skye terrier was lying on the keeper's knees and having a snow
styptic.
Soon the blood ceased to flow, and Fuss licked his young master's
hands, and presently got down and ran around and wanted to go to
earth again; and though Archie felt he could never forgive himself
for his awkwardness, he was so happy to see that Fuss was not much
the worse after all.
But there would be no triumphant home-returning; he even began to
doubt if ever he would be a sportsman. Then Branson consoled him,
and told him he himself didn't do any better when he first took to
the hill.
"It is well," said Mr. Walton, laughing, "that you didn't shoot me
instead."
"Ye--es," said Archie slowly, looking at Fuss. It was evident he was
not quite convinced that Mr. Walton was right.
"Fuss is none the worse," cried Branson. "Oh, I can tell you it does
these Scotch dogs good to have a drop or two of lead in them! It
makes them all the steadier, you know."
About an hour after, to his exceeding delight, Archie shot a hare.
Oh joy! Oh day of days! His first hare! He felt a man now, from
the top of his Astrachan cap to the toe caps of his shooting-boots.
Bounder picked it up, and brought it and laid it at Archie's feet.
"Good dog! you shall carry it."
Bounder did so most delightedly.
They stopped at an outlying cottage on their way home. It was a
long, low, thatched building, close by a wood, a very humble dwelling
indeed.
A gentle-faced widow woman opened to their knock. She looked scared
when she saw them, and drew back.
"Oh!" she said, "I hope Robert hasn't got into trouble again?"
"No, no, Mrs. Cooper, keep your mind easy, Bob's a' right at present.
We just want to eat our bit o' bread and cheese in your sheeling."
"And right welcome ye are, sirs. Come in to the fire. Here's a
broom to brush the snow fra your leggins."
Bounder marched in with the rest, with as much swagger and
independence as if the cottage belonged to him. Mrs. Cooper's cat
determined to defend her hearth and home against such intrusion, and
when Bounder approached the former, she stood on her dignity, back
arched, tail erect, hair on end from stem to stern, with her ears
back, and green fire lurking in her eyes. Bounder stood patiently
looking at her. He would not put down the hare, and he could not
defend himself with it in his mouth; so he was puzzled. Pussy,
however, brought matters to a crisis. She slapped his face, then
bolted right up the chimney. Bounder put down the hare now, and gave
a big sigh as he lay down beside it.
"No, Mrs. Cooper, Bob hasn't been at his wicked work for some time.
He's been gi'en someone else a turn I s'pose, eh?"
"Oh, sirs," said the widow, "it's no wi' my will he goes poachin'!
If his father's heid were above the sod he daren't do it. But, poor
Bob, he's all I have in the world, and he works hard--sometimes."
Branson laughed. It was a somewhat sarcastic laugh; and young Archie
felt sorry for Bob's mother, she looked so unhappy.
"Aye, Mrs. Cooper, Bob works hard sometimes, especially when settin'
girns for game. Ha! ha! Hullo!" he added, "speak of angels and they
appear. Here comes Bob himself!"
Bob entered, looked defiantly at the keeper, but doffed his cap and
bowed to Mr. Walton and Archie. "Mother," he said, "I'm going out."
"Not far, Bob, lad; denner's nearly ready."
Bob had turned to leave, but he wheeled round again almost fiercely.
He was a splendid young specimen of a Borderer, six feet if an inch,
and well-made to boot. No extra flesh, but hard and tough as copper
bolts. "Denner!" he growled. "Aye, denner to be sure--taties and
salt! Ha! and gentry live on the fat o' the land! If I snare a
rabbit, if I dare to catch one o' God's own cattle on God's own
hills, I'm a felon; I'm to be taken and put in gaol--shot even if I
dare resist! Yas, mother, I'll be in to denner," and away he strode.
"Potatoes and salt!" Archie could not help thinking about that. And
he was going away to his own bright home and to happiness. He
glanced round him. at the bare, clay walls, with their few bits of
daubs of pictures, and up at the blackened rafters, where a cheese
stood--one poor, hard cheese--and on which hung some bacon and
onions. He could not repress a sigh, almost as heartfelt as that
which Bounder gave when he lay down beside the hare.
When the keeper and tutor rose to go, Archie stopped behind with
Bounder just a moment. When they came out, Bounder had no hare.
Yet that hare was the first Archie had shot, and--well, he had meant
to astonish Elsie with this proof of his prowess; but the hare was
better to be left where it was--he had earned a blessing.
The party were in the wood when Bob Cooper, the poacher, sprang up as
if from the earth and confronted them.
"I came here a purpose," he said to Branson. "This is not your wood;
even if it was I wouldn't mind. What did you want at my mother's
hoose?"
"Nothing; and I've nothing to say to ye."
"Haven't ye? But ye were in our cottage. It's no for nought the
glaud whistles."
"I don't want to quarrel," said Branson, "especially after speakin'
to your mother; she's a kindly soul, and I'm sorry for her and for
you yoursel', Bob."
Bob was taken aback. He had expected defiance, exasperation, and he
was prepared to fight.
Archie stood trembling as these two athletes looked each other in the
eyes.
But gradually Bob's face softened; he bit his lip and moved
impatiently. The allusion to his mother had touched his heart.
"I didn't want sich words, Branson. I--may be I don't deserve 'em.
I--hang it all, give me a grip o' your hand!"
Then away went Bob as quickly as he had come.
Branson glanced at his retreating figure one moment.
"Well," he said, "I never thought I'd shake hands wi' Bob Cooper! No
matter; better please a fool than fecht 'im."
"Branson!"
"Yes, Master Archie."
"I don't think Bob's a fool; and I'm sure that, bad as he is, he
loves his mother."
"Quite right, Archie," said Mr. Walton.
Archie met his father at the gate, and ran towards him to tell him
all his adventures about the fox and the hare. But Bob Cooper and
everybody else was forgotten when he noticed what and whom he had
behind him. The "whom" was Branson's little boy, Peter; the "what"
was one of the wildest-looking--and, for that matter, one of the
wickedest-looking--Shetland ponies it is possible to imagine.
Long-haired, shaggy, droll, and daft; but these adjectives do not
half describe him.
"Why, father, wherever----"
"He's your birthday present, Archie."
The boy actually flushed red with joy. His eyes sparkled as he
glanced from his father to the pony and back at his father again.
"Dad," he said at last, "I know now what old Kate means about 'her
cup being full.' Father, my cup overflows!"
Well, Archie's eyes were pretty nearly overflowing anyhow.
CHAPTER IV.
_IN THE OLD CASTLE TOWER._
They were all together that evening in the green parlour as usual,
and everybody was happy and merry. Even Rupert was sitting up and
laughing as much as Elsie.
The clatter of tongues prevented them hearing Mary's tapping at the
door; and the carpet being so thick and soft, she was not seen until
right in the centre of the room.
"Why, Mary," cried Elsie, "I got such a start, I thought you were a
ghost!"
Mary looks uneasily around her.
"There be one ghost, Miss Elsie, comes out o' nights, and walks about
the old castle."
"Was that what you came in to tell us, Mary?"
"Oh, no, sir! If ye please, Bob Cooper is in the yard, and he wants
to speak to Master Archie. I wouldn't let him go if I were you,
ma'am."
Archie's mother smiled. Mary was a privileged little parlour maiden,
and ventured at times to make suggestions.
"Go and see what he wants, dear," said his mother to Archie.
It was a beautiful clear moonlight night, with just a few white
snow-laden clouds lying over the woods, no wind and never a hush save
the distant and occasional yelp of a dog.
"Bob Cooper!"
"That's me, Master Archie. I couldn't rest till I'd seen ye the
night. The hare----"
"Oh! that's really nothing, Bob Cooper!"
"But allow me to differ. It's no' the hare altogether. I know where
to find fifty. It was the way it was given. Look here, lad, and
this is what I come to say, Branson and you have been too much for
Bob Cooper. The day I went to that wood to thrash him, and I'd hae
killed him, an I could. Ha! ha! I shook hands with him! Archie
Broadbent, your father's a gentleman, and they say you're a chip o'
t' old block. I believe 'em, and look, see, lad, I'll never be seen
in your preserves again. Tell Branson so. There's my hand on't.
Nay, never be afear'd to touch it. Good-night. I feel better now."
And away strode the poacher, and Archie could hear the sound of his
heavy tread crunching through the snow long after he was out of sight.
"You seem to have made a friend, Archie," said his father, when the
boy reported the interview.
"A friend," added Mr. Walton with a quiet smile, "that I wouldn't be
too proud of."
"Well," said the Squire, "certainly Bob Cooper is a rough nut, but
who knows what his heart may be like?"
Archie's room in the tower was opened in state next day. Old Kate
herself had lit fires in it every night for a week before, though she
never would go up the long dark stair without Peter. Peter was only
a mite of a boy, but wherever he went, Fuss, the Skye terrier,
accompanied him, and it was universally admitted that no ghost in its
right senses would dare to face Fuss.
Elsie was there of course, and Rupert too, though he had to be almost
carried up by stalwart Branson. But what a glorious little room it
was when you were in it! A more complete boy's own room could
scarcely be imagined. It was a _beau ideal_; at least Rupert and
Archie and Elsie thought so, and even Mr. Walton and Branson said the
same.
Let me see now, I may as well try to describe it, but much must be
left to imagination. It was not a very big room, only about twelve
feet square; for although the tower appeared very large from outside,
the abnormal thickness of its walls detracted from available space
inside it. There was one long window on each side, and a chair and
small table could be placed on the sill of either. But this was
curtained off at night, when light came from a huge lamp that
depended from the ceiling, and the rays from which fought for
preference with those from the roaring fire on the stone hearth. The
room was square. A door, also curtained, gave entrance from the
stairway at one corner, and at each of two other corners were two
other doors leading into turret chambers, and these tiny, wee rooms
were very delightful, because you were out beyond the great tower
when you sat in them, and their slits of windows granted you a grand
view of the charming scenery everywhere about.
The furniture was rustic in the extreme--studiously so. There was a
tall rocking-chair, a great daïs or sofa, and a recline for
Rupert--"poor Rupert" as he was always called--the big chair was the
guest's seat.
The ornaments on the walls had been principally supplied by Branson.
Stuffed heads of foxes, badgers, and wild cats, with any number of
birds' and beasts' skins, artistically mounted. There were also
heads of horned deer, bows and arrows--these last were Archie's
own--and shields and spears that Uncle Ramsey had brought home from
savage wars in Africa and Australia. The daïs was covered with bear
skins, and there was quite a quantity of skins on the floor instead
of a carpet. So the whole place looked primeval and romantic.
The bookshelf was well supplied with readable tales, and a harp stood
in a corner, and on this, young though she was, Elsie could already
play.
The guest to-night was old Kate. She sat in the tall chair in a
corner opposite the door, Branson occupied a seat near her, Rupert
was on his recline, and Archie and Elsie on a skin, with little Peter
nursing wounded Fuss in a corner.
That was the party. But Archie had made tea, and handed it round;
and sitting there with her cup in her lap, old Kate really looked a
strange, weird figure. Her face was lean and haggard, her eyes
almost wild, and some half-grey hair peeped from under an
uncanny-looking cap of black crape, with long depending strings of
the same material.
Old Kate was housekeeper and general female factotum. She was really
a distant relation of the Squire, and so had it very much her own way
at Burley Old Farm.
She came originally from "just ayant the Border," and had a wealth of
old-world stories to tell, and could sing queer old bits of ballads
too, when in the humour.
Old Kate, however, said she could not sing to-night, for she felt as
yet unused to the place; and whether they (the boys) believed in
ghosts or not she (Kate) did, and so, she said, had her father before
her. But she told stories--stories of the bloody raids of long, long
ago, when Northumbria and the Scottish Borders were constantly at
war--stories that kept her hearers enthralled while they listened,
and to which the weird looks and strange voice of the narrator lent a
peculiar charm.
Old Kate was just in the very midst of one of these when, twang! one
of the strings of Elsie's harp broke. It was a very startling sound
indeed; for as it went off it seemed to emit a groan that rang
through the chamber, and died away in the vaulted roof. Elsie crept
closer to Archie, and Peter with Fuss drew nearer the fire.
The ancient dame, after being convinced that the sound was nothing
uncanny, proceeded with her narrative. It was a long one, with an
old house in it by the banks of a winding river in the midst of woods
and wilds--a house that, if its walls had been able to speak, could
have told many a marrow-freezing story of bygone times.
There was a room in this house that was haunted. Old Kate was just
coming to this, and to the part of her tale on which the ghosts on a
certain night of the year always appeared in this room, and stood
over a dark stain in the centre of the floor.
"And ne'er a ane," she was saying, "could wash that stain awa'.
Weel, bairns, one moonlicht nicht, and at the deadest hoor o' the
nicht, nothing would please the auld laird but he maun leave his
chaimber and go straight along the damp, dreary, long corridor to the
door o' the hauntid room. It was half open, and the moon's licht
danced in on the fleer. He was listening--he was looking----"
But at this very moment, when old Kate had lowered her voice to a
whisper, and the tension at her listeners' heart-strings was the
greatest, a soft, heavy footstep was heard coming slowly, painfully
as it might be, up the turret stairs.
To say that every one was alarmed would but poorly describe their
feelings. Old Kate's eyes seemed as big as watch-glasses. Elsie
screamed, and clung to Archie.
"Who--oo--'s-- Who's there?" cried Branson, and his voice sounded
fearful and far away.
No answer; but the steps drew nearer and nearer. Then the curtain
was pushed aside, and in dashed--what? a ghost?--no, only honest
great Bounder.
Bounder had found out there was something going on, and that Fuss was
up there, and he didn't see why he should be left out in the cold.
That was all; but the feeling of relief when he did appear was
unprecedented.
Old Kate required another cup of tea after that. Then Branson got
out his fiddle from a green baize bag; and if he had not played those
merry airs, I do not believe that old Kate would have had the courage
to go downstairs that night at all.
Archie's pony was great fun at first. The best of it was that he had
never been broken in. The Squire, or rather his bailiff, had bought
him out of a drove; so he was, literally speaking, as wild as the
hills, and as mad as a March hare. But he soon knew Archie and
Elsie, and, under Branson's supervision, Scallowa was put into
training on the lawn. He was led, he was walked, he was galloped.
But he reared, and kicked, and rolled whenever he thought of it, and
yet there was not a bit of vice about him.
Spring had come, and early summer itself, before Scallowa permitted
Archie to ride him, and a week or two after this the difficulty would
have been to have told which of the two was the wilder and dafter,
Archie or Scallowa. They certainly had managed to establish the most
amicable relations. Whatever Scallowa thought, Archie agreed to, and
_vice versa_, and the pair were never out of mischief. Of course
Archie was pitched off now and then, but he told Elsie he did not
mind it, and in fact preferred it to constant uprightness: it was a
change. But the pony never ran away, because Archie always had a bit
of carrot in his pocket to give him when he got up off the ground.
Mr. Walton assured Archie that these carrots accounted for his many
tumbles. And there really did seem to be a foundation of truth about
this statement. For of course the pony had soon come to know that it
was to his interest to throw his rider, and acted accordingly. So
after a time Archie gave the carrot-payment up, and matters were
mended.
It was only when school was over that Archie went for a canter,
unless he happened to get up very early in the morning for the
purpose of riding. And this he frequently did, so that, before the
summer was done, Scallowa and Archie were as well known over all the
countryside as the postman himself.
Archie's pony was certainly not very long in the legs, but
nevertheless the leaps he could take were quite surprising.
On the second summer after Archie got this pony both horse and rider
were about perfect in their training, and in the following winter he
appeared in the hunting-field with the greatest _sang-froid_,
although many of the farmers, on their weight-carrying hunters, could
have jumped over Archie, Scallowa, and all. The boy had a long way
to ride to the hounds, and he used to start off the night before. He
really did not care where he slept. Old Kate used to make up a
packet of sandwiches for him, and this would be his dinner and
breakfast. Scallowa he used to tie up in some byre, and as often as
not Archie would turn in beside him among the straw. In the morning
he would finish the remainder of Kate's sandwiches, make his toilet
in some running stream or lake, and be as fresh as a daisy when the
meet took place.
Both he and Scallowa were somewhat uncouth-looking. Elsie, his
sister, had proposed that he should ride in scarlet, it would look so
romantic and pretty; but Archie only laughed, and said he would not
feel at home in such finery, and his "Eider Duck"-as he sometimes
called the pony--would not know him. "Besides, Elsie," he said,
"lying down among straw with scarlets on wouldn't improve them."
But old Kate had given him a birthday present of a little Scotch
Glengarry cap with a real eagle's feather, and he always wore this in
the hunting-field. He did so for two reasons; first, it pleased old
Kate; and, secondly, the cap stuck to his head; no breeze could blow
it off.
It was not long before Archie was known in the field as the "Little
Demon Huntsman." And, really, had you seen Scallowa and he
feathering across a moor, his bonnet on the back of his head, and the
pony's immense mane blowing straight back in the wind, you. would
have thought the title well earned. In a straight run the pony could
not keep up with the long-legged horses; but Archie and he could dash
through a wood, and even swim streams, and take all manner of short
cuts, so that he was always in at the death.
The most remarkable trait in Archie's riding was that he could take
flying leaps from heights: only a Shetland pony could have done this.
Archie knew every yard of country, and he rather liked heading his
Lilliputian nag right away for a knoll or precipice, and bounding off
it like a roebuck or Scottish deerhound. The first time he was
observed going straight for a bank of this kind he created quite a
sensation. "The boy will be killed!" was the cry, and every lady
then drew rein and held her breath.
Away went Scallowa, and they were on the bank in the air, and landed
safely, and away again in less time that it takes me to tell of the
exploit.
The secret of the lad's splendid management of the pony was this: he
loved Scallowa, and Scallowa knew it. He not only loved the little
horse, but studied his ways, so he was able to train him to do quite
a number of tricks, such as lying down "dead" to command, kneeling to
ladies--for Archie was a gallant lad--trotting round and round
circus-fashion, and ending every performance by coming and kissing
his master. Between you and me, reader, a bit of carrot had a good
deal to do with the last trick, if not with the others also.
It occurred to this bold boy once that he might be able to take
Scallowa up the dark tower stairs to the boy's own room. The
staircase was unusually wide, and the broken stones in it had been
repaired with logs of wood. He determined to try; but he practised
riding him blindfolded first. Then one day he put him at the stairs;
he himself went first with the bridle in his hand.
What should he do if he failed? That is a question he did not stop
to answer. One thing was quite certain, Scallowa could not turn and
go down again. On they went, the two of them, all in the dark,
except that now and then a slit in the wall gave them a little light
and, far beneath, a pretty view of the country. On and on, and up
and up, till within ten feet of the top.
Here Scallowa came to a dead stop, and the conversation between
Archie and his steed, although the latter did not speak English,
might have been as follows:
"Come on, 'Eider Duck'!"
"Not a step farther, thank you."
"Come on, old horsie! You can't turn, you know."
"No; not another step if I stay here till doomsday in the afternoon.
Going upstairs becomes monotonous after a time. No; I'll be shot if
I budge!"
"You'll be shot if you don't. Gee up, I say; gee up!"
"Gee up yourself; I'm going to sleep."
"I say, Scallowa, look here."
"What's that, eh? a bit of carrot? Oh, here goes!"
And in a few seconds more Scallowa was in the room, and had all he
could eat of cakes and carrots.
Archie was so delighted with his success that he must go to the
castle turret, and halloo for Branson and old Kate to come and see
what he had got in the tower.
Old Kate's astonishment knew no bounds, and Branson laughed till his
sides were sore. Bounder, the Newfoundland, appeared also to
appreciate the joke, and smiled from lug to lug.
"How will you get him down?"
"Carrots," said Archie; "carrots, Branson. The 'Duck' will do
anything for carrots."
The "Duck," however, was somewhat nervous at first, and half-way
downstairs even the carrots appeared to have lost their charm.
While Archie was wondering what he should do now, a loud explosion
seemed to shake the old tower to its very foundation. It was only
Bounder barking in the rear of the pony. But the sound had the
desired effect, and down came the "Duck," and away went Archie, so
that in a few minutes both were out on the grass.
And here Scallowa must needs relieve his feelings by lying down and
rolling; while great Bounder, as if he had quite appreciated all the
fun of the affair, and must do something to allay his excitement,
went tearing round in a circle, as big dogs do, so fast that it was
almost impossible to see anything of him distinctly. He was a dark
shape _et preterea nihil_.
But after a time Scallowa got near to the stair, which only proves
that there is nothing in reason you cannot teach a Shetland pony, if
you love him and understand him.
The secret lies in the motto, "Fondly and firmly." But, as already
hinted, a morsel of carrot comes in handy at times.
CHAPTER V.
"_BOYS WILL BE BOYS._"
Bob Cooper was as good as his word, which he had pledged to Archie on
that night at Burley Old Farm, and Branson never saw him again in the
Squire's preserves.
Nor had he ever been obliged to compeer before the Squire
himself--who was now a magistrate--to account for any acts of
trespass in pursuit of game on the lands of other lairds. But this
does not prove that Bob had given up poaching. He was discreetly
silent about this matter whenever he met Archie.
He had grown exceedingly fond of the lad, and used to be delighted
when he called at his mother's cottage on his "Eider Duck." There
was always a welcome waiting Archie here, and whey to drink, which,
it must be admitted, is very refreshing on a warm summer's day.
Well, Bob on these occasions used to show Archie how to make flies,
or busk hooks, and gave him a vast deal of information about outdoor
life and sport generally.
The subject of poaching was hardly ever broached; only once, when he
and Archie were talking together in the little cottage, Bob himself
volunteered the following information:
"The gentry folks, Master Archie, think me a terrible man; and they
wonder I don't go and plough, or something. La! they little know
I've been brought up in the hills. Sport I must hae. I couldna live
away from nature. But I'm never cruel. Heigho! I suppose I must
leave the country, and seek for sport in wilder lands, where the man
o' money doesn't trample on the poor. Only one thing keeps me here."
He glanced out of the window as he spoke to where his old mother was
cooking dinner _al fresco_--boiling a pot as the gipsy does, hung
from a tripod.
"I know, I know," said Archie.
"How old are you now, Master Archie?"
"Going on for fourteen."
"Is that all? Why ye're big eno' for a lad o' seventeen!"
This was true. Archie was wondrous tall, and wondrous brown and
handsome. His hardy upbringing and constant out-door exercise, in
summer's shine or winter's snow, fully accounted for his stature and
looks.
"I'm almost getting too big for my pony."
"Ah! no, lad; Shetlands'll carry most anything."
"Well, I must be going, Bob Cooper. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Master Archie. Ah! lad, if there were more o' your kind
and your father's in the country, there would be fewer bad men
like--like me."
"I don't like to hear you saying that, Bob. Couldn't you be a good
man if you liked? You're big enough."
The poacher laughed.
"Yes," he replied, "I'm big enough; but, somehow, goodness don't
strike right home to me like. It don't come natural--that's it."
"My brother Rupert says it is so easy to be good, if you read and
pray God to teach and help you."
"Ah, Master Archie, your brother is good himself, but he doesn't know
all."
"My brother Rupert bade me tell you that; but, oh, Bob, how nice he
can speak. I can't. I can fish and shoot, and ride 'Eider Duck;'
but I can't say things so pretty as he can. Well, good-bye again."
"Good-bye again, and tell your brother that I can't be good all at
one jump like, but I'll begin to try mebbe. So long."
* * * * * *
Archie Broadbent might have been said to have two kinds of home
education; one was thoroughly scholastic, the other very practical
indeed. The Squire was one in a hundred perhaps. He was devoted to
his farm, and busied himself in the field, manually as well as
orally. I mean to say that he was of such an active disposition
that, while superintending and giving advice and orders, he put his
hand to the wheel himself. So did Mr. Walton, and whether it was
harvest-time or haymaking, you would have found Squire Broadbent, the
tutor, and Archie hard at it, and even little Elsie doing a little.
I would not like to say that the Squire was a radical, but he
certainly was no believer in the benefits of too much class
distinction. He thought Burns was right when he said--
"A man's a man for a' that."
Was he any the less liked or less respected by his servants, because
he and his boy tossed hay in the same field with them? I do not
think so, and I know that the work always went more merrily on when
they were there; and that laughing and even singing could be heard
all day long. Moreover, there was less beer drank, and more tea.
The Squire supplied both liberally, and any man might have which he
chose. Consequently there was less, far less, tired-headedness and
languor in the evening. Why, it was nothing uncommon for the lads
and lasses of Burley Old Farm to meet together on the lawn, after a
hard day's toil, and dance for hours to the merry notes of Branson's
fiddle.
We have heard of model farms; this Squire's was one; but the
servants, wonderful to say, were contented. There was never such a
thing as grumbling heard from one year's end to the other.
Christmas too was always kept in the good, grand old style. Even a
yule log, drawn from the wood, was considered a property of the
performances; and as for good cheer, why there was "lashins" of it,
as an Irishman would say, and fun "galore," to borrow a word from
beyond the Border.
Mr. Walton was a scholarly person, though you might not have thought
so, had you seen him mowing turnips with his coat off. He, however,
taught nothing to Archie or Rupert that might not have some practical
bearing on his after life. Such studies as mathematics and algebra
were dull, in a manner of speaking; Latin was taught because no one
can understand English without it; French and German
conversationally; geography not by rote, but thoroughly; and
everything else was either very practical and useful, or very
pleasant.
Music Archie loved, but did not care to play; his father did not
force him; but poor Rupert played the zither. He loved it, and took
to it naturally.
Rupert got stronger as he grew older, and when Archie was fourteen
and he thirteen, the physician gave good hopes; and he was even able
to walk by himself a little. But to some extent he would be "Poor
Rupert" as long as he lived.
He read and thought far more than Archie, and--let me whisper it--he
prayed more fervently.
"Oh, Roup," Archie would say, "I should like to be as good as you!
Somehow, I don't feel to need to pray so much, and to have the Lord
Jesus so close to me."
It was a strange conceit this, but Rupert's answer was a good one.
"Yes, Archie, I need comfort more; but mind you, brother, the day may
come when you'll want comfort of this kind too."
* * * * * *
Old Kate really was a queer old witch of a creature, superstitious to
a degree. Here is an example: One day she came rushing--without
taking time to knock even--into the breakfast parlour.
"Oh, Mistress Broadbent, what a ghast I've gotten!"
"Dear me!" said the Squire's wife; "sit down and tell us. What is
it, poor Kate?"
"Oh! Oh!" she sighed. "Nae wonder my puir legs ached. Oh! sirs!
sirs!
"Ye ken my little pantry? Well, there's been a board doon on the
fleer for ages o' man, and to-day it was taken out to be scrubbit,
and what think ye was reveeled?"
"I couldn't guess."
"Words, 'oman; words, printed and painted on the timmer--'_Sacred to
the Memory of Dinah Brown, Aged 99._' A tombstone, 'oman--a wooden
gravestone, and me standin' on't a' these years."
Here the Squire was forced to burst out into a hearty laugh, for
which his wife reprimanded him, by a look.
There was no mistake about the "wooden tombstone," but that this was
the cause of old Kate's rheumatism one might take the liberty to
doubt.
Kate was a staunch believer in ghosts, goblins, fairies, kelpies,
brownies, spunkies, and all the rest of the supernatural family; and
I have something to relate in connection with this, though it is not
altogether to the credit of my hero, Archie.
Old Kate and young Peter were frequent visitors to the room in the
tower, for the tea Archie made, and the fires he kept on, were both
most excellent in their way.
"Boys will be boys," and Archie was a little inclined to practical
joking. It made him laugh, so he said, and laughing made one fat.
It happened that, one dark winter's evening, old Kate was invited up
into the tower, and Branson with Peter came also. Archie volunteered
a song, and Branson played many a fine old air on his fiddle, so that
the first part of the evening passed away pleasantly and even merrily
enough. Old Kate drank cup after cup of tea as she sat in that weird
old chair, and, by-and-by, Archie, the naughty boy that he was, led
the conversation round to ghosts. The ancient dame was in her
element now; she launched forth into story after story, and each was
more hair-stirring than its predecessor.
Elsie and Archie occupied their favourite place on a bear's skin in
front of the low fire; and while Kate still droned on, and Branson
listened with eyes and mouth wide open, the boy might have been
noticed to stoop down, and whisper something in his sister's ear.
Almost immediately after a rattling of chains could be heard in one
of the turrets. Both Kate and Branson started, and the former could
not be prevailed upon to resume her story till Archie lit a candle
and walked all round the room, drawing back the turret curtains to
show no one was there.
Once again old Kate began, and once again chains were heard to
rattle, and a still more awesome sound followed--a long, low,
deep-bass groan, while at the same time, strange to say, the candle
in Archie's hand burnt blue. To add to the fearsomeness of the
situation, while the chain continued to rattle, and the groaning now
and then, there was a very appreciable odour of sulphur in the
apartment. This was the climax. Old Kate screamed, and the big
keeper, Branson, fell on his knees in terror. Even Elsie, though she
had an inkling of what was to happen, began to feel afraid.
"There now, granny," cried Archie, having carried the joke far
enough, "here is the groaning ghost." As he spoke he produced a pair
of kitchen bellows, with a musical reed in the pipe, which he
proceeded to sound in old Kate's very face, looking a very
mischievous imp while he did so.
"Oh," said old Kate, "what a scare the laddie has given me. But the
chain?"
Archie pulled a string, and the chain rattled again.
"And the candle? That was na canny."
"A dust of sulphur in the wick, granny."
Big Branson looked ashamed of himself, and old Kate herself began to
smile once more.
"But how could ye hae the heart to scare an old wife sae, Master
Archie?"
"Oh, granny, we got up the fun just to show you there were no such
things as ghosts. Rupert says--and he should know, because he's
always reading--that ghosts are always rats or something."
"Ye maunna frichten me again, laddie. Will ye promise?"
"Yes, granny, there's my hand on it. Now sit down and have another
cup of tea, and Elsie will play and sing."
Elsie could sing now, and sweet young voice she had, that seemed to
carry you to happier lands. Branson always said it made him feel a
boy again, wandering through the woods in summer, or chasing the
butterflies over flowery beds.
And so, albeit Archie had carried his practical joke out to his own
satisfaction, if not to that of every one else, this evening, like
many others that had come before it, and came after it, passed away
pleasantly enough.
* * * * * *
It was in the spring of the same year, and during the Easter
holidays, that a little London boy came down to reside with his aunt,
who lived in one of Archie's father's cottages.
Young Harry Brown had been sent to the country for the express
purpose of enjoying himself, and set about this business forthwith.
He made up to Archie; in fact, he took so many liberties, and talked
to him so glibly, and with so little respect, that, although Archie
had imbued much of his father's principles as regards liberalism, he
did not half like it.
Perhaps, after all, it was only the boy's manner, for he had never
been to the country at all before, and looked upon every one--Archie
included--who did not know London, as jolly green. But Archie did
not appreciate it, and, like the traditional worm, he turned, and
once again his love for practical joking got the better of his
common-sense.
"Teach us somefink," said Harry one day, turning his white face up.
He was older, perhaps, than Archie, but decidedly smaller. "Teach us
somefink, and when you comes to Vitechapel to wisit me, I'll teach
you summut. My eye, won't yer stare!"
The idea of this white-chafted, unwholesome-looking cad, expecting
that _he_, Squire Broadbent's son, would visit him in Whitechapel!
But Archie managed to swallow his wrath and pocket his pride for the
time being.
"What shall I teach you, eh? I suppose you know that potatoes don't
grow on trees, nor geese upon gooseberry-bushes?"
"Yes; I know that taters is dug out of the hearth. I'm pretty fly
for a young un."
"Can you ride?"
"No."
"Well, meet me here to-morrow at the same time, and I'll bring my
'Duck.'"
"Look 'ere, Johnnie Raw, ye said '_ride_,' not '_swim_.' A duck
teaches swimmin', not ridin'. None o' yer larks now!"
Next day Archie swept down upon the Cockney in fine form, meaning to
impress him.
The Cockney was not much impressed; I fear he was not very
impressionable.
"My heye, Johnnie Raw," he roared, "vere did yer steal the moke?"
"Look you here, young Whitechapel, you'll have to guard that tongue
of yours a little, else communications will be cut. Do you see?"
"It _is_ a donkey, ain't it, Johnnie?"
"Come on to the field and have a ride."
Five minutes afterwards the young Cockney on the "Eider Duck's" back
was tearing along the field at railway speed. John Gilpin's ride was
nothing to it, nor Tam O'Shanter's on his grey mare, Meg! Both these
worthies had stuck to the saddle, but this horseman rode upon the
neck of the steed. Scallowa stopped short at the gate, but the boy
flew over.
Archie found his friend rubbing himself, and looking very serious,
and he felt happier now.
"Call that 'ere donkey a heider duck? H'm? I allers thought heider
ducks was soft!
"One to you, Johnnie. I don't want to ride hany more."
"What else shall I teach you?"
"Hey?"
"Come, I'll show you over the farm."
"Honour bright? No larks!"
"Yes; no larks!"
"Say honour."
"Honour."
Young Whitechapel had not very much faith in his guide, however; but
he saw more country wonders that day than ever he could have dreamt
of; while his strange remarks kept Archie continually laughing.
Next day the two boys went bird-nesting, and really Archie was very
mischievous. He showed him a hoody-crow's nest, which he represented
as a green plover's or lapwing's; and a blackbird's nest in a
furze-bush, which he told Harry was a magpie's; and so on, and so
forth, till at last he got tired of the cheeky Cockney, and sent him
off on a mile walk to a cairn of stones, on which he told him crows
sometimes sat and "might have a nest."
Then Archie threw himself on the moss, took out a book, and began to
read. He was just beginning to repent of his conduct to Harry Brown,
and meant to go up to him like a man when he returned, and crave his
forgiveness.
But somehow, when Harry came back he had so long a face, that wicked
Archie burst out laughing, and forgot all about his good resolve.
"What shall I teach you next?" said Archie.
"Draw it mild, Johnnie; it's 'Arry's turn. It's the boy's turn to
teach you summut. Shall we 'ave it hout now wi' the raw uns?
Bunches o' fives I means. Hey?"
"I really don't understand you."
"Ha! ha! ha! I knowed yer was a green 'un, Johnnie. Can yer fight?
Hey? 'Cause I'm spoilin' for a row."
And Harry Brown threw off his jacket, and began to dance about in
terribly knowing attitudes.
"You had better put on your clothes again," said Archie. "Fight
_you_? Why I could fling you over the fishpond."
"Ah! I dessay; but flingin' ain't fightin', Johnnie. Come, there's
no getting hout of it. It ain't the first young haristocrat I've
frightened; an' now you're afraid."
That was enough for Archie. And the next moment the lads were at it.
But Archie had met his match; he went down a dozen times. He
remained down the last time.
"It is wonderful," he said. "I quite admire you. But I've had
enough; I'm beaten."
"Spoken like a plucked 'un. Haven't swallowed yer teeth, hey?"
"No; but I'll have a horrid black-eye."
"Raw beef, my boy; raw beef."
"Well; I confess I've caught a tartar."
"An' I caught a crab yesterday. Wot about your eider duck? My heye!
Johnnie, I ain't been able to sit down conweniently since. I say,
Johnnie?"
"Well."
"Friends, hey?"
"All right."
Then the two shook hands, and young Whitechapel said if Archie would
buy two pairs of gloves he would show him how it was done. So Archie
did, and became an apt pupil in the noble art of self-defence; which
may be used at times, but never abused.
However, Archie Broadbent never forgot that lesson in the wood.
CHAPTER VI.
"_JOHNNIE'S GOT THE GRIT IN HIM._"
On the day of his fight with young Harry in the wood, Archie returned
home to find both his father and Mr. Walton in the drawing-room alone.
His father caught the lad by the arm.
"Been tumbling again off that pony of yours?"
"No, father, worse. I'm sure I've done wrong."
He then told them all about the practical joking, and the _finale_.
"Well," said the Squire, "there is only one verdict. What do you
say, Walton?"
"Serve him right!"
"Oh, I know that," said Archie; "but isn't it lowering our name to
keep such company?"
"It isn't raising our name, nor growing fresh laurels either, for you
to play practical jokes on this poor London lad. But as to being in
his company, Archie, you may have to be in worse yet. But listen! I
want my son to behave as a gentleman, even in low company. Remember
that boy, and despise no one, whatever be his rank in life. Now, go
and beg your mother's and sister's forgiveness for having to appear
before them with a black-eye."
"Archie!" his father called after him, as he was leaving the room.
"Yes, dad?"
"How long do you think it will be before you get into another scrape?"
"I couldn't say for certain, father. I'm sure I don't want to get
into any. They just seem to come."
"There's no doubt about one thing, Mr. Broadbent," said the tutor
smiling, when Archie had left.
"And that is?"
"He's what everybody says he is, a chip of the old block.
Headstrong, and all that; doesn't look before he leaps."
"Don't _I_, Walton?"
"Squire, I'm not going to flatter you. You know you don't."
"Well, my worthy secretary," said the Squire, "I'm glad you speak so
plainly. I can always come to you for advice when----"
"When you want to," said Walton, laughing. "All right, mind you do.
I'm proud to be your factor, as well as tutor to your boys. Now what
about that Chillingham bull? You won't turn him into the west field?"
"Why not? The field is well fenced. All our picturesque beasts are
there. He is only a show animal, and he is really only a baby."
"True, the bull is not much more than a baby, but----"
The baby in question was the gift of a noble friend to Squire
Broadbent; and so beautiful and picturesque did he consider him, that
he would have permitted him to roam about the lawns, if there did not
exist the considerable probability that he would play battledore and
shuttlecock with the visitors, and perhaps toss old Kate herself over
the garden wall.
So he was relegated to the west field. This really was a park to all
appearance. A few pet cattle grazed in it, a flock of sheep, and a
little herd of deer. They all lived amicably together, and sought
shelter under the same spreading trees from the summer's sun. The
cattle were often changed, so were the sheep, but the deer were as
much fixtures as the trees themselves.
The changing of sheep or cattle meant fine fun for Archie. He would
be there in all his glory, doing the work that was properly that of
herdsmen and collie dogs. There really was not a great deal of need
for collies when Archie was there, mounted on his wild Shetland pony,
his darling "Eider Duck" Scallowa; and it was admittedly a fine sight
to see the pair of them--they seemed made for each other--feathering
away across the field, heading and turning the drove. At such times
he would be armed with a long whip, and occasionally a beast more
rampageous than the rest would separate itself from the herd, and,
with tail erect and head down, dash madly over the grass. This would
be just the test for Archie's skill that he longed for. Away he
would go at a glorious gallop; sometimes riding neck and neck with
the runaway and plying the whip, at other times getting round and
well ahead across the beast's bows with shout and yell, but taking
care to manoeuvre so as to steer clear of an ugly rush.
In this field always dwelt one particular sheep. It had, like the
pony, been a birthday present, and, like the pony, it hailed from the
_Ultima Thule_ of the British North. If ever there was a demon sheep
in existence, surely this was the identical quadruped. Tall and
lank, and daft-looking, it possessed almost the speed of a red deer,
and was as full of mischief as ever sheep could be. The worst of the
beast was, that he led all the other woolly-backs into mischief; and
whether it proposed a stampede round the park, ending with a charge
through the ranks of the deer, or a well-planned attempt at escape
from the field altogether, the other sheep were always willing to
join, and sometimes the deer themselves.
Archie loved that sheep next to the pony, and there were times when
he held a meet of his own. Mousa, as he called him, would be carted,
after the fashion of the Queen's deer, to a part of the estate, miles
from home; but it was always for home that Mousa headed, though not
in a true line. No, this wonderful sheep would take to the woods as
often as not, and scamper over the hills and far away, so that Archie
had many a fine run; and the only wonder is that Scallowa and he did
not break their necks.
The young Chillingham bull was as beautiful as a dream--a nightmare
for instance. He was not very large, but sturdy, active, and strong.
Milk-white, or nearly so, with black muzzle and crimson ears inside,
and, you might say, eyes as well. Pure white black-tipped horns,
erect almost, and a bit of a mane which added to his picturesqueness
and wild beauty. His name was Lord Glendale, and his pedigree longer
than the Laird o' Cockpen's.
Now, had his lordship behaved himself, he certainly would have been
an ornament to the society of Westfield. But he wouldn't or
couldn't. Baby though he was, he attempted several times to vivisect
his companions; and one day, thinking perhaps that Mousa did not pay
him sufficient respect, his lordship made a bold attempt to throw him
over the moon. So it was determined that Lord Glendale should be
removed from Westfield. At one end of the park was a large, strong
fence, and Branson and others came to the conclusion that Glendale
would be best penned, and have a ring put in his nose.
Yes, true; but penning a Chillingham wild baby-bull is not so simple
as penning a letter. There is more _present_ risk about the former
operation, if not _future_.
"Well, it's got to be done," said Branson.
"Yes," said Archie, who was not far off, "it's got to be done."
"Oh, Master Archie, you can't be in this business!"
"Can't I, Branson? You'll see."
And Branson did see. He saw Archie ride into the west field on
Scallowa, both of them looking in splendid form. Men with poles and
ropes and dogs followed, some of the former appearing not to relish
the business by any means.
However, it would probably be an easier job than they thought. The
plan would be to get the baby-bull in the centre of the other cattle,
manoeuvre so as to keep him there, and so pen all together.
This might have been done had Archie kept away, but it so happened
that his lordship was on particularly good terms with himself this
morning. Moreover, he had never seen a Shetland pony before. What
more natural, therefore, than a longing on the part of Lord Glendale
to examine the little horse _inside_ as well as out?
"Go gently now, lads," cried Branson. "Keep the dogs back, Peter, we
must na' alarm them."
Lord Glendale did not condescend to look at Branson. He detached
himself quietly from the herd, and began to eat up towards the spot
where Archie and his "Duck" were standing like some pretty statue.
Eating up towards him is the correct expression, as everyone who
knows bulls will admit; for his lordship did not want to alarm Archie
till he was near enough for the grand rush. Then the fun would
commence, and Lord Glendale would see what the pony was made of.
While he kept eating, or rather pretending to eat, his sly red eyes
were fastened on Archie.
Now, had it been Harry Brown, the Whitechapel boy, this ruse on the
part of the baby-bull might have been successful. But Archie
Broadbent was too old for his lordship. He pretended, however, to
take no notice; but just as the bull was preparing for the rush he
laughed derisively, flicked Lord Glendale with the whip, and started.
Lord Glendale roared with anger and disappointment.
"Oh, Master Archie," cried Branson, "you shouldn't have done that!"
Now the play began in earnest. Away went Archie on Scallowa, and
after him tore the bull. Archie's notion was to tire the brute out,
and there was some very pretty riding and manoeuvring between the two
belligerents. Perhaps the bull was all too young to be easily tired,
for the charges he made seemed to increase in fierceness each time,
but Archie easily eluded him.
Branson drove the cattle towards the pen, and got them inside, then
he and his men concentrated all their attention on the combatants.
"The boy'll be killed as sure as a gun!" cried the keeper. Archie
did not think so, evidently; and it is certain he had his wits about
him, for presently he rode near enough to shout:
"Ease up a hurdle from the back of the pen, and stand by to open it
as I ride through."
The plan was a bold one, and Branson saw through it at once.
Down he ran with his men, and a back hurdle was loosened.
"All right!" he shouted.
And now down thundered Scallowa and Archie, the bull making a
beautiful second.
In a minute or less he had entered the pen, but this very moment the
style of the fight changed somewhat; for had not the attention of
everyone been riveted on the race, they might have seen the great
Newfoundland dashing over the field, and just as Lord Glendale was
entering the pen, Bounder pinned him short by the tail.
The brute roared with pain and wheeled round. Meanwhile Archie had
escaped on the pony, and the back hurdle was put up again. But how
about the new phase the fight had taken?
Once more the boy's quick-wittedness came to the front. He leapt off
the pony and back into the pen, calling aloud, "Bounder! Bounder!
Bounder!"
In rushed the obedient dog, and after him came the bull; up went the
hurdle, and off went Archie! But, alas! for the unlucky Bounder. He
was tossed right over into the field a moment afterwards, bleeding
frightfully from a wound in his side.
To all appearance Bounder was dead. In an agony of mind the boy
tried to staunch the blood with his handkerchief; and when at last
the poor dog lifted his head, and licked his young master's face, the
relief to his feelings was so great that he burst into tears. Archie
was only a boy after all, though a bold and somewhat mischievous one.
Bounder now drank water brought from a stream in a hat. He tried to
get up, but was too weak to walk so he was lifted on to Scallowa's
broad back and held there, and thus they all returned to Burley Old
Farm.
So ended the adventure with the baby-bull of Chillingham. The ring
was put in his nose next day, and I hope it did not hurt much. But
old Kate had Bounder as a patient in the kitchen corner for three
whole weeks.
* * * * * *
A day or two after the above adventure, and just as the Squire was
putting on his coat in the hall, who should march up to the door and
knock but Harry Brown himself.
Most boys would have gone to the backdoor, but shyness was not one of
Harry's failings.
"'Ullo!" he said; for the door opened almost on the instant he
knocked, "Yer don't take long to hopen to a chap then."
"No," said Squire Broadbent, smiling down on the lad; "fact is, boy,
I was just going out."
"Going for a little houting, hey? I s'pose now you're Johnnie's
guv'nor?"
"I think I know whom you refer to. Master Archie, isn't it? and
you're the little London lad?"
"I don't know nuffink about no Harchies. P'r'aps it is Harchibald.
But I allers calls my friends wot they looks like. He looks like
Johnnie. Kinsevently, guv'nor, he _is_ Johnnie to me. D' ye twig?"
"I think I do," said Squire Broadbent, laughing; "and you want to see
my boy?"
"Vot I vants is this 'ere. Johnnie is a rare game un. 'Scuse me,
guv'nor, but Johnnie's got the grit in him, and I vant to say
good-bye; nuffink else, guv'nor."
Here Harry actually condescended to point a finger at his lip by way
of salute, and just at the same moment Archie himself came round the
corner. He looked a little put out, but his father only laughed, and
he saw it was all right.
These were Harry's last words:
"Good-bye, then. You've got the grit in ye, Johnnie. And if hever
ye vants a friend, telegraph to 'Arry Brown, Esq., of Vitechapel,
'cos ye know, Johnnie, the king may come in the cadger's vay. Adoo.
So long, Blue-lights, and hoff we goes."
CHAPTER VII.
"_THEY'RE UP TO SOME BLACK WORK TO-NIGHT._"
Another summer flew all too fast away at Burley Old Farm and Castle
Tower. The song of birds was hushed in the wild woods, even the
corn-crake had ceased its ventriloquistic notes, and the plaintive
wee lilt of the yellow-hammer was heard no more. The corn grew ripe
on braeland and field, was cut down, gathered, stocked, and finally
carted away. The swallows flew southwards, but the peewits remained
in droves, and the starlings took up their abode with the sheep.
Squires and sturdy farmers might now have been met tramping, gun in
hand, over the stubble, through the dark green turnip-fields, and
over the distant moorlands, where the crimson heather still bloomed
so bonnie.
Anon, the crisp leaves, through which the wind now swept with harsher
moan, began to change to yellows, crimsons, and all the hues of
sunset, and by-and-by it was hunting-time again.
Archie was unusually thoughtful one night while the family sat, as of
yore, round the low fire in the green parlour, Elsie and Rupert being
busy in their corner over a game of chess.
"In a brown study, Archie?" said his mother.
"No, mummie; that is, Yes, I was thinking----"
"Wonders will never cease," said Rupert, without looking up. Archie
looked towards him, but his brother only smiled at the chessmen. The
boy was well enough now to joke and laugh. Best of signs and most
hopeful.
"I was thinking that my legs are almost too long now to go to the
meet on poor Scallowa. Not that Scallowa would mind. But don't you
think, mummie dear, that a long boy on a short pony looks odd?"
"A little, Archie."
"Well, why couldn't father let me have Tell to-morrow? He is not
going out himself."
His father was reading the newspaper, but he looked at Archie over
it. Though only his eyes were visible, the boy knew he was smiling.
"If you think you won't break your neck," he said, "you may take
Tell."
"Oh," Archie replied, "I'm quite sure I won't break my neck!"
The Squire laughed now outright.
"You mean you _might_ break Tell's, eh?"
"Well, dad, I didn't _say_ that."
"No, Archie, but you _thought_ it."
"I'm afraid, dad, the emphasis fell on the wrong word."
"Never mind, Archie, where the emphasis falls; but if you let Tell
fall the emphasis will fall where you won't like it."
"All right, dad, I'll chance the emphasis. Hurrah!"
The Squire and Mr. Walton went off early next day to a distant town,
and Branson had orders to bring Tell round to the hall door at nine
sharp; which he did. The keeper was not groom, but he was the
tallest man about, and Archie thought he would want a leg up.
Archie's mother was there, and Elsie, and Rupert, and did Kate, and
little Peter, to say nothing of Bounder and Fuss, all to see "t'
young Squire mount." But no one expected the sight they did see when
Archie appeared; for the lad's sense of fun and the ridiculous was
quite irrepressible. And the young rascal had dressed himself from
top to toe in his father's hunting-rig--boots, cords, red coat, hat,
and all complete. Well, as the boots were a mile and a half too big
for him--more or less, and the breeches and coat would have held at
least three Archie Broadbents, while the hat nearly buried his head,
you may guess what sort of a guy he looked. Bounder drew back and
barked at him. Old Kate turned her old eyes cloudwards, and held up
her palms. Branson for politeness' sake tried not to laugh; but it
was too much, he went off at last like a soda-water cork, and the
merriment rippled round the ring like wild-fire. Even poor Rupert
laughed till the tears came. Then back into the house ran Archie,
and presently re-appeared dressed in his own velvet suit.
But Archie had not altogether cooled down yet. He had come to the
conclusion that having an actual leg up, was not an impressive way of
getting on to his hunter; so after kissing his mother, and asking
Rupert to kiss Elsie for him, he bounded at one spring to Branson's
shoulder, and from this elevation bowed and said "good morning," then
let himself neatly down to the saddle.
"Tally ho! Yoi--cks!" he shouted. Then clattered down the avenue,
cleared the low, white gate, and speedily disappeared across the
fields.
Archie had promised himself a rare day's run, and he was not
disappointed. The fox was an old one and a wily one--and, I might
add, a very gentlemanly old fox--and he led the field one of the
prettiest dances that Dawson, the greyest-headed huntsman in the
North, ever remembered; but there was no kill. No; Master Reynard
knew precisely where he was going, and got home all right, and went
quietly to sleep as soon as the pack drew off.
The consequence was that Archie found himself still ten miles from
home as gloaming was deepening into night. Another hour he thought
would find him at Burley Old Farm. But people never know what is
before them, especially hunting people.
It had been observed by old Kate, that after Archie left in the
morning, Bounder seemed unusually sad. He refused his breakfast, and
behaved so strangely that the superstitious dame was quite alarmed.
"I'll say naething to the ladies," she told one of the servants,
"but, woe is me! I fear that something awfu' is gain tae happen. I
houp the young laddie winna brak his neck. He rode awa' sae
daft-like. He is just his faither a' ower again."
Bounder really had something on his mind; for dogs do think far more
than we give them credit for. Well, the Squire was off, and also Mr.
Walton, and now his young master had flown. What did it mean? Why
he would find out before he was many hours older. So ran Bounder's
cogitations.
To think was to act with Bounder; so up he jumped, and off he
trotted. He followed the scent for miles; then he met an errant
collie, and forgetting for a time all about his master, he went off
with him. There were many things to be done, and Bounder was not in
a hurry. They chased cows and sheep together merely for mischief's
sake; they gave chase to some rabbits, and when the bunnies took to
their holes, they spent hours in a vain attempt to dig them out. The
rabbits knew they could never succeed, so they quietly washed their
faces and laughed at them.
They tired at last, and with their heads and paws covered with mould,
commenced to look for mice among the moss. They came upon a wild
bees' home in a bank, and tore this up, killing the inmates bee by
bee as they scrambled out wondering what the racket meant. They
snapped at the bees who were returning home, and when both had their
lips well stung they concluded to leave the hive alone. Honey wasn't
very nice after all, they said. At sunset they bathed in a mill-dam
and swam about till nearly dusk, because the miller's boy was
obliging enough to throw in sticks for them. Then the miller's boy
fell in himself, and Bounder took him out and laid him on the bank to
drip, neither knowing nor caring that he had saved a precious life.
But the miller's boy's mother appeared on the scene and took the
weeping lad away, inviting the dogs to follow. She showered
blessings on their heads, especially on "the big black one's," as the
urchin called Bounder, and she put bread and milk before them and
bade them eat. The dogs required no second bidding, and just as
Bounder was finishing his meal the sound of hoofs was heard on the
road, and out bounced Bounder, the horse swerved, the rider was
thrown, and the dog began to wildly lick his face.
"So it's you, is it, Bounder?" said Archie. "A nice trick. And now
I'll have to walk home a good five miles."
Bounder backed off and barked. Why did his master go off and leave
him then? That is what the dog was saying.
"Come on, boy," said Archie. "There's no help for it; but I do feel
stiff."
They could go straight over the hill, and through the fields and the
wood, that was one consolation.
So off they set, and Archie soon forgot his stiffness and warmed to
his work.
Bounder followed close to his heels, as if he were a very old and a
very wise dog indeed; and harrying bees' hives, or playing with
millers' boys, could find no place in his thoughts.
Archie lost his way once or twice, and it grew quite dark. He was
wondering what he should do when he noticed a light spring up not far
away, and commenced walking towards it. It came from the little
window of a rustic cottage, and the boy knew at once now in which way
to steer.
Curiosity, however, impelled him to draw near to the window. He gave
just one glance in, but very quickly drew back. Sitting round a
table was a gang of half a dozen poachers. He knew them as the worst
and most notorious evil-doers in all the country round. They were
eating and drinking, and guns stood in the corners, while the men
themselves seemed ready to be off somewhere.
Away went Archie. He wanted no nearer acquaintance with a gang like
that.
In his way home he had to pass Bob Cooper's cottage, and thought he
might just look in, because Bob had a whole book of new flies getting
ready for him, and perhaps they were done.
Bob was out, and his mother was sitting reading the good Book by the
light of a little black oil lamp. She looked very anxious, and said
she felt so. Her laddie had "never said where he was going. Only
just went away out, and hadn't come back."
It was Archie's turn now to be anxious, when he thought of the gang,
and the dark work they might be after. Bob was not among them, but
who could tell that he would not join afterwards?
He bade the widow "Good-night," and went slowly homewards thinking.
He found everyone in a state of extreme anxiety. Hours ago Tell had
galloped to his stable door, and if there be anything more calculated
to raise alarm than another, it is the arrival at his master's place
of a riderless horse.
But Archie's appearance, alive and intact, dispelled the cloud, and
dinner was soon announced.
"Oh, by the way," said Archie's tutor, as they were going towards the
dining-room, "your old friend Bob Cooper has been here, and wants to
see you! I think he is in the kitchen now."
Away rushed Archie, and sure enough there was Bob eating supper in
old Kate's private room.
He got up as Archie's entered, and looked shy, as people of his class
do at times.
Archie was delighted.
"I brought the flies, and some new sorts that I think will do for the
Kelpie burn," he said.
"Well, I'm going to dine, Bob; you do the same. Don't go till I see
you. How long have you been here?"
"Two hours, anyhow."
When Archie returned he invited Bob to the room in the Castle Tower.
Kate must come too, and Branson with his fiddle.
Away went Archie and his rough friend, and were just finishing a long
debate about flies and fishing when Kate and Peter, and Branson and
Bounder, came up the turret stairs and entered the room.
Archie then told them all of what he had seen that night at the
cottage.
"Mark my words for it," said Bob, shaking his head, "they're up to
some black work to-night."
"You mustn't go yet awhile, Bob," Archie said. "We'll have some fun,
and you're as well where you are."
CHAPTER VIII.
_IN THE WIDOW'S LONELY HUT._
Bob Cooper bade Archie and Branson good-bye that night at the bend of
the road, some half mile from his own home, and trudged sturdily on
in the starlight. There was sufficient light "to see men as trees
walking."
"My mother'll think I'm out in th' woods," Bob said to himself.
"Well, she'll be glad when she knows she's wrong this time."
Once or twice he started, and looked cautiously, half-fearfully,
round him; for he felt certain he saw dark shadows in the field close
by, and heard the stealthy tread of footsteps.
He grasped the stout stick he carried all the firmer, for the poacher
had made enemies of late by separating himself from a well-known gang
of his old associates--men who, like the robbers in the ancient
ballad--
"Slept all day and waked all night,
And kept the country round in fright."
On he went; and the strange, uncomfortable feeling at his heart was
dispelled as, on rounding a corner of the road, he saw the light
glinting cheerfully from his mother's cottage.
"Poor old creature," he murmured half aloud, "many a sore heart I've
given her. But I'll be a better boy now. I'll----"
"Now, lads," shouted a voice, "have at him!"
"Back!" cried Bob Cooper, brandishing his cudgel. "Back, or it'll be
worse for you!"
The dark shadows made a rush. Bob struck out with all his force, and
one after another fell beneath his arm. But a blow from behind
disabled him at last, and down he went, just as his distracted mother
came rushing, lantern in hand, from her hut. There was the sharp
click of the handcuffs, and Bob Cooper was a prisoner. The
lantern-light fell on the uniforms of policemen.
"What is it? Oh, what has my laddie been doin'?"
"Murder, missus, or something very like it! There has been dark
doin's in th' hill to-night!"
Bob grasped the nearest policeman by the arm with his manacled hands.
"When--when did ye say it had happened?"
"You know too well, lad. Not two hours ago. Don't sham innocence;
it sits but ill on a face like yours."
"Mother," cried Bob bewilderingly, "I know nothing of it! I'm
innocent!"
But his mother heard not his words. She had fainted, and with rough
kindness was carried into the hut and laid upon the bed. When she
revived some what they left her.
It was a long, dismal ride the unhappy man had that night; and indeed
it was well on in the morning before the party with their prisoner
reached the town of B----.
Bob's appearance before a magistrate was followed almost instantly by
his dismissal to the cells again. The magistrate knew him. The
police had caught him "red-handed," so they said, and had only
succeeded in making him prisoner "after a fierce resistance."
"Remanded for a week," without being allowed to say one word in his
own defence.
The policeman's hint to Bob's mother about "dark doin's in th' hill"
was founded on fearful facts. A keeper had been killed after a
terrible melée with the gang of poachers, and several men had been
severely wounded on both sides.
The snow-storm that came on early on the morning after poor Bob
Cooper's capture was one of the severest ever remembered in
Northumbria. The frost was hard too all day long. The snow fell
incessantly, and lay in drifts like cliffs, fully seven feet high,
across the roads.
The wind blew high, sweeping the powdery snow hither and thither in
gusts. It felt for all the world like going into a cold shower-bath
to put one's head even beyond the threshold of the door. Nor did the
storm abate even at nightfall; but next day the wind died down, and
the face of the sky became clear, only along the southern horizon the
white clouds were still massed like hills and cliffs.
It was not until the afternoon that news reached Burley Old Farm of
the fight in the woods and death of the keeper. It was a sturdy old
postman who had brought the tidings. He had fought his way through
the snow with the letters, and his account of the battle had
well-nigh caused old Kate to swoon away. When Mary, the little
parlour-maid, carried the mail in to her master she did not hesitate
to relate what she had heard.
Squire Broadbent himself with Archie repaired to the kitchen, and
found the postman surrounded by the startled servants, who were
drinking in every word he said.
"One man killed, you say, Allan?"
"Ay, sir, killed dead enough. And it's a providence they caught the
murderer. Took him up, sir, just as he was a-goin' into his mother's
house, as cool as a frosted turnip, sir."
"Well, Allan, that is satisfactory. And what is his name?"
"Bob Cooper, sir, known all over the----"
"Bob Cooper!" cried Archie aghast. "Why, father, he was in our room
in the turret at the time."
"So he was," said the Squire. "Taken on suspicion I suppose. But
this must be seen to at once. Bad as we know Bob to have been, there
is evidence enough that he has reformed of late. At all events, he
shall not remain an hour in gaol on such a charge longer than we can
help."
Night came on very soon that evening. The clouds banked up again,
the snow began to fall, and the wind moaned round the old house and
castle in a way that made one feel cold to the marrow even to listen
to.
Morning broke slowly at last, and Archie was early astir. Tell, with
the Shetland pony and a huge great hunter, were brought to the door,
and shortly after breakfast the party started for B----.
Branson bestrode the big hunter--he took the lead--and after him came
the Squire on Tell, and Archie on Scallowa. This daft little horse
was in fine form this morning, having been in stall for several days.
He kept up well with the hunters, though there were times that both
he and his rider were all but buried in the gigantic wreaths that lay
across the road. Luckily the wind was not high, else no living thing
could long have faced that storm.
* * * * * *
The cottage in which widow Cooper had lived ever since the death of
her husband was a very primitive and a very poor one. It consisted
only of two rooms, what are called in Scotland "a butt and a ben."
Bob had been only a little barefooted boy when his father died, and
probably hardly missed him. He had been sent regularly to school
before then, but not since, for his mother had been unable to give
him further education. All their support was the morsel of garden, a
pig or two, and the fowls, coupled with whatever the widow could make
by knitting ribbed stockings for the farmer folks around. Bob grew
up wild, just as the birds and beasts of the hills and woods do.
While, however, he was still a little mite of a chap, the keepers
even seldom molested him. It was only natural, they thought, for a
boy to act the part of a squirrel or polecat, and to be acquainted
with every bird's nest and rabbit's burrow within a radius of miles.
When he grew a little older and a trifle bigger they began to warn
him off, and when one day he was met marching away with a cap full of
pheasant's eggs, he received as severe a drubbing as ever a lad got
at the hands of a gamekeeper.
Bob had grown worse instead of better after this. The keepers became
his sworn enemies, and there was a spice of danger and adventure in
vexing and outwitting them.
Unfortunately, in spite of all his mother said to the contrary, Bob
was firmly impressed with the notion that game of every kind, whether
fur or feather, belonged as much to him as to the gentry who tried to
preserve them. The fresh air was free; nobody dared to claim the
sunshine. Then why the wild birds, and the hares and rabbits?
Evil company corrupts good manners. That is what his copy-book used
to tell him. But Bob soon learned to laugh at that, and it is no
wonder that as he reached manhood his doings and daring as a poacher
became noted far and near.
He was beyond the control of his mother. She could only advise him,
read to him, pray for him; but I fear in vain. Only be it known that
Bob Cooper really loved this mother of his, anomalous though it may
seem.
Well, the keepers had been very harsh with him, and the gentry were
harsh with him, and eke the law itself. Law indeed! Why Bob was all
but an outlaw, so intense was his hatred to, and so great his
defiance of the powers that be.
It was strange that what force could not effect, a few soft words
from Branson, and Archie's gift of the hare he had shot on his
birthday, brought about. Bob Cooper's heart could not have been
wholly adamantine, therefore he began to believe that after all a
game-keeper might be a good fellow, and that there might even exist
gentlefolks whose chief delight was not the oppression of the poor.
He began after that to seek for honest work; but, alas! people looked
askance at him, and he found that the path of virtue was one not
easily regained when once deviated from.
His quondam enemy, however, Branson, spoke many a good word for him,
and Bob was getting on, much to his mother's delight and
thankfulness, when the final and crashing blow fell.
Poor old widow Cooper! For years and years she had but two comforts
in this world; one was her Bible, and the other--do not smile when I
tell you--was her pipie.
Oh! you know, the poor have not much to make them happy and to cheer
their loneliness, so why begrudge the widow her morsel of tobacco?
In the former she learned to look forward to another and a better
world, far beyond that bit of blue sky she could see at the top of
her chimney on a summer's night--a world where everything would be
bright and joyful, where there would be no vexatious rheumatism, no
age, and neither cold nor care. From the latter she drew sweet
forgetfulness of present trouble, and happy recollections of bygone
years.
Sitting there by the hearth all alone--her son perhaps away on the
hill--her thoughts used often-times to run away with her. Once more
she would be young, once again her hair was a bonnie brown, her form
little and graceful, roses mantling in her cheeks, soft light in her
eyes. And she is wandering through the tasselled broom with David by
her side. "David! Heigho!" she would sigh as she shook the ashes
from her pipie. "Poor David! it seems a long, long time since he
left me for the better land," and the sunlight would stream down the
big, open chimney and fall upon her skinny hands--fall upon the
elfin-like locks that escaped from beneath her cap--fall, too, on the
glittering pages of the Book on her lap like a promise of better
things to come.
Before that sad night, when, while sitting up waiting for her son,
she was startled by the sudden noise of the struggle that commenced
at her door, she thought she had reason to be glad and thankful for
the softening of her hoy's heart.
Then all her joy collapsed, her hopes collapsed--fell around her like
a house of cards. It was a cruel, a terrible blow.
The policeman had carried her in, laid her on the bed with a rough
sort of kindness, made up the fire, then gone out and thought no more
about her.
How she had spent the night need hardly be said; it is better
imagined. She had dropped asleep at last, and when she awoke from
fevered dreams it was daylight out of doors, but darkness in the hut.
The window and door were snowed up, and only a faint pale light
shimmered in through the chimney, falling on the fireless hearth--a
dismal sight.
Many times that day she had tried to rise, but all in vain. The cold
grew more intense as night drew on, and it did its work on the poor
widow's weakened frame. Her dreams grew more bright and happy
though, as her body became numbed and insensible. It was as though
the spirit were rejoicing in its coming freedom. But dreams left her
at last. Then all was still in the house, save the ticking of the
old clock that hung against the wall.
The Squire speedily effected Bob Cooper's freedom, and he felt he had
really done a good thing.
"Now, Robert," he told him, "you have had a sad experience. Let it
be a lesson to you. I'll give you a chance. Come to Burley, and
Branson will find you honest work as long as you like to do it."
"Lord love you, sir!" cried Bob. "There are few gentry like you."
"I don't know so much about that, Robert. You are not acquainted
with all the good qualities of gentlefolks yet. But now, Branson,
how are we all to get home?"
"Oh, I know!" said Archie. "Scallowa can easily bear Branson's
weight, and I will ride the big hunter along with Bob."
So this was arranged.
It was getting gloamed ere they neared the widow's lonesome hut. The
Squire with Branson had left Archie and Bob, and cut across the
frozen moor by themselves.
"How glad my mother will be!" said Bob.
And now they came in sight of the cottage, and Bob rubbed his eyes
and looked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no
signs of life was about.
The icicles hung long and strong from the eaves, one side of the hut
was entirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked
more like the entrance to some cave in Greenland north. Bad enough
this was; but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven
snow met them as they pushed open the door! It had blown down the
wide chimney, covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on
the floor, and even o'er-canopied the bed itself. And the widow, the
mother, lay underneath. No, not dead; she breathed, at least.
[Illustration: "The icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; and
the door looked more like the entrance to some cave in Greenland
north. Bad enough this was; but ah, in the inside of the poor little
house the driven snow met them as they pushed open the door!"]
When the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring fire
had been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently
down her throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a
short time was able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then
she recognized her son and Archie.
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Bob, the tears streaming over his
sun-browned face, "the Maker'll never forgive me for all the ill I've
done ye."
"Hush! Bobbie, hush! What, lad, the Maker no' forgive ye! Eh, ye
little know the grip o' His goodness! But you're here, you're
innocent. Thank Him for that."
"Ye'll soon get better, mother, and I'll be so good. The Squire is
to give me work too."
"It's o'er late for me," she said. "I'd like to live to see it, but
His will be done."
Archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once more
mounted on Scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards the
little cottage. The moon had risen now, and the night was starry and
fine. He tied Scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced.
He found Bob Cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, with
his face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro.
"She--just blessed me and wore away."
That was all he said or could say. And what words of comfort could
Archie speak? None. He sat silently beside him all that livelong
night, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. But the
poacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then he
stretched out one of his great hands and patted Archie's knee as one
would pet a dog.
A week passed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozen
ground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. Archie
went slowly back with Bob towards the cottage. On their way thither,
the poacher--poacher now no more though--entered a plantation, and
with his hunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick.
"We'll say good-bye here, Master Archie."
"What! You are not going back with me to Burley Old Farm?"
Bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed the
contents.
"Do you know them, Master Archie?"
"Yes, your poor mother's glasses."
"Ay, lad, and as long as I live I'll keep them. And till my dying
day, Archie, I'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher
Bob. No, I'm not goin' back to Burley, and I'm not going to the
cottage again. I'm going away. Where? I couldn't say. Here,
quick, shake hands, friend. Let it be over. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
And away went Bob. He stopped when a little way off, and turned as
if he had forgotten something.
"Archie!" he cried.
"Yes, Bob."
"Take care of my mother's cat."
Next minute he leapt a fence, and disappeared in the pine wood.
CHAPTER IX.
_THE WHOLE YARD WAS ABLAZE AND BURNING FIERCELY._
One year is but a brief span in the history of a family, yet it may
bring many changes. It did to Burley Old Farm, and some of them were
sad enough, though some were glad. A glad change took place for
instance in the early spring, after Bob's departure; for Rupert
appeared to wax stronger and stronger with the lengthening days; and
when Uncle Ramsay, in a letter received one morning, announced his
intention of coming from London, and making quite a long stay at
Burley, Rupert declared his intention of mounting Scallowa, and
riding over to the station to meet him. And the boy was as good as
his word. In order that they might be both cavaliers together, Uncle
Ramsay hired a horse at D----, and the two rode joyfully home side by
side.
His mother did not like to see that carmine flush on Rupert's cheeks,
however, nor the extra dark sparkle in his eyes when he entered the
parlour to announce his uncle's arrival, but she said nothing.
Uncle Ramsay Broadbent was a brother of the Squire, and, though
considerably older, a good deal like him in all his ways. There was
the same dash and go in him, and the same smiling front, unlikely to
be dismayed by any amount of misfortune.
"There are a deal of ups and downs in the ocean of life," Archie
heard him say one day; "we're on the top of a big wave one hour, and
in the trough of the sea next, so we must take things as they come."
Yes, this uncle was a seafarer; the skipper of a sturdy merchantman
that he had sailed in for ten long years. He did not care to be
called captain by anyone. He was a master mariner, and had an
opinion, which he often expressed, that plain "Mr." was a gentleman's
prefix.
"I shan't go back to sea again," he said next morning at breakfast.
"Fact is, brother, my owners think I'm getting too old. And maybe
they're right. I've had a fair innings, and it is only fair to give
the young ones a chance."
Uncle Ramsay seemed to give new life and soul to the old place. He
settled completely down to the Burley style of life long before the
summer was half over. He joined the servants in the fields, and
worked with them as did the Squire, Walton, and Archie. And though
more merriment went on in consequence, there was nevertheless more
work done. He took an interest in all the boys' "fads," spent hours
with them in their workshop, and made one in every game that was
played on the grass. He was dreadfully awkward at cricket and tennis
however; for such games as these are but little practised by sailors.
Only he was right willing to learn.
There was a youthfulness and breeziness about Uncle Ramsay's every
action, that few save seafarers possess when hair is turning white.
Of course, the skipper spent many a jolly hour up in the room of the
Castle Tower, and he did not object either to the presence of old
Kate in the chair. He listened like a boy when she told her weird
stories; and he listened more like a baby than anything else when
Branson played his fiddle.
Then he himself would spin them a yarn, and hold them all enthralled,
especially big-eyed Elsie, with the sterling reality and graphicness
of the narrative.
When Uncle Ramsay spoke you could see the waves in motion, hear the
scream of the birds around the stern, or the wind roaring through the
rigging. He spoke as he thought; he painted from life.
Well, the arrival of Uncle Ramsay and Rupert's getting strong were
two of the pleasant changes that took place at Burley in this
eventful year. Alas! I have to chronicle the sad ones also. Yet
why sigh? To use Uncle Ramsay's own words, "You never know what a
ship is made of until stormy seas are around you."
First then came a bad harvest--a terribly bad harvest. It was not
that the crops themselves were so very light, but the weather was
cold and wet; the grain took long to ripen. The task of cutting it
down was unfortunately an easy one, but the getting it stored was
almost an impossibility. At the very time when it was ripe, and
after a single fiercely hot day, a thunder-storm came on, and with it
such hail as the oldest inhabitant in the parish could not remember
having seen equalled. This resulted in the total loss of far more of
the precious seed, than would have sown all the land of Burley twice
over.
The wet continued. It rained and rained every day and when it rained
it poured.
The Squire had heard of a Yankee invention for drying wheat under
cover, and rashly set about a rude but most expensive imitation
thereof. He first mentioned the matter to Uncle Ramsay at the
breakfast-table. The Squire seemed in excellent spirits that
morning. He was walking briskly up and down the room rubbing his
hands, as if in deep but pleasant thought, when his brother came
quietly in.
"Hullo! you lazy old sea-dog. Why you'd lie in your bed till the sun
burned a hole in the blanket. Now just look at me."
"I'm just looking at you."
"Well, I've been up for hours. I'm as hungry as a Caithness
Highlander. And I've got an idea."
"I thought there was something in the wind."
"Guess."
"Guess, indeed! Goodness forbid I should try. But I say, brother,"
continued Uncle Ramsay, laughing, "couldn't you manage to fall asleep
somewhere out of doors, like the man in the story, and wake up and
find yourself a king? My stars, wouldn't we have reforms as long as
your reign lasted! The breakfast, Mary? Ah, that's the style!"
"You won't be serious and listen, I suppose, Ramsay."
"Oh, yes; I will."
"Well, the Americans----"
"The Americans again; but go on."
"The Americans, in some parts where I've been, wouldn't lose a straw
in a bad season. It is all done by means of great fanners and heated
air, you know. Now, I'm going to show these honest Northumbrian
farmers a thing or two. I----"
"I say, brother, hadn't you better trust to Providence, and wait for
a fair wind?"
"Now, Ramsay, that's where you and I differ. You're a slow Moses. I
want to move ahead a trifle in front of the times. I've been looking
all over the dictionary of my daily life, and I can't find such a
word as 'wait' in it."
"Let me give you some of this steak, brother."
"My plan of operations, Ramsay, is----"
"Why," said Mrs. Broadbent, "you haven't eaten anything yet!"
"I thought," said Uncle Ramsay, "you were as hungry as a Tipperary
Highlander, or some such animal."
"My plan, Ramsay, is----" &c. &c.
The two "&c. &c.'s" in the last line stand for all the rest of the
honest Squire's speech, which, as his sailor brother said, was as
long as the logline. But for all his hunger he made but a poor
breakfast, and immediately after he jumped up and hurried away to the
barn-yards.
It was a busy time for the next two weeks at Burley Old Farm, but, to
the Squire's credit be it said, he was pretty successful with his
strange operation of drying wheat independent of the sun. His ricks
were built, and he was happy--happy as long as he thought nothing
about the expense. But he did take an hour or two one evening to run
through accounts, as he called it. Uncle Ramsay was with him.
"Why, brother," said Ramsay, looking very serious now indeed, "you
are terribly down to leeward--awfully out of pocket!"
"Ah! never mind, Ramsay. One can't keep ahead of the times
now-a-days, you know, without spending a little."
"Spending a little! Where are your other books? Mr. Walton and I
will have a look through them to-night, if you don't mind."
"Not a bit, brother, not a bit. We're going to give a dance
to-morrow night to the servants, so if you like to bother with the
book-work I'll attend to the terpsichorean kick up."
Mr. Walton and Uncle Ramsay had a snack in the office that evening
instead of coming up to supper, and when Mrs. Broadbent looked in to
say good-night she found them both quiet and hard at work.
"I say, Walton," said Uncle Ramsay some time after, "this is serious.
Draw near the fire and let us have a talk."
"It is sad as well as serious," said Walton.
"Had you any idea of it?"
"Not the slightest. In fact I'm to blame, I think, for not seeing to
the books before. But the Squire----"
Walton hesitated.
"I know my brother well," said Ramsay. "As good a fellow as ever
lived, but as headstrong as a nor'-easter. And now he has been
spending money on machinery to the tune of some ten thousand pounds.
He has been growing crop after crop of wheat as if he lived on the
prairies and the land was new; and he has really been putting as much
down in seed, labour, and fashionable manures as he has taken off."
"Yet," said Walton, "he is no fool."
"No, not he; he is clever, too much so. But heaven send his pride,
honest though it be, does not result in a fall."
The two sat till long past twelve talking and planning, then they
opened the casement and walked out on to the lawn. It was a lovely
autumn night. The broad, round moon was high in the heavens,
fighting its way through a sky of curdling clouds which greatly
detracted from its radiance.
"Look, Walton," said the sailor, "to windward; yonder it is all blue
sky, by-and-by it will be a bright and lovely night."
"By-and-by. Yes," sighed Walton.
"But see! What is that down yonder rising white over the trees?
Smoke! Why, Walton, the barnyards are all on fire!"
Almost at the same moment Branson rushed upon the scene.
"Glad you're up, gentlemen," he gasped. "Wake the Squire. The
servants are all astir. We must save the beasts, come of everything
else what will."
The farm-steading of Burley was built in the usual square formation
round a centre straw-yard, which even in winter was always kept so
well filled that beasts might lie out all night. To the north were
the stacks, and it was here the fire originated, and unluckily the
wind blew from that direction. It was by no means high; but fire
makes its own wind, and in less than half an hour the whole yard was
ablaze and burning fiercely, while the byres, stables, and barns had
all caught. From the very first these latter had been enveloped in
dense rolling clouds of smoke, and sparks as thick as falling
snowflakes, so that to save any of the live stock seemed almost an
impossibility.
With all his mania for machinery, and for improvements of every kind
possible to apply to agriculture, it is indeed a wonder that the
Squire had not established a fire brigade on his farm. But fire was
an eventuality which he had entirely left out of his reckoning, and
now there was really no means of checking the terrible conflagration.
As soon as the alarm was given every one did what he could to save
the live stock; but the smoke was blinding, maddening, and little
could be done save taking the doors off their hinges.
Who knows what prodigies of valour were performed that night by the
humble cowmen even, in their attempts to drive the oxen and cows out,
and away to a place of safety? In some instances, when they had
nearly succeeded, the cattle blocked the doorways, or, having got out
to the straw-yard, charged madly back again, and prevented the exit
of their fellows. Thus several servants ran terrible risks to their
lives.
They were more successful in saving the horses, and this was greatly
owing to Archie's presence of mind. He had dashed madly into the
stable for his pet Scallowa. The Shetland pony had never looked more
wild before. He sniffed the danger, he snorted and reared. All at
once it occurred to Archie to mount and ride him out. No sooner had
he got on his back than he came forth like a lamb. He took him to a
field and let him free, and as he was hurrying back he met little
Peter.
"Come, Peter, come," he cried; "we can save the horses."
The two of them rushed to the stable, and horse after horse was
bridled and mounted by little Peter and ridden out.
But a fearful hitch occurred. Tell, the Squire's hunter, backed
against the stable door and closed it, thus imprisoning Archie, who
found it impossible to open the door.
The roof had already caught. The horses were screaming in terror,
and rearing wildly against the walls.
Peter rushed away to seek assistance. He met Branson, and in a word
or two told him what had happened.
Luckily axes were at hand, and sturdy volunteers speedily smashed the
door in, and poor Archie, more dead than alive, with torn clothes and
bleeding face, was dragged through.
The scene after this must be left to imagination. But the Squire
reverently and fervently thanked God when the shrieks of those
fire-imprisoned cattle were hushed in death, and nothing was to be
heard save the crackle and roar of the flames.
The fire had lit up the countryside for miles around. The moonlight
itself was bright, but within a certain radius the blazing farm cast
shadows against it.
Next morning stackyards, barnyards, farm-steading, machinery-house,
and everything pertaining to Burley Old Farm, presented but a
smouldering, blackened heap of ruins.
Squire Broadbent entertained his poor, frightened people to an early
breakfast in the servants' hall, and the most cheerful face there was
that of the Squire. Here is his little speech:
"My good folks, sit down and eat; and let us be thankful we're all
here, and that no human lives are lost. My good kinswoman Kate here
will tell you that there never yet was an ill but there might be a
worse. Let us pray the worse may never come."
CHAPTER X.
"_AFTER ALL, IT DOESN'T TAKE MUCH TO MAKE A MAN HAPPY._"
For weeks to come neither Uncle Ramsay nor Walton had the heart to
add another sorrow to the Squire's cup of misery. They knew that the
fire had but brought on a little sooner a catastrophe which was
already falling; they knew that Squire Broadbent was virtually a
ruined man.
All the machinery had been rendered useless; the most of the cattle
were dead; the stacks were gone; and yet, strange to say, the Squire
hoped on. Those horses and cattle which had been saved were housed
now in rudely-built sheds, among the fire-blackened ruins of their
former wholesome stables and byres.
One day Branson, who had always been a confidential servant, sent
Mary in to say he wished to speak to the Squire. His master came out
at once.
"Nothing else, Branson," he said. "You carry a long face, man."
"The wet weather and the cold have done their work, sir. Will you
walk down with me to the cattle-sheds?"
Arrived there, he pointed to a splendid fat ox, who stood in his
stall before his untouched turnips with hanging head and dry, parched
nose. His hot breath was visible when he threw his head now and then
uneasily round towards his loin, as if in pain. There was a visible
swelling on the rump. Branson placed a hand on it, and the Squire
could hear it "bog" and crackle.
"What is that, Branson? Has he been hurt?"
"No, sir, worse. I'll show you."
He took out his sharp hunting-knife.
"It won't hurt the poor beast," he said.
Then he cut deep into the swelling. The animal never moved. No
blood followed the incision, but the gaping wound was black, and
filled with air-bubbles.
"The quarter-ill," said the cowman, who stood mournfully by.
That ox was dead in a few hours. Another died next day, two the
next, and so on, though not in an increasing ratio; but in a month
there was hardly an animal alive about the place except the horses.
It was time now the Squire should know all, and he did. He looked a
chastened man when he came out from that interview with his brother
and Walton. But he put a right cheery face on matters when he told
his wife.
"We'll have to retrench," he said. "It'll be a struggle for a time,
but we'll get over it right enough."
Present money, however, was wanted, and raised it must be.
And now came the hardest blow the Squire had yet received. It was a
staggering one, though he met it boldly. There was then at Burley
Old Mansion a long picture gallery. It was a room in an upper story,
and extended the whole length of the house--a hall in fact, and one
that more than one Squire Broadbent had entertained his friends right
royally in. From the walls not only did portraits of ancestors bold
and gay, smile or frown down, but there hung there also many a
splendid landscape and seascape by old masters.
Most of the latter had to be sold, and the gallery was closed, for
the simple reason that Squire Broadbent, courageous though he was,
could not look upon its bare and desecrated walls without a feeling
of sorrow.
Pictures even from the drawing-room had to go also, and that room too
was closed. But the breakfast-room, which opened to the lawn and
rose gardens, where the wild birds sang so sweetly in summer, was
left intact; so was the dining-room, and that cosy, wee green parlour
in which the family delighted to assemble around the fire in the
winter's evenings.
Squire Broadbent had been always a favourite in the county--somewhat
of an upstart and iconoclast though he was--so the sympathy he
received was universal.
Iconoclast? Yes, he had delighted in shivering the humble idols of
others, and now his own were cast down. Nobody, however, deserted
him. Farmers and Squires might have said among themselves that they
always knew Broadbent was "going the pace," and that his new-fangled
American notions were poorly suited to England, but in his presence
they did all they could to cheer him.
When the ploughing time came round they gave him what is called in
the far North "a love-darg." Men with teams of horses came from
every farm for miles around and tilled his ground. They had luncheon
in a marquee, but they would not hear of stopping to dinner. They
were indeed thoughtful and kind.
The parson of the parish and the doctor were particular friends of
the Squire. They often dropped in of an evening to talk of old times
with the family by the fireside.
"I'm right glad," the doctor said one evening, "to see that you don't
lose heart, Squire."
"Bless me, sir, why should I? To be sure we're poor now, but God has
left us a deal of comfort, doctor, and, after all, it doesn't take
much to make a man happy."
* * * * * *
Boys will be boys. Yes, we all know that. But there comes a time in
the life of every right-thinking lad when another truth strikes home
to him, that boys will be men.
I rather think that the sooner a boy becomes cognisant of this fact
the better. Life is not all a dream; it must sooner or later become
a stern reality, life is not all pleasant parade and show, like a
field-day at Aldershot; no, for sooner or later pomp and panoply have
to be exchanged for camp-life and action, and bright uniforms are
either rolled in blood and dust, or come triumphant, though
tarnished, from the field of glory. Life is not all plain sailing
over sunlit seas, for by-and-by the clouds bank up, storms come on,
and the good ship has to do battle with wind and wave.
But who would have it otherwise? No one would who possesses the
slightest ray of honest ambition, or a single spark of that pride of
self which we need not blush to own.
One day, about the beginning of autumn, Rupert and Archie, and their
sister Elsie, were in the room in the tower. They sat together in a
turret chamber, Elsie gazing dreamily from the window at the
beautiful scenery spread out beneath. The woods and wilds, the
rolling hills, the silvery stream, the half-ripe grain moving in the
wind, as waves at sea move, and the silvery sunshine over al. She
was in a kind of a daydream, her fingers listlessly touching a chord
on the harp now and then. A pretty picture she looked, too, with her
bonnie brown hair, and her bonnie blue eyes, and thorough English
face, thorough English beauty. Perhaps Archie had been thinking
something of this sort as he sat there looking at her, while Rupert
half-lay in the rocking-chair, which his brother had made for him,
engrossed as usual in a book.
Whether Archie did think thus or not, certain it is that presently he
drew his chair close to his sister's, and laying one arm fondly on
her shoulder.
"What is sissie looking at?" he asked.
"Oh, Archie," she replied, "I don't think I've been looking at
anything; but I've been seeing everything and wishing!"
"Wishing, Elsie? Well, you don't look merry. What were you wishing?"
"I was wishing the old days were back again, when--when father was
rich; before the awful fire came, and the plague, and everything. It
has made us all old, I think. Wouldn't you like father was rich
again?"
"I am not certain; but wishes are not horses, you know."
"No," said Elsie; "only if it could even be always like this, and if
you and Rupert and I could be always as we are now. I think that,
poor though we are, everything just now is so pretty and so pleasant.
But you are going away to the university, and the place won't be the
same. I shall get older faster than ever then."
"Well, Elsie," said Archie, laughing, "I am so old that I am going to
make my will."
Rupert put down his book with a quiet smile.
"What are you going to leave me, old man? Scallowa?"
"No, Rupert, you're too long in the legs for Scallowa, you have no
idea what a bodkin of a boy you are growing. Scallowa I will and
bequeath to my pretty sister here, and I'll buy her a side-saddle,
and two pennyworth of carrot seed. Elsie will also have Bounder, and
you, Rupert, shall have Fuss."
"Anything else for me?"
"Don't be greedy. But I'll tell you. You shall have my tool-house,
and all my tools, and my gun besides. Well, this room is to be
sister's own, and she shall also have my fishing-rod, and the book of
flies that poor Bob Cooper made for me. Oh, don't despise them, they
are all wonders!"
"Well really, Archie," said Elsie, "you talk as earnestly as if you
actually were going to die."
"Who said I was going to die? No, I don't mean to die till I've done
much more mischief."
"Hush! Archie."
"Well, I'm hushed."
"Why do you want to make your will?"
"Oh, it isn't wanting to make my will! I am--I've done it. And the
'why' is this, I'm going away."
"To Oxford?"
"No, Elsie, not to Oxford. I've got quite enough Latin and Greek out
of Walton to last me all my life. I couldn't be a doctor; besides
father is hardly rich enough to make me one at present. I couldn't
be a doctor, and I'm not good enough to be a parson."
"Archie, how you talk."
There were tears in Elsie's eyes now.
"I can't help it. I'm going away to enter life in a new land. Uncle
Ramsay has told me all about Australia. He says the old country is
used up, and fortunes can be made in a few years on the other side of
the globe."
There was silence in the turret for long minutes; the whispering of
the wind in the elm trees beneath could be heard, the murmuring of
the river, and far away in the woods the cawing of rooks.
"Don't you cry, Elsie," said Archie. "I've been thinking about all
this for some time, and my mind is made up. I'm going, Elsie, and I
know it is for the best. You don't imagine for a single moment, do
you, that I'll forget the dear old times, and you all? No, no, no.
I'll think about you every night, and all day long, and I'll come
back rich. You don't think that I won't make my fortune, do you?
Because I mean to, and will. So there. Don't cry, Elsie."
"I'm not going to cry, Archie," said Rupert.
"Right, Rupert, you're a brick, as Branson says."
"I'm not old enough," continued Rupert, "to give you my blessing,
though I suppose Kate would give you hers; but----we'll all pray for
you."
"Well," said Archie thoughtfully, "that will help some."
"Why, you silly boy, it will help a lot."
"I wish I were as good as you, Rupert. But I'm just going to try
hard to do my best, and I feel certain I'll be all right."
"You know, Roup, how well I can play cricket, and how I often easily
bowl father out. Well, that is because I've just tried my very
hardest to become a good player; and I'm going to try my very hardest
again in another way. Oh, I shall win! I'm cocksure I shall. Come,
Elsie, dry your eyes. Here's my handkie. Don't be a little old
wife."
"You won't get killed, or anything, Archie?"
"No; I won't get killed, or eaten either."
"They do tell me," said Elsie--"that is, old Kate told me--that the
streets in Australia are all paved with gold, and that the roofs of
the houses are all solid silver."
"Well, I don't think she is quite right," said Archie, laughing.
"Anyhow, uncle says there is a fortune to be made, and I'm going to
make it. That's all."
* * * * * *
Archie went straight away down from that boy's room feeling every
inch a man, and had an interview with his father and uncle.
It is needless to relate what took place there, or to report the
conversation which the older folks had that evening in the little
green parlour. Both father and uncle looked upon Archie's request as
something only natural. For both these men, singular to say, had
been boys once themselves; and, in the Squire's own words, Archie was
a son to be proud of.
"We can't keep the lad always with us, mother," said Squire
Broadbent; "and the wide world is the best of schools. I feel
certain that, go where he will, he won't lose heart. If he does, I
should be ashamed to own him as a son. So there! My only regret is,
Ramsay, that I cannot send the lad away with a better lined pocket."
"My dear silly old brother, he will be better as he is. And I'm
really not sure that he would not be better still if he went away, as
many have gone before him, with only a stick and a bundle over his
shoulder. You have a deal too much of the Broadbent pride; and
Archie had better leave that all behind at home, or be careful to
conceal it when he gets to the land of his adoption."
The following is a brief list of Archie's stock-in-trade when he
sailed away in the good ship _Dugong_ to begin the world alone: 1. A
good stock of clothes. 2. A good stock of assurance. 3. Plenty of
hope. 4. Good health and abundance of strength. 5. A little nest
egg at an Australian bank to keep him partly independent till he
should be able to establish a footing. 6. Letters of introduction,
blessings, and a little pocket Bible.
His uncle chose his ship, and sent him away round the Cape in a good
old-fashioned sailing vessel. And his uncle went to Glasgow to see
him off, his last words being, "Keep up your heart, boy, whatever
happens; and keep calm in every difficulty. Good-bye."
Away sailed the ship, and away went Archie to see the cities that are
paved with gold, and whose houses have roofs of solid silver.
Book II.
CHAPTER I.
"_SPOKEN LIKE HIS FATHER'S SON._"
"Cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts shall bear us on our way;
Hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow,
Let us forget the dangers of to-day."
That dear old song! How many a time and oft it has helped to raise
the drooping spirits of emigrants sailing away from these loved
islands, never again to return!
The melody itself too is such a manly one. Inez dear, bring my
fiddle. Not a bit of bravado in that ringing air, bold and all
though it is. Yet every line tells of British ardour and
determination--ardour that no thoughts of home or love can cool,
determination that no danger can daunt.
"Cheer, boys, cheer." The last rays of the setting sun were lighting
up the Cornish cliffs, on which so few in that good ship would ever
again set eyes, when those around the forecastle-head took up the
song.
"Cheer, boys, cheer." Listen! Those on the quarterdeck join in the
chorus, sinking in song all difference of class and rank. And they
join, too, in that rattling "Three times three" that bids farewell to
England.
Then the crimson clouds high up in the west change to purple and
brown, the sea grows grey, and the distant shore becomes slaty blue.
Soon the stars peep out, and the passengers cease to tramp about, and
find their way below to the cosily-lighted saloon.
Archie is sitting on a sofa quite apart from all the others. The
song is still ringing in his head, and, if the whole truth must be
told, he feels just a trifle down-hearted. He cannot quite account
for this, though he tries to, and his thoughts are upon the whole
somewhat rambling. They would no doubt be quite connected if it were
not for the distracting novelty of all his present surroundings,
which are as utterly different from anything he has hitherto become
acquainted with as if he had suddenly been transported to another
planet.
No, he cannot account for being dull. Perhaps the motion of the ship
has something to do with it, though this is not a very romantic way
of putting it. Archie has plenty of moral courage; and as the ship
encountered head winds, and made a long and most difficult passage
down through the Irish Sea, he braced himself to get over his morsel
of _mal de mer_, and has succeeded.
He is quite cross with himself for permitting his mind to be tinged
with melancholy. That song ought to have set him up.
"Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?"
Oh, Archie is not weeping; catch him doing anything so girlish and
peevish! He would not cry in his cabin where he could do so without
being seen, and it is not likely he would permit moisture to appear
in his eyes in the saloon here. Yet his home never did seem to him
so delightful, so cosy, so happy, as the thoughts of it do now. Why
had he not loved it even more than he did when it was yet all around
him? The dear little green parlour, his gentle lady mother that used
to knit so quietly by the fire in the winter's evenings, listening
with pleasure to his father's daring schemes and hopeful plans. His
bonnie sister, Elsie, so proud of him--Archie; Rupert, with his pale,
classical face and gentle smile; matter-of-fact Walton; jolly old
Uncle Ramsay. They all rose up before his mind's eye as they had
been; nay but as they might be even at that very moment. And the
room in the tower, the evenings spent there in summer when daylight
was fading over the hills and woods, and the rooks flying wearily
home to their nests in the swaying elm trees; or in winter when the
fire burned brightly on the hearth, and weird old Kate sat in her
high-hacked chair, telling her strange old-world stories, with
Branson, wide-eyed, fiddle in hand, on a seat near her, and
Bounder--poor Bounder--on the bear's skin. Then the big kitchen, or
servants' hall--the servants that all loved "master Archie" so
dearly, and laughed and enjoyed every prank he used to play.
Dear old Burley! should he ever see it again? A week has not passed
since he left it, and yet it seems and feels a lifetime.
He was young a week ago; now he is old, very old--nearly a man.
Nearly? Well, nearly in years; in thoughts, and feelings, and
circumstances even--quite a man. But then he should not feel
down-hearted for this simple reason; he had left home under such
bright auspices. Many boys run away to sea. The difference between
their lot and his is indeed a wide one. Yes, that must be very sad.
No home-life to look back upon, no friends to think of or love, no
pleasant present, no hopeful future.
Then Archie, instead of letting his thoughts dwell any longer on the
past, began at once to bridge over for himself the long period of
time that must elapse ere he should return to Burley Old Farm. Of
course there would be changes. He dared say Walton would be away;
but Elsie and Rupert would still be there, and his father and mother,
looking perhaps a little older, but still as happy. And the burned
farm-steading would be restored, or if it were not, it soon should be
after he came back; for he would be rich, rolling in wealth in fact,
if half the stories he had heard of Australia were true, even
allowing that _all_ the streets were not paved with gold, and _all_
the houses not roofed with sparkling silver.
So engrossed was he with these pleasant thoughts, that he had not
observed the advent of a passenger who had entered the saloon, and
sat quietly down on a camp-stool near him. A man of about forty,
dressed in a rough pilot suit of clothes, with a rosy weather-beaten
but pleasant face, and a few grey hairs in his short black beard.
He was looking at Archie intently when their eyes met, and the boy
felt somewhat abashed. The passenger, however, did not remove his
glance instantly; he spoke instead.
"You've never been to sea before, have you?"
"No, sir; never been off the land till a week ago."
"Going to seek your fortune?"
"Yes; I'm going to make my fortune."
"Bravo! I hope you will."
"What's to hinder me?"
"Nothing; oh, nothing much! Everybody doesn't though. But you seem
to have a bit of go in you."
"Are you going to make yours?" said Archie.
The stranger laughed.
"No," he replied. "Unluckily, perhaps, mine was made for me. I've
been out before too, and I'm going again to see things."
"You're going in quest of adventure?"
"I suppose that is really it. That is how the story books put it,
anyhow. But I don't expect to meet with adventures like Sinbad the
Sailor, you know; and I don't think I would like to have a little old
man of the sea with his little old legs round my neck."
"Australia is a very wonderful place, isn't it?"
"Yes; wonderfully wonderful. Everything is upside-down there, you
know. To begin with, the people walk with their heads downwards.
Some of the trees are as tall as the moon, and at certain seasons of
the year the bark comes tumbling off them like rolls of shoeleather.
Others are shaped like bottles, others again have heads of waving
grass, and others have ferns for tops. There are trees, too, that
drop all their leaves to give the flowers a chance; and these are so
brilliantly red, and so numerous, that the forest where they grow
looks all on fire. Well, many of the animals walk or jump on two
legs, instead of running on four. Does that interest you?"
"Yes. Tell me something more about birds."
"Well, ducks are everywhere in Australia, and many kinds are as big
as geese. They seem to thrive. And ages ago, it is said by the
natives, the moles in Australia got tired of living in the dark, and
held a meeting above-ground, and determined to live a different mode
of life. So they grew longer claws, and short, broad, flat tails,
and bills like ducks, and took to the water, and have been happy ever
since.
"Well, there are black swans in abundance; and though it is two or
three years since I was out last, I cannot forget a beautiful bird,
something betwixt a pheasant and peacock, and the cock's tail is his
especial delight. It is something really to be proud of, and at a
distance looks like a beautiful lyre, strings and all. The cockatoos
swarm around the trees, and scream and laugh at the lyre-bird giving
himself airs, but I daresay this is all envy. The hen bird is not a
beauty, but her chief delight is to watch the antics and attitudes of
her lord and master as he struts about making love and fun to her
time about, at one moment singing a kind of low, sweet song, at
another mocking every sound that is heard in the forest, every noise
made by man or bird or beast. No wonder the female lyre-bird thinks
her lord the cleverest and most beautiful creature in the world!
"Then there is a daft-looking kingfisher, all head and bill, and
wondering eyes, who laughs like a jackass, and makes you laugh to
hear him laugh. So loud does he laugh at times that his voice drowns
every other sound in the forest.
"There is a bird eight feet high, partly cassowary partly ostrich,
that when attacked kicks like a horse or more like a cow, because it
kicks sideways. But if I were to sit here till our good ship reached
the Cape, I could not tell you about half the curious, beautiful, and
ridiculous creatures and things you will find in Australia if you
move much about. I do think that that country beats all creation for
the gorgeousness of its wild birds and wild flowers; and if things do
seem a bit higgledy-piggledy at first, you soon settle down to it,
and soon tire wondering at anything.
"But," continued the stranger, "with all their peculiarities, the
birds and beasts are satisfied with their get-up, and pleased with
their surroundings, although all day long in the forests the
cockatoos, and parrots, and piping crows, and lyre-birds do little
else but joke and chaff one another because they all look so comical.
"Yes, lad, Australia you will find is a country of contrarieties, and
the only wonder to me is that the rivers don't all run up-hill
instead of running down; and mind, they are sometimes broader at
their sources than they are at their ends."
"There is plenty of gold there?" asked Archie.
"Oh, yes, any amount; but----"
"But what, sir?"
"The real difficulty--in fact, the only difficulty--is the finding of
it."
"But that, I suppose, can be got over."
"Come along with me up on deck, and we'll talk matters over. It is
hot and stuffy down here; besides, they are going to lay the cloth."
Arrived at the quarter-deck, the stranger took hold of Archie's arm,
as if he had known him all his life.
"Now," he said, "my name is Vesey, generally called Captain Vesey,
because I never did anything that I know of to merit the title. I've
been in an army or two in different parts of the globe as a free
lance, you know."
"How nice!"
"Oh, delightful!" said Captain Vesey, though from the tone of his
voice Archie was doubtful as to his meaning. "Well," he added, "I
own a yacht, now waiting for me, I believe, at the Cape of Good Hope,
if she isn't sunk, or burned, or something. And your tally?"
"My what, sir?"
"Your tally, your name, and the rest of it?"
"Archie Broadbent, son of Squire Broadbent, of Burley Old Farm,
Northumberland."
"What! you a son of Charlie Broadbent? Yankee Charlie, as we used to
call him at the club. Well, well, well, wonders will never cease;
and it only shows how small the world is, after all."
"And you used to know my father, sir?"
"My dear boy, I promised myself the pleasure of calling on him at
Burley. I've only been home for two months, however; and I
heard--well, boy, I needn't mince matters--I heard your father had
been unfortunate, and had left his place, and gone nobody could tell
me whither."
"No," said Archie, laughing, "it isn't quite so bad as all that; and
it is bound to come right in the end."
"You are talking very hopefully, lad. I could trace a resemblance in
your face to someone I knew the very moment I sat down. And there is
something like the same cheerful ring in your voice there used to be
in his. You really are a chip of the old block."
"So they say." And Archie laughed again, pleased by this time.
"But, you know, lad, you are very young to be going away to seek your
fortune."
"I'll get over that, sir."
"I hope so. Of course, you won't go pottering after gold!"
"I don't know. If I thought I would find lots, I would go like a
shot."
"Well, take my advice, and don't. There, I do not want to discourage
you; but you better turn your mind to farming--to squatting."
"That wouldn't be very genteel, would it?"
"Genteel! Why, lad, if you're going to go in for genteelity, you'd
best have stayed at home."
"Well, but I have an excellent education. I can write like
copper-plate. I am a fair hand at figures, and well up in Latin and
Greek; and----"
"Ha! ha! ha!" Captain Vesey laughed aloud. "Latin and Greek, eh?
You must keep that to yourself, boy."
"And," continued Archie boldly, "I have a whole lot of capital
introductions. I'm sure to get into a good office in Sydney; and in
a few years----"
Archie stopped short, because by the light that streamed from the
skylight he could see that Captain Vesey was looking at him
half-wonderingly, but evidently amused.
"Go on," said the captain.
"Not a word more," said Archie doggedly.
"Finish your sentence, lad."
"I shan't. There!"
"Well, I'll do it for you. You'll get into a delightful office, with
mahogany writing-desks and stained glass windows, Turkey carpet and
an easy-chair. Your employer will take you out in his buggy every
Sunday to dine with him; and after a few years, as you say, he'll
make you a co-partner; and you'll end by marrying his daughter, and
live happy ever after."
"You're laughing at me, sir. I'll go down below."
"Yes, I'm laughing at you, because you're only a greenhorn; and it is
as well that I should squeeze a little of the lime-juice out of you
as anyone else. No, don't go below. Mind, I was your father's
friend."
"Yes," pouted poor Archie; "but you don't appear to be mine. You are
throwing cold water over my hopes; you are smashing my idols."
"A very pretty speech, Archie Broadbent. But mind you this--a hut on
solid ground is better far than a castle in the air. And it is
better that I should storm and capsize your cloud-castle, than that
an absolute stranger did so."
"Well, I suppose you are right. Forgive me for being cross."
"Spoken like his father's son," said Captain Vesey, grasping and
shaking the hand that Archie extended to him. "Now we know each
other. Ding! ding! ding! there goes the dinner-bell. Sit next to
me."
CHAPTER II
"_KEEP ON YOUR CAP. I WAS ONCE A POOR MAN MYSELF._"
The voyage out was a long, even tedious one; but as it has but little
bearing on the story I forbear to describe it at length.
The ship had a passenger for Madeira, parcels for Ascension and St.
Helena, and she lay in at the Cape for a whole week.
Here Captain Vesey left the vessel, bidding Archie a kind farewell,
after dining with him at the Fountain, and roaming with him all over
the charming Botanical Gardens.
"I've an idea we'll meet again," he said as he bade him adieu. "If
God spares me, I'll be sure to visit Sydney in a year or two, and I
hope to find you doing well. You'll know if my little yacht, the
_Barracouta_, comes in, and I know you'll come off and see me. I
hope to find you with as good a coat on your back as you have now."
Then the _Dugong_ sailed away again; but the time now seemed longer
to Archie than ever, for in Captain Vesey he really had lost a good
friend--a friend who was all the more valuable because he spoke the
plain, unvarnished truth; and if in doing so one or two of the young
man's cherished idols were brought tumbling down to the ground, it
was all the better for the young man. It showed those idols had feet
of clay, else a little cold water thrown over them would hardly have
had such an effect. I am sorry to say, however, that no sooner had
the captain left the ship, than Archie set about carefully collecting
the pieces of those said idols and patching them up again.
"After all," he thought to himself, "this Captain Vesey, jolly fellow
as he is, never had to struggle with fortune as I shall do; and I
don't think he has the same pluck in him that my father has, and that
people say I have. We'll see, anyhow. Other fellows have been
fortunate in a few years, why shouldn't I? 'In a few years?' Yes,
these are the very words Captain Vesey laughed at me for. 'In a few
years?' To be sure. And why not? What is the good of a fortune to
a fellow after he gets old, and all worn down with gout and
rheumatism? 'Cheer, boys, cheer;' I'm going in to win."
How slow the ship sailed now, apparently; and when it did blow it
usually blew the wrong way, and she would have to stand off and on,
or go tack and half-tack against it, like a man with one long leg and
one short. But she was becalmed more than once, and this did seem
dreadful. It put Archie in mind of a man going to sleep in the
middle of his work, which is not at all the correct thing to do.
Well, there is nothing like a sailing ship after all for teaching one
the virtue of patience; and at last Archie settled down to his sea
life. He was becoming quite a sailor--as hard as the wheel-spokes,
as brown as the binnacle. He was quite a favourite with the captain
and officers, and with all hands fore and aft. Indeed he was very
often in the forecastle or galley of an evening listening to the
men's yarns or songs, and sometimes singing a verse or two himself.
He was just beginning to think the _Dugong_ was Vanderdecken's ship,
and that she never would make port at all, when one day at dinner he
noticed that the captain was unusually cheerful.
"In four or five days more, please God," said he, "we'll be safe in
Sydney."
Archie almost wished he had not known this, for these four or five
days were the longest of any he had yet passed. He had commenced to
worship his patched-up idols again, and felt happier now, and more
full of hope and certainty of fortune than he had done during the
whole voyage.
Sometimes they sighted land. Once or twice birds flew on board--such
bright, pretty birds too they looked. And birds also went wheeling
and whirring about the ship--gulls, the like of which he had never
seen before. They were more elegant in shape and purer in colour
than ours, and their voices were clear and ringing.
Dick Whittington construed words out of the sound of the chiming
bells. Therefore it is not at all wonderful that Archie was pleased
to believe that some of these beautiful birds were screaming him a
welcome to the land of gold.
Just at or near the end of the voyage half a gale of wind blew the
ship considerably out of her course. Then the breeze went round to
fair again, the sea went down, and the birds came back; and one
afternoon a shout was heard from the foretop that made Archie's heart
jump for very joy.
"Land ho!"
That same evening, as the sun was setting behind the Blue Mountains,
leaving a gorgeous splendour of cloud-scenery that may be equalled,
but is never surpassed in any country, the _Dugong_ sailed slowly
into Sydney harbour, and cast anchor.
At last! Yes, at last. Here were the golden gates of the El Dorado
that were to lead the ambitious boy to fortune, and all the pleasures
fortune is capable of bestowing.
Archie had fancied that Sydney would prove to be a very beautiful
place; but not in his wildest imaginings had he conjured up a scene
of such surpassing loveliness as that which now lay before him, and
around him as well.
On the town itself his eye naturally first rested. There it lay,
miles upon miles of houses, towers, and steeples, spread out along
the coast, and rising inland. The mountains and hills beyond, their
rugged grandeur softened and subdued in the purple haze of the day's
dying glory; the sky above, with its shades of orange, saffron,
crimson, opal, and grey; and the rocks, to right and left in the
nearer distance, with their dreamy clouds of foliage, from which
peeped many a lordly mansion, many a fairy-like palace. He hardly
noticed the forests of masts; he was done with ships, done with
masts, for a time at least; but his inmost heart responded to the
distant hum of city life, that came gently stealing over the waters,
mingling with the chime of evening bells, and the music of the happy
sea-gulls.
Would he, could he, get on shore to-night? "No," the first officer
replied, "not before another day."
So he stood on deck, or walked about, never thinking of food--what,
is food or drink to a youth who lives on hope?--till the gloaming
shades gave place to night, till the southern stars shone over the
hills and harbour, and strings upon strings of lamps and lights were
hung everywhere across the city above and below.
* * * * * *
Now the fairy scene is changed. Archie is on shore. It is the
forenoon of another day, and the sun is warm though not uncomfortably
hot. There is so much that is bracing and invigorating in the very
air, that he longs to be doing something at once. Longs to commence
laying the foundation-stone of that temple of fortune which--let
Captain Vesey say what he likes--he, Archie Broadbent, is bent upon
building.
He has dressed himself in his very English best. His clothes are new
and creaseless, his gloves are spotless, his black silk hat
immaculate, the cambric handkerchief that peeps coyly from his
breast-pocket is whiter than the snow, his boots fit like gloves, and
shine as softly black as his hat itself, and his cane even must be
the envy of every young man he meets.
Strange to say, however, no one appears to take a very great deal of
notice of him, though, as he glances towards the shop-windows, he can
see as if in a mirror that one or two passengers have looked back and
smiled. But it couldn't surely have been at him? Impossible!
The people, however, are apparently all very active and very busy,
though cool, with a self-possession that he cannot help envying, and
which he tries to imitate without any marked degree of success.
There is an air of luxury and refinement about many of the buildings
that quite impresses the young man, but he cannot help noticing that
there is also a sort of business air about the streets which he
hardly expected to find, and which reminds him forcibly of Glasgow
and Manchester. He almost wishes it had been otherwise.
He marches on boldly enough.
Archie feels as if on a prospecting tour--prospecting for gold. Of
course he is going to make his fortune, but how is he going to begin?
That is the awkward part of the business. If he could once get in
the thin end of the wedge he would quickly drive it home.
"There is nothing like ambition
If we steer a steady course."
Of course there isn't. But staring into a china-shop window will do
him little good. I do not believe he saw anything in that window
however. Only, on turning away from it, his foot goes splash into a
pool of dirty water on the pavement, or rather on what ought to be a
pavement. That boot is ruined for the day, and this reminds him that
Sydney streets are not paved with gold, but with very unromantic
matter-of-fact mud. Happy thought! he will dine.
The waiters are very polite, but not obsequious, and he makes a
hearty meal, and feels more at home.
Shall he tip this waiter fellow? Is it the correct thing to tip
waiters? Will the waiter think him green if he does, or green if he
doesn't?
These questions, trifling though they may appear, really annoyed
Archie; but he erred on the right side, and did tip the waiter--well
too. And the waiter brightened up, and asked him if he would like to
see a playbill.
Then this reminded Archie that he might as well call on some of the
people to whom he had introductions. So he pulled out a small bundle
of letters, and he asked the waiter where this, that, and t'other
street was; and the waiter brought a map, and gave him so many hints,
that when he found himself on the street again he did not feel half
so foreign. He had something to do now, something in view. Besides
he had dined.
"Yes, he'd better drive," he said to himself, "it would look better."
He lifted a finger, and a hansom rattled along, and drew up by the
kerb. He had not expected to find cabs in Sydney. His card-case was
handy, and his first letter also.
He might have taken a 'bus or tram. There were plenty passing, and
very like Glasgow 'buses they were too; from the John with the
ribbons to the cad at the rear. But a hansom certainly looked more
aristocratic. Aristocratic? Yes. But were there any aristocrats in
Sydney? Was there any real blue blood in the place? He had not
answered those questions to his satisfaction, when the hansom stopped
so suddenly that he fell forward.
"Wait," he said to the driver haughtily.
"Certainly, sir."
Archie did not observe, however, the grimace the Jehu made to another
cabman, as he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, else he would
hardly have been pleased.
There was quite a business air about the office into which the young
man ushered himself, but no one took much notice of him. If he had
had an older face under that brand-new hat, they might have been more
struck with his appearance.
"Ahem! Aw!----" Archie began.
"One minute, sir," said the clerk nearest him. "Fives in forty
thousand? Fives in forty are eight--eight thousand."
The clerk advanced pen in mouth.
"Do you come from Jenkins's about those bills?"
"No, I come from England; and I've a letter of introduction to your
_master_." Archie brought the last word out with a bang.
"Mr. Berry isn't in. Will you leave a message?"
"No, thank you."
"As you please."
Archie was going off, when the clerk called after him, "Here is Mr.
Berry himself, sir."
A tall, brown-faced, elderly gentleman, with very white hair and
pleasant smile. He took Archie into the office, bade him be seated,
and slowly read the letter; then he approached the young man and
shook hands. The hand felt like a dead fish's tail in Archie's, and
somehow the smile had vanished.
"I'm really glad to see your father's son," he said. "Sorry though
to hear that he has had a run of bad luck. Very bad luck it must be,
too," he added, "to let you come out here."
"Indeed, sir; but I mean to make my for----that is, I want to make my
living."
"Ay, young man, living's more like it; and I wish I could help you.
There's a wave of depression over this side of our little island at
present, and I don't know that any office in town has a genteel
situation to offer you."
Archie's soul-heat sank a degree or two.
"You think, sir, that----"
"I think that you would have done better at home. It would be cruel
of me not to tell you the truth. Now I'll give you an example. We
advertised for a clerk just a week since----"
"I wish I'd been here."
"My young friend, you wouldn't have had the ghost of a chance. We
had five-and-thirty to pick and choose from, and we took the
likeliest. I'm really sorry. If anything should turn up, where
shall I communicate?"
Where should he communicate? And this was his father's best friend,
from whom the too sanguine father expected Archie would have an
invitation to dinner at once, and a general introduction to Sydney
society.
"Oh, it is no great matter about communicating, Mr. Berry; aw!--no
matter at all! I can afford to wait a bit and look round me.
I--aw!--good morning, sir."
Away stalked the young Northumbrian, like a prince of the blood.
"A chip of the old block," muttered Mr. Berry, as he resumed his desk
work. "Poor lad, he'll have to come down a peg though."
The cabby sprang towards the young nob.
"Where next, sir?"
"Grindlay's."
Archie was not more successful here, nor anywhere else.
But at the end of a week, during which time he had tried as hard as
any young man had ever tried before in Sydney or any other city to
find some genteel employment, he made a wise resolve; viz., to go
into lodgings.
He found that living in a hotel, though very cheerful, made a
terrible hole in his purse; so he brought himself "down a peg" by the
simple process of "going up" nearer the sky.
Here is the explanation of this paradox. It was Archie's custom to
spend his forenoons looking for something to do, and his evenings
walking in the suburbs.
Poor, lonely lad, that never a soul in the city cared for, any more
than if he had been a stray cat, he found it wearisome,
heart-breaking work wandering about the narrow, twisting streets and
getting civilly snubbed. He felt more of a gentleman when dining.
Afterwards his tiredness quite left him, and hope swelled his heart
once more. So out he would go and away--somewhere, anywhere; it did
not matter so long as he could see woods, and water, and houses. Oh,
such lovely suburban villas, with cool verandahs, round which
flowering creepers twined, and lawns shaded by dark green waving
banana trees, beneath which he could ofttimes hear the voices of
merry children, or the tinkle of the light guitar. He would give
reins to his fancy then, and imagine things--such sweet things!
Yes, he would own one of the biggest and most delightful of these
mansions; he should keep fleet horses, a beautiful carriage, a
boat--he must have a boat, or should it be a gondola? Yes, that
would be nicer and newer. In this boat, when the moonlight silvered
the water, he would glide over the bay, returning early to his happy
home. His bonnie sister should be there, his brother Rupert--the
student--his mother, and his hero, that honest, bluff, old father of
his. What a dear, delightful dream! No wonder he did not care to
return to the realities of his city life till long after the sun had
set over the hills, and the stars were twinkling down brighter and
lovelier far than those lights he had so admired the night his ship
arrived.
He was returning slowly one evening and was close to the city, but in
a rather lonely place, when he noticed something dark under the shade
of a tree, and heard a girl's voice say:
"Dearie me! as missus says; but ain't I jolly tired just!"
"Who is that?" said Archie.
"On'y me, sir; on'y Sarah. Don't be afear'd. I ain't a larrikin.
Help this 'ere box on my back like a good chummie."
"It's too heavy for your slight shoulders," quoth gallant Archie. "I
don't mind carrying it a bit."
"What, a gent like you! Why, sir, you're greener than they make 'em
round here!"
"I'm from England."
"Ho, ho! Well, that accounts for the milk. So 'm I from Hengland.
This way, chummie."
They hadn't far to go.
"My missus lives two story up, top of a ware'us, and I've been to the
station for that 'ere box. She do take it out o' me for all the
wage. She do."
Archie carried the box up the steep stairs, and Sarah's mistress
herself opened the door and held a candle. A thin, weary-looking
body, with whom Sarah seemed to be on the best and most friendly
terms.
"Brought my young man," said Sarah. "Ain't he a smartie? But,
heigho! so green! You never!"
"Come in a minute, sir, and rest you. Never mind this silly girl."
Archie did go in a minute; five, ten, ay fifteen, and by that time he
had not only heard all this ex-policeman's wife's story, but taken a
semi-attic belonging to her.
And he felt downright independent and happy when next day he took
possession.
For now he would have time to really look round, and it was a relief
to his mind that he would not be spending much money.
Archie could write home cheerfully now. He was sure that something
would soon turn up, something he could accept, and which would not be
derogatory to the son of a Northumbrian squire. More than one
influential member of commercial society had promised "to communicate
with him at the very earliest moment."
But, alas! weeks flew by, and weeks went into months, and no more
signs of the something were apparent than he had seen on the second
day of his arrival.
Archie was undoubtedly "a game un," as Sarah called him; but his
heart began to feel very heavy indeed.
Living as cheaply as he could, his money would go done at last. What
then? Write home for more? He shuddered to think of such a thing.
If his first friend, Captain Vesey, had only turned up now, he would
have gone and asked to be taken as a hand before the mast. But
Captain Vesey did not.
A young man cannot be long in Sydney without getting into a set.
Archie did, and who could blame him. They were not a rich set, nor a
very fast set; but they had a morsel of a club-room of their own.
They formed friendships, took strolls together, went occasionally to
the play, and often had little "adventures" about town, the
narratives of which, when retailed in the club, found ready
listeners, and of course were stretched to the fullest extent of
importance.
They really were not bad fellows, and would have done Archie a good
turn if they could. But they could not. They laughed a deal at
first at his English notions and ideas; but gradually Archie got over
his greenness, and began to settle down to colonial life, and would
have liked Sydney very much indeed if he had only had something to do.
The ex-policeman's wife was very kind to her lodger. So was Sarah;
though she took too many freedoms of speech with him, which tended to
lower his English squirearchical dignity very much. But, to do her
justice, Sarah did not mean any harm.
Only once did Archie venture to ask about the ex-policeman. "What
did he do?"
"Oh, he drinks!" said Sarah, as quietly as if drinking were a trade
of some kind. Archie asked no more.
Rummaging in a box one day, Archie found his last letter of
introduction. It had been given him by Uncle Ramsay.
"You'll find him a rough and right sort of a stick," his uncle had
said. "He was my steward, now he is a wealthy man, and can knock
down his cheque for many thousands."
Archie dressed in his best and walked right away that afternoon to
find the address.
It was one of the very villas he had often passed, in a beautiful
place close by the water-side.
What would be his reception here?
This question was soon put at rest.
He rang the bell, and was ushered into a luxuriously-furnished room;
a room that displayed more richness than taste.
A very beautiful girl--some thirteen years of age perhaps--got up
from a grand piano, and stood before him.
Archie was somewhat taken aback, but bowed as composedly as he could.
"Surely," he thought, "she cannot be the daughter of the rough and
right sort of a stick who had been steward to his uncle. He had
never seen so sweet a face, such dreamy blue eyes, or such wealth of
hair before.
"Did you want to see papa? Sit down. I'll go and find him."
"Will you take this letter to him?" said Archie.
And the girl left, letter in hand.
Ten minutes after the "rough stick" entered whistling "Sally come up."
"Hullo! hullo!" he cried, "so here we are."
There he was without doubt--a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon
orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a
cricketer's cap on the very back of his bushy head. He struck Archie
a friendly slap on the back.
"Keep on yer cap," he shouted, "I was once a poor man myself."
Archie was too surprised and indignant to speak.
"Well, well, well," said Mr. Winslow, "they do tell me wonders won't
never cease. What a whirligig of a world it is. One day I'm
cleanin' a gent's boots. Gent is a capting of a ship. Next day
gent's nephew comes to me to beg for a job. Say, young man, what'll
ye drink?"
"I didn't come to _drink_, Mr. Winslow, neither did I come to _beg_."
"Whew--ew--ew," whistled the quondam steward, "here's pride; here's a
touch o' the old country. Why, young un, I might have made you my
under-gardener."
The girl at this moment entered the room. She had heard the last
sentence.
"Papa!" she remonstrated. Then she glided out by the casement window.
Burning blushes suffused Archie's cheeks as he hurried over the lawn
soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. His hand was on the
gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. It was the girl.
"Don't be angry with poor papa," she said, almost beseechingly.
"No, no," Archie cried, hardly knowing what he did say. "What is
your name?"
"Etheldene."
"What a beautiful name! I--I will never forget it. Good-bye."
He ran home with the image of the child in his mind--on his brain.
Sarah--plain Sarah--met him at the top of the stairs. He brushed
past her.
"La! but ye does look glum," said Sarah.
Archie locked his door. He did not want to see even Sarah--homely
Sarah--that night.
CHAPTER III.
"_SOMETHING IN SOAP._"
It was a still, sultry night in November. Archie's balcony window
was wide open, and if there had been a breath of air anywhere he
would have had the benefit of it. That was one advantage of having a
room high up above the town, and there were several others. For
instance, it was quieter, more retired, and his companions did not
often take him by storm, because they objected to climb so many
stairs. Dingy, small, and dismal some might have called it, but
Archie always felt at home up in his semi-attic. It even reminded
him of his room in the dear old tower at Burley. Then his morsel of
balcony, why that was worth all the money he paid for the room
itself; and as for the view from this charming, though
non-aristocratic elevation, it was simply unsurpassed,
unsurpassable--looking far away over a rich and fertile country to
the grand old hills beyond--a landscape that, like the sea, was still
the same, but ever changing; sometimes smiling and green, sometimes
bathed in tints of purple and blue, sometimes grey as a sky o'ercast
with rain clouds. Yes, he loved it, and he would take a chair out
here on a moonlight evening and sit and think and dream.
But on this particular night sleep, usually so kind to the young man,
absolutely refused to visit his pillow. He tried to woo the goddess
on his right side, on his left, on his back; it was all in vain.
Finally, he sat bolt upright in his little truckle bed in silent
defiance.
"I don't care," he said aloud, "whether I sleep or not. What does it
matter? I've nothing to do to-morrow. Heigho!"
Nothing to do to-morrow! How sad! And he so young too. Were all
his dreams of future fortune to fade and pass away like this--nothing
to do? Why he envied the very boys who drove the mill wagons that
went lazily rolling past his place every day. They seemed happy, and
so contented; while he--why his very life--had come to be all one
continued fever.
"Nothing to do yet, sir?" It was the ordinary salutation of his
hard-working mite of a landlady when he came home to his meal in the
afternoon. "I knows by the weary way ye walks upstairs, sir, you
aren't successful yet, sir."
"Nothink to do yet, sir?" They were the usual words that the slavey
used when she dragged upstairs of an evening with his tea-things.
"Nothink to do," she would say, as she deposited the tray on the
table, and sank _sans ceremonie_ into the easy-chair. "Nothink to
do. What a 'appy life to lead! Now 'ere's me a draggin' up and down
stairs, and a carryin' of coals and a sweepin', and a dustin' and a
hanswering of the door, till, what wi' the 'eat and the dust and the
fleas, my poor little life's well-nigh worrited out o' me. Heigho!
hif I was honly back again in merrie England, catch me ever goin' to
any Australia any more. But you looks a borned gent, sir. Nothink
to do! My eye and Betty Martin, ye oughter to be 'appy, if you
ain't."
Archie got up to-night, enrobed himself in his dressing-gown, and
went and sat on his balcony. This soothed him. The stars were very
bright, and seemed very near. He did not care for other
companionship than these and his own all-too-busy thoughts. There
was hardly a sound to be heard, except now and then the hum of a
distant railway train increasing to a harsh roar as it crossed the
bridge, then becoming subdued again and muffled as it entered woods,
or went rolling over a soft and open country.
Nothing to do! But he must and would do something. Why should he
starve in a city of plenty? He had arms and hands, if he hadn't a
head. Indeed, he had begun of late to believe that his head, which
he used to think so much of, was the least important part of his
body. He caught himself feeling his forearm and his biceps. Why
this latter had got smaller and beautifully less of late. He had to
shut his fist hard to make it perceptible to touch. This was worse
and worse, he thought. He would not be able to lift a fifty-six if
he wanted to before long, or have strength enough left to wield a
stable broom if he should be obliged to go as gardener to Winslow.
"What next, I wonder?" he said to himself. "First I lose my brains,
if ever I had any, and now I have lost my biceps; the worst loss
last."
He lit his candle, and took up the newspaper. "I'll pocket my pride,
and take a porter's situation," he murmured. "Let us see now.
Hullo! what is this? 'APPRENTICE WANTED--the drug trade--splendid
opening to a pushing youngster.' Well, I am a pushing youngster.
'Premium required.' I don't care, I have a bit of money left, and
I'll pay it like a man if there is enough. Why the drug trade is
grand. Sydney drug-stores beat Glasgow's all to pieces. Druggists
and drysalters have their carriages and mansions, their town and
country houses. Hurrah! I'll be something yet!"
He blew out the candle, and jumped into bed. The gentle goddess
required no further wooing. She took him in her lap, and he went off
at once like a baby.
Rap--rap--rap--rap!
"Hullo! Yes; coming, Sarah; coming."
It was broad daylight; and when he admitted Sarah at last, with the
breakfast-tray, she told him she had been up and down fifty times,
trying to make him hear. Sarah was given to a little exaggeration at
times.
"It was all very well for a gent like he," she said, "but there was
her a-slavin' and a-toilin', and all the rest of it."
"Well, well, my dear," he cut in, "I'm awfully sorry, I assure you."
Sarah stopped right in the centre of the room, still holding the
tray, and looked at him.
"What!" she cried. "Ye ain't a-going to marry me then, young man!
What are ye my-dearing me for?"
"No, Sarah," replied Archie, laughing; "I'm not going to marry you;
but I've hopes of a good situation, and----"
"Is that all?" Sarah dumped down the tray, and tripped away singing.
Archie's interview with the advertiser was of a most satisfactory
character. He did not like the street, it was too new and out of the
way; but then it would be a beginning.
He did not like his would-be employer, but he dared say he would
improve on acquaintance. There was plenty in the shop, though the
place was dingy and dirty, and the windows small. The spiders
evidently had fine times of it here, and did not object to the smell
of drugs. He was received by Mr. Glorie himself in a little back
sanctum off the little back shop.
The premium for apprenticing Archie was rather more than the young
man could give; but this being explained to the proprietor of these
beautiful premises, and owner of all the spiders, he graciously
condescended to take half. Archie's salary--a wretched pittance--was
to commence at once after articles were signed; and Mr. Glorie
promised to give him a perfect insight into the drug business, and
make a man of him, and "something else besides," he added, nodding to
Archie in a mysterious manner.
The possessor of the strange name was a queer-looking man; there did
not appear much glory about him. He was very tall, very lanky, and
thin, his shoulders sloping downwards like a well-pointed pencil,
while his face was solemn and elongated, like your own, reader, if
you look at it in a spoon held lengthways.
The articles were signed, and Archie walked home on feathers
apparently. He went upstairs singing. His landlady ran to the door.
"Work at last?"
Archie nodded and smiled.
When Sarah came in with the dinner things she danced across the room,
bobbing her queer, old-fashioned face and crying--
"Lawk-a-daisy, diddle-um-doo,
Missus says you've got work to do!"
"Yes, Sarah, at long last, and I'm so happy."
"'Appy, indeed!" sang Sarah. "Why, ye won't be the gent no longer!"
Archie certainly had got work to do. For a time his employer kept
him in the shop. There was only one other lad, and he went home with
the physic, and what with studying hard to make himself _au fait_ in
prescribing and selling seidlitz powders and gum drops, Archie was
pretty busy.
So months flew by. Then his long-faced employer took him into the
back premises, and proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of
the something else that was to make a man of him.
"There's a fortune in it," said Mr. Glorie, pointing to a bubbling
grease-pot. "Yes, young sir, a vast fortune."
"What is the speciality?" Archie ventured to enquire.
"The speciality, young sir?" replied Mr. Glorie, his face relaxing
into something as near a smile as it would permit of. "The
speciality, sir, is SOAP. A transparent soap. A soap, young sir,
that is destined to revolutionise the world of commerce, and bring my
star to the ascendant after struggling for two long decades with the
dark clouds of adversity."
So this was the mystery. Archie was henceforward, so it appeared, to
live in an atmosphere of scented soap; his hope must centre in
bubbles. He was to assist this Mr. Glorie's star to rise to the
zenith, while his own fortune might sink to nadir. And he had paid
his premium. It was swallowed up and simmering in that ugly old
grease-pot, and except for the miserable salary he received from Mr.
Glorie he might starve.
Poor Archie! He certainly did not share his employer's enthusiasm,
and on this particular evening he did not walk home on feathers, and
when he sat down to supper his face must have appeared to Sarah quite
as long and lugubrious as Mr. Glorie's; for she raised her hands and
said:
"Lawk-a-doodle, sir! What's the matter? Have ye killed anybody?"
"Not yet," answered Archie; "but I almost feel I could."
He stuck to his work, however, like a man; but that work became more
and more allied to soap, and the front shop hardly knew him any more.
He had informed the fellows at the club-room that he was employed at
last; that he was apprenticed to the drug trade. But the soap
somehow leaked out, and more than once, when he was introduced to
some new-comer, he was styled--
"Mr. Broadbent," and "something in soap."
This used to make him bite his lips in anger.
He would not have cared half so much had he not joined this very
club, with a little flourish of trumpets, as young Broadbent, son of
Squire Broadbent, of Burley Old Castle, England.
And now he was "something in soap."
He wrote home to his sister in the bitterness of his soul, telling
her that all his visions of greatness had ended in bubbles of rainbow
hue, and that he was "something in soap." He felt sorry for having
done so as soon as the letter was posted.
He met old Winslow one day in the street, and this gentleman grasped
Archie's small aristocratic hand in his great brown bear's paw, and
congratulated him on having got on his feet at last.
"Yes," said Archie with a sneer and a laugh, "I'm 'something in
soap.'"
"And soap's a good thing I can tell you. Soap's not to be despised.
There's a fortune in soap. I had an uncle in soap. Stick to it, my
lad, and it'll stick to you."
But when a new apprentice came to the shop one day, and was installed
in the front-door drug department, while he himself was relegated to
the slums at the back, his cup of misery seemed full, and he
proceeded forthwith to tell this Mr. Glorie what he thought of him.
Mr. Glorie's face got longer and longer and longer, and he finally
brought his clenched fist down with such a bang on the counter, that
every bottle and glass in the place rang like bells.
"I'll have the law on you," he shouted.
"I don't care; I've done with you. I'm sick of you and your soap."
He really did not mean to do it; but just at that moment his foot
kicked against a huge earthenware jar full of oil, and shivered it in
pieces.
"You've broke your indenture! You--you----"
"I've broken your jar, anyhow," cried Archie.
He picked up his hat, and rushing out, ran recklessly off to his club.
He was "something in soap" no more.
He was beggared, but he was free, unless indeed Mr. Glorie should put
him in gaol.
CHAPTER IV.
_THE KING MAY COME IN THE CADGER'S WAY._
Mr. Glorie did not put his runaway apprentice in gaol. He simply
advertised for another--with a premium.
Poor Archie! His condition in life was certainly not to be envied
now. He had but very few pounds between him and actual want.
He was rich in one thing alone--pride. He would sooner starve than
write home for a penny. No, he could die in a gutter, but he could
not bear to think they should know of it at Burley Old Farm.
Long ago, in the bonnie woods around Burley, he used to wonder to
find dead birds in dark crannies of the rocks. He could understand
it now. They had crawled into the crannies to die, out of sight and
alone.
His club friends tried to rally him. They tried to cheer him up in
more ways than one. Be it whispered, they tried to make him seek
solace in gambling and in the wine-cup.
I do not think that I have held up my hero as a paragon. On the
contrary, I have but represented him as he was--a bold, determined
lad, with many and many a fault; but now I am glad to say this one
thing in his favour: he was not such a fool as to try to drown his
wits in wine, nor to seek to make money questionably by betting and
by cards.
After Archie's letter home, in which he told Elsie that he was
"something in soap," he had written another, and a more cheerful one.
It was one which cost him a good deal of trouble to write; for he
really could not get over the notion that he was telling white lies
when he spoke of "his prospects in life, and his hopes being on the
ascendant;" and as he dropped it into the receiver, he felt mean,
demoralized; and he came slowly along George Street, trying to make
himself believe that any letter was better than no letter, and that
he would hardly have been justified in telling the whole truth.
Well, at Burley Old Farm things had rather improved, simply for this
reason: Squire Broadbent had gone in heavily for retrenchment.
He had proved the truth of his own statement: "It does not take much
in this world to make a man happy." The Squire was happy when he saw
his wife and children happy. The former was always quietly cheerful,
and the latter did all they could to keep up each other's hearts.
They spent much of their spare time in the beautiful and romantic
tower-room, and in walking about the woods, the grounds, and farm;
for Rupert was well now, and was his father's right hand, not in the
rough-and-tumble dashing way that Archie would have been, but in a
thoughtful, considering way.
Mr. Walton had gone away, but Branson and old Kate were still to the
fore. The Squire could not have spared these.
I think that Rupert's religion was a very pretty thing. He had lost
none of his simple faith, his abiding trust in God's goodness, though
he had regained his health. His devotions were quite as sincere, his
thankfulness for mercies received greater even than before, and he
had the most unbounded faith in the efficacy of prayer.
So his sister and he lived in hope, and the Squire used to build
castles in the green parlour of an evening, and of course the absent
Archie was one of the kings of these castles.
After a certain number of years of retrenchment, Burley was going to
rise from its ashes hike the fabled phoenix--machinery and all. The
Squire was even yet determined to show these old-fashioned farmer
folks of Northumbria "a thing or two."
That was his ambition; and we must not blame him; for a man without
ambition of some kind is a very humble sort of a clod--a clod of very
poor clay.
But to return to Sydney.
Archie had received several rough invitations to go and visit Mr.
Winslow. He had accepted two of these, and, singular to say,
Etheldene's father was absent each time. Now, I refuse to be
misunderstood. Archie did not "manage" to call when the ex-miner was
out; but Archie was not displeased. He had taken a very great fancy
for the child, and did not hesitate to tell her that from the first
day he had met her he had loved her like his sister Elsie.
Of course Etheldene wanted to know all about Elsie, and hours were
spent in telling her about this one darling sister of his, and about
Rupert and all the grand old life at Burley.
"I should laugh," cried Archie, "if some day when you grew up, you
should find yourself in England, and fall in love with Rupert, and
marry him."
The child smiled, but looked wonderfully sad and beautiful the next
moment. She had a way like this with her. For if Etheldene had been
taken to represent any month of our English year, it would have been
April--sunshine, flowers, and showers.
But one evening Archie happened to be later out in the suburbs than
he ought to have been. The day had been hot, and the night was
delightfully cool and pleasant. He was returning home when a tall,
rough-looking, bearded man stopped him, and asked "for a light, old
chum." Archie had a match, which he handed him, and as the light
fell on the man's face, it revealed a very handsome one indeed, and
one that somehow seemed not unfamiliar to him.
Archie went on. There was the noise of singing farther down the
street, a merry band of youths who had been to a race meeting that
day, and were up to mischief.
The tall man hid under the shadow of a wall.
"They're larrikins," he said to himself, and "he's a greenhorn." He
spat in his fist, and kept his eye on the advancing figures.
Archie met them. They were arm-in-arm, five in all, and instead of
making way for him, rushed him, and down he went, his head catching
the kerb with frightful force. They at once proceeded to rifle him.
But perhaps "larrikins" had never gone to ground so quickly and so
unexpectedly before. It was the bearded man who was "having his
fling" among them, and he ended by grabbing one in each hand till a
policeman came up.
[Illustration: "Down went Archie, his head catching the kerb with
frightful force. They at once proceeded to rifle him. But larrikins
had never gone to ground so quickly before. It was the bearded man
who ended by grabbing one in each hand till a policeman came up."]
Archie remembered nothing more then.
When he became sensible he was in bed with a bandaged head, and
feeling as weak all over as a kitten. Sarah was in the room with the
landlady.
"Hush, my dear," said the latter; "you've been very ill for more than
a week. You're not to get up, nor even to speak."
Archie certainly did not feel inclined to do either. He just closed
his eyes and dozed off again, and his soul flew right away back to
Burley.
"Oh, yes; he's out of danger!" It was the doctor's voice. "He'll do
first-rate with careful nursing."
"He won't want for that, sir. Sarah here has been like a little
mother to him."
Archie dozed for days. Only, whenever he was sensible, he could
notice that Sarah was far better dressed, and far older-looking and
nicer-looking than ever she had been. And now and then the
big-bearded man came and sat by his bed, looking sometimes at him,
some times at Sarah.
One day Archie was able to sit up; he felt quite well almost, though
of course he was not really so.
"I have you to thank for helping me that night," he said.
"Ay, ay, Master Archie; but don't you know me?"
"No--no. I don't think so."
The big-bearded man took out a little case from his pocket, and
pulled therefrom a pair of horn-bound spectacles.
"Why!" cried Archie, "you're not----"
"I am, really."
"Oh, Bob Cooper, I'm pleased to see you! Tell me all your story."
"Not yet, chummie; it is too long, or rather you're too weak. Why,
you're crying!"
"It's tears of joy!"
"Well, well; I would join you, lad, but tears ain't in my line. But
somebody else will want to see you to-morrow."
"Who?"
"Just wait and see."
Archie did wait. Indeed he had to; for the doctor left express
orders that he was not to be disturbed.
The evening sun was streaming over the hills when Sarah entered next
day and gave a look towards the bed.
"I'm awake, Sarah."
"It's Bob," said Sarah, "and t'other little gent. They be both
a-comin' upstairs athout their boots."
Archie was just wondering what right Sarah had to call Bob Cooper by
his Christian name, when Bob himself came quietly in.
"Ah!" he said, as he approached the bed, "you're beginning to look
your old self already. Now who is this, think you?"
Archie extended a feeble white hand.
"Why, Whitechapel!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Wonders will never
cease!"
"Well, Johnnie, and how are ye? I told ye, ye know, that 'the king
might come in the cadger's way.'"
"Not much king about me now, Harry; but sit down. Why I've come
through such a lot since I saw you, that I begin to feel quite aged.
Well, it is just like old times seeing you. But you're not a bit
altered. No beard, or moustache, or anything, and just as
cheeky-looking as when you gave me that thrashing in the wood at
Burley. But you don't talk so Cockneyfied."
"No, Johnnie; ye see I've roughed it a bit, and learned better
English in the bush and scrub. But I say, Johnnie, I wouldn't mind
being back for a day or two at Burley. I think I could ride your
buck-jumping 'Eider-Duck' now. Ah, I won't forget that first ride,
though; I've got to rub myself yet whenever I think of it."
"But how on earth did you get here at all, the pair of you?"
"Well," said Harry, "that ain't my story 'alf so much as it is Bob's.
I reckon he better tell it."
"Oh, but I haven't the gift of the gab like you, Harry! I'm a slow
coach. I am a duffer at a story."
"Stop telling both," cried Archie. "I don't want any story about the
matter. Just a little conversational yarn; you can help each other
out, and what I don't understand, why I'll ask, that's all."
"But wait a bit," he continued. "Touch that bell, Harry. Pull hard;
it doesn't ring else. My diggins are not much account. Here comes
Sarah, singing. Bless her old soul! I'd been dead many a day if it
hadn't been for Sarah."
"Look here, Sarah."
"I'm looking nowheres else, Mister Broadbent; but mind you this, if
there's too much talking, I'm to show both these gents downstairs.
Them's the doctor's orders, and they've got to be obeyed. Now,
what's your will, sir?"
"Tea, Sarah."
"That's right. One or two words at a time and all goes easy. Tea
you shall have in the twinkling of a bedpost. Tea and etceteras."
Sarah was as good as her word. In ten minutes she had laid a little
table and spread it with good things; a big teapot, cups and saucers,
and a steaming urn.
Then off she went singing again.
Archie wondered what made her so happy, and meant to ask her when his
guests were gone.
"Now, young Squire," said Harry, "I'll be the lady; and if your tea
isn't to your taste, why just holler."
"But don't call me Squire, Harry; I left that title at home. We're
all equal here. No kings and no cadgers.
"Well, Bob, when last I saw you in old England, there was a sorrowful
face above your shoulders, and I'll never forget the way you turned
round and asked me to look after your mother's cat."
"Ah, poor mother! I wish I'd been better to her when I had her.
However, I reckon we'll meet some day up-bye yonder."
"Yes, Bob, and you jumped the fence and disappeared in the wood!
Where did you go?"
CHAPTER V.
_BOB'S STORY: WILD LIFE AT THE DIGGINGS._
"Well, it all came about like this, Archie: 'England,' I said to
myself, says I, 'ain't no place for a poor man.' Your gentry people,
most o' them anyhow, are just like dogs in the manger. The dog
couldn't eat the straw, but he wouldn't let the poor hungry cow have
a bite. Your landed proprietors are just the same; they got their
land as the dog got his manger. They took it, and though they can't
live on it all, they won't let anybody else do it."
"You're rather hard on the gentry, Bob."
"Well, maybe, Archie; but they ain't many o' them like Squire
Broadbent. Never mind, there didn't seem to be room for me in
England, and I couldn't help noticing that all the best people, and
the freest, and kindest, were men like your Uncle Ramsay, who had
been away abroad, and had gotten all their dirty little meannesses
squeezed out of them. So when I left you, after cutting that bit o'
stick, I made tracks for London. I hadn't much money, so I tramped
all the way to York, and then took train. When I got to London, why
I felt worse off than ever. Not a soul to speak to; not a face I
knew; even the bobbies looking sour when I asked them a civil
question; and starvation staring me in the face."
"Starvation, Bob?"
"Ay, Archie, and money in my pocket. Plenty o' shilling dinners;
but, lo! what was one, London shilling dinner to the like o' me?
Why, I could have bolted three! Then I thought of Harry here, and
made tracks for Whitechapel. I found the youngster--I'd known him at
Burley--and he was glad to see me again. His granny was dead, or
somebody; anyhow, he was all alone in the world. But he made me
welcome--downright happy and welcome. I'll tell you what it is,
Archie lad, Harry is a little gentleman, Cockney here or Cockney
there; and deep down below that white, thin face o' his, which three
years and over of Australian sunshine hasn't made much browner, Harry
carries a heart, look, see! that wouldn't disgrace an English Squire."
"Bravo, Bob! I like to hear you speak in that way about our friend."
"Well, that night I said to Harry, 'Isn't it hard, Harry,' I says,
'that in this free and enlightened land a man is put into gaol if he
snares a rabbit?'
"'Free and enlightened fiddlestick!' that was Harry's words. 'I tell
ye what it is, Bob,' says he, 'this country is played out. But I
knows where there are lots o' rabbits for the catching.'
"'Where's that?' I says.
"'Australia O!' says Harry.
"'Harry,' says I, 'let us pool up, and set sail for the land of
rabbits--for Australia O!'
"'Right you are,' says Harry; and we pooled up on the spot; and from
that day we haven't had more'n one purse between the two of us, have
we, Harry?"
"Only one," said Harry; "and one's enough between such old, old
chums."
"He may well say old, old chums, Archie; he may well put the two olds
to it; for it isn't so much the time we've been together, it's what
we've come through together; and shoulder to shoulder has always been
our motto. We've shared our bed, we've shared our blanket, our
damper and our water also, when there wasn't much between the two of
us.
"We got helped out by the emigration folks, and we've paid them
since, and a bit of interest thrown in for luck like; but when we
stood together in Port Jackson for the first time, the contents of
our purse wouldn't have kept us living long, I can assure you."
"'Cities aren't for the like of us, Harry,'" says I.
"'Not now,'" says Harry.
"So we joined a gang going west. There was a rush away to some place
where somebody had found gold, and Harry and I thought we might do as
well as any o' them.
"Ay, Archie, that was a rush. 'Tinklers, tailors, sodjers, sailors.'
I declare we thought ourselves the best o' the whole gang, and I
think so still.
"We were lucky enough to meet an old digger, and he told us just
exactly what to take and what to leave. One thing we _did_ take was
steamboat and train, as far as they would go, and this helped us to
leave the mob a bit in the rear.
"Well, we got high up country at long last----"
"Hold!" cried Harry. "He's missing the best of it. Is that fair,
Johnnie?"
"No, it isn't fair."
"Why, Johnnie, we hadn't got fifty miles beyond civilization when,
what with the heat and the rough food and bad water, Johnnie, my
London legs and my London heart failed me, and down I must lie. We
were near a bit of a cockatoo farmer's shanty."
"Does it pay to breed cockatoos?" said Archie innocently.
"Don't be the death o' me, Johnnie. A cockatoo farmer is just a
crofter. Well, in there Bob helped me, and I could go no farther.
How long was I ill, Bob?"
"The best part o' two months, Harry."
"Ay, Johnnie, and all that time Bob there helped the farmer--dug for
him, trenched and fenced, and all for my sake, and to keep the life
in my Cockney skin."
"Well, Harry," said Bob, "you proved your worth after we got up. You
hardened down fine after that fever."
Harry turned towards Archie.
"You mustn't believe all Bob says, Johnnie, when he speaks about me.
Bob is a good-natured, silly sort of a chap; and though he has a
beard now, he ain't got more 'n 'alf the lime-juice squeezed out of
him yet."
"Never mind, Bob," said Archie, "even limes and lemons should not be
squeezed dry. You and I are country lads, and we would rather retain
a shade of greenness than otherwise; but go on, Bob."
"Well, now," continued Bob, "I don't know that Harry's fever didn't
do us both good in the long run; for when we started at last for the
interior, we met a good lot of the rush coming back. There was no
fear of losing the tracks. That was one good thing that came o'
Harry's fever. Another was, that it kind o' tightened his
constitution. La! he could come through anything after that--get wet
to the skin and dry again; lie out under a tree or under the dews o'
heaven, and never complain of stiffness; and eat corn beef and damper
as much as you'd like to put before him; and he never seemed to tire.
As for me, you know, Archie, I'm an old bush bird. I was brought up
in the woods and wilds; and, faith, I'm never so much at home as I am
in the forests. Not but what we found the march inland wearisome
enough. Worst of it was, we had no horses, and we had to do a lot of
what you might call good honest begging; but if the squatters did
give us food going up, we were willing to work for it."
"If they'd let us, Bob."
"Which they didn't. Hospitality and religion go hand in hand with
the squatter. When I and Harry here set out on that terribly long
march, I confess to both of ye now I didn't feel at all certain as to
how anything at all would turn out. I was just as bad as the young
bear when its mother put it down and told it to walk. The bear said,
'All right, mother; but how is it done?' And as the mother only
answered by a grunt, the young bear had to do the best it could; and
so did we.
"'How is it going to end?' I often said to Harry.
"'We can't lose anything, Bob,' Harry would say, laughing, 'except
our lives, and they ain't worth much to anybody but ourselves; so I'm
thinkin' we're safe.'"
Here Bob paused a moment to stir his tea, and look thoughtfully into
the cup, as if there might be some kind of inspiration to be had from
that.
He laughed lightly as he proceeded:
"I'm a bad hand at a yarn; better wi' the gun and the 'girn,' Harry.
But I'm laughing now because I remember what droll notions I had
about what the Bush, as they call it, would be like when we got
there."
"But, Johnnie," Harry put in, "the curious thing is, that we never
did get there, according to the settlers."
"No?"
"No; because they would always say to us, 'You're going Bush way,
aren't ye, boys?' And we would answer, 'Why, ain't we there now?'
And they would laugh."
"That's true," said Bob. "The country never seemed to be Bush enough
for anybody. Soon's they settled down in a place the Bush'd be
farther west."
"Then the Bush, when one is going west," said Archie, "must be like
to-morrow, always one day ahead."
"That's it; and always keeping one day ahead. But it was Bush enough
for us almost anywhere. And though I feel ashamed like to own it
now, there was more than once that I wished I hadn't gone there at
all. But I had taken the jump, you see, and there was no going back.
Well, I used to think at first that the heat would kill us, but it
didn't. Then I made sure the want of water would. That didn't
either, because, one way or another, we always came across some. But
I'll tell you what nearly killed us, and that was the lonesomeness of
those forests. Talk of trees! La! Archie, you'd think of Jack and
the beanstalk if you saw some we saw. And why didn't the birds sing
sometimes? But no, only the constant bicker, bicker of something in
the grass. There were sounds though that did alarm us. We know now
that they were made by birds and harmless beasts, but we were all in
the dark then.
"Often and often, when we were just dropping, and thought it would be
a comfort to lie down and die, we would come out of a forest all at
once, and feel in a kind of heaven because we saw smoke, or maybe
heard the bleating o' sheep. Heaven? Indeed, Archie, it seemed to
be; for we had many a kindly welcome from the roughest-looking chaps
you could possibly imagine. And the luxury of bathing our poor feet,
with the certainty of a pair of dry, clean socks in the mornin', made
us as happy as a couple of kings. A lump of salt junk, a dab of
damper, and a bed in a corner made us feel so jolly we could hardly
go to sleep for laughing.
"But the poor beggars we met, how they did carry on to be sure about
their bad luck, and about being sold, and this, that, and t'other.
Ay, and they didn't all go back. We saw dead bodies under trees that
nobody had stopped to bury; and it was sad enough to notice that a
good many of these were women, and such pinched and ragged corpses!
It isn't nice to think back about it.
"Had anybody found gold in this rush? Yes, a few got good working
claims, but most of the others stopped till they couldn't stop any
longer, and had to get away east again, crawling, and cursing their
fate and folly.
"But I'll tell you, Archie, what ruined most o' them. Just drink.
It is funny that drink will find its way farther into the bush at
times than bread will.
"Well, coming in at the tail o' the day, like, as Harry and I did, we
could spot how matters stood at a glance, and we determined to keep
clear of bush hotels. Ah! they call them all hotels. Well, I'm a
rough un, Archie, but the scenes I've witnessed in some of those
drinking houffs has turned my stomach. Maudlin, drunken miners,
singing, and blethering, and boasting; fighting and rioting worse
than poachers, Archie, and among them--heaven help us!--poor women
folks that would melt your heart to look on.
"'Can we settle down here a bit?' I said to Harry, when we got to the
diggings.
"'We'll try our little best, old chum,' was Harry's reply.
"And we did try. It was hard even to live at first. The food, such
as it was in the new stores, was at famine price, and there was not
much to be got from the rivers and woods. But after a few months
things mended; our station grew into a kind o' working town. We had
even a graveyard, and all the worst of us got weeded out, and found a
place there.
"Harry and I got a claim after no end of prospecting that we weren't
up to. We bought our claim, and bought it cheap; and the chap we got
it from died in a week. Drink? Ay, Archie, drink. I'll never
forget, and Harry I don't think will, the last time we saw him. We
had left him in a neighbour's hut down the gully dying to all
appearance, too weak hardly to speak. We bade him 'good-bye' for the
last time as we thought, and were just sitting and talking like in
our slab-hut before turning in, and late it must have been, when the
door opened, and in came Glutz, that was his name. La! what a sight!
His face looked like the face of a skeleton with some parchment drawn
tight over it, his hollow eyes glittered like wildfire, his lips were
dry and drawn, his voice husky.
"He pointed at us with his shining fingers, and uttered a low cry
like some beast in pain; then, in a horrid whisper, he got out these
words:
"'Give me drink, drink, I'm burning.'
"I've seen many a sight, but never such a one as that, Archie. We
carried him back. Yes, we did let him have a mouthful. What
mattered it. Next day he was in a shallow grave. I suppose the
dingoes had him. They had most of those that died.
"Well, by-and-by things got better with Harry and me; our claim began
to yield, we got dust and nuggets. We said nothing to anybody. We
built a better sort of shanty, and laid out a morsel of garden, we
fished and hunted, and soon learned to live better than we'd done
before, and as we were making a bit of money we were as happy as
sandboys.
"No, we didn't keep away from the hotel--they soon got one up--it
wouldn't have done not to be free and easy. But we knew exactly what
to do when we did go there. We could spin our bits o' yarns, and
smoke our pipes, without losing our heads. Sometimes shindies got up
though, and revolvers were used freely enough, but as a rule it was
pretty quiet."
"Only once, when that Little fellow told you to 'bail up.'"
"What was that, Harry?" asked Archie.
"Nothing much," said Bob shyly.
"He caught him short round the waist, Johnnie, and smashed everything
on the counter with him, then flung him straight and clear through
the doorway. When he had finished he quietly asked what was to pay,
and Bob was a favourite after that. I reckon no one ever thought of
challenging him again."
"Where did you keep your gold?"
"We hid it in the earth in the tent. There was a black fellow came
to look after us every day. We kept him well in his place, for we
never could trust him; and it was a good thing we did, as I'm going
to tell you.
"We had been, maybe, a year and a half in the gully, and had got
together a gay bit o' swag, when our claim gave out all at once as 't
were--some shift o' the ground or lode. Had we had machinery we
might have made a round fortune, but there was no use crying about
it. We quietly determined to make tracks. We had sent some away to
Brisbane already--that we knew was safe, but we had a good bit more
to take about us. However, we wouldn't have to walk all the way
back, for though the place was half-deserted, there were horses to be
had, and farther along we'd manage to get drags.
"Two of the worst hats about the place were a man called Vance, and a
kind of broken-down surgeon of the name of Williams. They lived by
their wits, and the wonder is they hadn't been hanged long ago.
"It was about three nights before we started, and we were coming home
up the gully. The moon was shining as bright as ever I'd seen it.
The dew was falling too, and we weren't sorry when we got inside.
Our tame dingo came to meet us. He had been a pup that we found in
the bush and brought up by hand, and a more faithful fellow never
lived. We lit our fat-lamp and sat down to talk, and a good hour, or
maybe more, went by. Then we lay down, for there was lots to be done
in the morning.
"There was a little hole in the hut at one end where Wango, as we
called the wild dog, could crawl through; and just as we were dozing
off I heard a slight noise, and opened my eyes enough to see poor
Wango creeping out. We felt sure he wouldn't go far, and would rush
in and alarm us if there were the slightest danger. So in a minute
more I was sleeping as soundly as only a miner can sleep, Archie.
How long I may have slept, or how late or early it was, I couldn't
say, but I awoke all at once with a start. There was a man in the
hut. Next minute a shot was fired. I fell back, and don't remember
any more. Harry there will tell you the rest."
"It was the shot that wakened me, Archie, but I felt stupid. I
groped round for my revolver, and couldn't find it. Then, Johnnie, I
just let them have it Tom Sayers's fashion--like I did you in the
wood, if you remember."
"There were two of them?"
"Aye, Vance and the doctor. I could see their faces by the light of
their firing. They didn't aim well the first time, Johnnie, so I
settled them. I threw the doctor over my head. His nut must have
come against something hard, because it stilled him. I got the door
opened and had my other man out. Ha! ha! It strikes me, Johnnie,
that I must have wanted some exercise, for I never punished a bloke
before as I punished that Vance. He had no more strength in him than
a bandicoot by the time I was quite done with him, and looked as limp
all over and just as lively as 'alf a pound of London tripe.
"I just went to the bluff-top after that, and coo-eed for help, and
three or four right good friends were with us in as many minutes,
Johnnie.
"We thought Bob was dead, but he soon spoke up and told us he wasn't,
and didn't mean to die.
"Our chums would have lynched the ruffians that night. The black
fellow was foremost among those that wanted to. But I didn't like
that, no more did Bob. They were put in a tent, tied hand and foot,
and our black fellow made sentry over them. Next day they were all
gone. Then we knew it was a put-up job. Poor old Wango was found
with his throat cut. The black fellow had enticed him out and taken
him off, then the others had gone for us."
"But our swag was safe," said Bob, "though I lay ill for months
after. And now it was Harry's turn to nurse; and I can tell you,
Archie, that my dear old dead-and-gone mother couldn't have been
kinder to me than he was. A whole party of us took the road back
east, and many is the pleasant evening we spent around our camp-fire.
[Illustration: "A whole party of us took the road back east, and many
is the pleasant evening we spent around our camp fire."]
"We got safe to Brisbane, and we got safe here; but somehow we're a
kind o' sick of mining."
"Ever hear more of your assailants?" asked Archie.
"What, the chaps who tried to bail us up? Yes. We did hear they'd
taken to bushranging, and are likely to come to grief at that."
"Well, Bob Cooper, I think you've told your story pretty tidily, with
Harry's assistance; and I don't wonder now that you've only got one
purse between you."
"Ah!" said Bob, "it would take weeks to tell you one half of our
adventures. We may tell you some more when we're all together in the
Bush doing a bit of farming."
"All together?"
"To be sure! D'ye reckon we'll leave you here, now we've found you?
We'll have one purse between three."
"Indeed, Bob, we will not. If I go to the Bush--and now I've half a
mind to--I'll work like a New Hollander."
"Bravo! You're a chip o' the old block. Well, we can arrange that.
We'll hire you. Will that do, my proud young son of a proud old
sire?"
"Yes; you can hire me."
"Well, we'll pay so much for your hands, and so much for your head
and brains."
Archie laughed.
"And," continued Bob, "I'm sure that Sarah will do the very best for
the three of us."
"Sarah! Why, what do you mean, Bob?"
"Only this, lad: Sarah has promised to become my little wife."
The girl had just entered.
"Haven't you, Sarah?"
"Hain't I what?"
"Promised to marry me."
"Well, Mister Archie Broadbent, now I comes to think on't, I believes
I 'ave. You know, mister, you wouldn't never 'ave married me."
"No, Sarah."
"Well, and I'm perfectly sick o' toilin' up and down these stairs.
That's 'ow it is, sir."
"Well, Sarah," said Archie, "bring us some more nice tea, and I'll
forgive you for this once, but you mustn't do it any more."
It was late ere Bob and Harry went away. Archie lay back at once,
and when, a few minutes after, the ex-policeman's wife came in to see
how he was, she found him sound and fast.
Archie was back again at Burley Old Farm, that is why he smiled in
his dreams.
"So I'm going to be a hired man in the bush," he said to himself next
morning. "That's a turn in the kaleidoscope of fortune."
However, as the reader will see, it did not quite come to this with
Archie Broadbent.
CHAPTER VI.
_MINER'S MARRIAGE._
It was the cool season in Sydney. In other words, it was winter just
commencing; so, what with balmy air and beauty everywhere around, no
wonder Archie soon got well. He had the kindest treatment too, and
he had youth and hope.
He could now write home to his parents and Elsie a long, cheerful
letter without any twinge of conscience. He was going to begin work
soon in downright earnest, and get straight away from city life, and
all its allurements; he wondered, he said, it had not occurred to him
to do this before, only it was not too late to mend even yet. He
hated city life now quite as much as he had previously loved it, and
been enamoured of it.
It never rains but it pours, and on the very day after he posted his
packet to Burley he received a registered letter from his uncle. It
contained a bill of exchange for fifty pounds. Archie blushed
scarlet when he saw it.
Now had this letter and its contents been from his father, knowing
all he did of the straits at home, he would have sent the money back.
But his uncle evidently knew whom he had to deal with; for he assured
Archie in his letter that it was a loan, not a gift. He might want
it he said, and he really would be obliging him by accepting it.
He--Uncle Ramsay--knew what the world was, and so on and so forth,
and the letter ended by requesting Archie to say nothing about it to
his parents at present.
"Dear old boy," said Archie half aloud, and tears of gratitude sprang
to his eyes. "How thoughtful and kind! Well, it'll be a loan, and
I'll pray every night that God may spare him till I get home to shake
his honest brown paw, and thrust the fifty pounds back into it. No,
it would be really unkind to refuse it."
He went straight away--walking on feathers--to Bob's hotel. He found
him and Harry sitting out on the balcony drinking sherbet. He took a
seat beside them.
"I'm in clover, boys," he cried exultingly, as he handed the cash to
Bob to look at.
"So you are," said Bob, reading the figures. "Well, this is what my
old mother would call a God-send. I always said your Uncle Ramsay
was as good as they make 'em."
"It looks a lot of money to me at present," said Archie. "I'll have
all that to begin life with; for I have still a few pounds left to
pay my landlady, and to buy a blanket or two."
"Well, as to what you'll buy, Archie," said Bob Cooper, "if you don't
mind leaving that to us, we will manage all, cheaper and better than
you could; for we're old on the job."
"Oh! I will with pleasure, only----"
"I know all about that. You'll settle up. Well, we're all going to
be settlers. Eh? See the joke?"
"Bob doesn't often say funny things," said Harry; "so it must be a
fine thing to be going to get married."
"Ay, lad, and I'm going to do it properly. Worst of it is, Archie, I
don't know anybody to invite. Oh, we must have a dinner! Bother
breakfasts, and hang honeymoons. No, no; a run round Sydney will
suit Sarah better than a year o' honeymooning nonsense. Then we'll
all go off in the boat to Brisbane. That'll be a honeymoon and a
half in itself. Hurrah! Won't we all be so happy! I feel sure
Sarah's a jewel."
"How long did you know her, Bob, before you asked her the momentous
question?"
"Asked her _what_?"
"To marry you."
"Oh, only a week! La! that's long enough. I could see she was true
blue, and as soft as rain. Bless her heart! I say, Archie, who'll
we ask?"
"Well, I know a few good fellows----"
"Right. Let us have them. What's their names?"
Out came Bob's notebook, and down went a dozen names.
"That'll be ample," said Archie.
"Well," Bob acquiesced with a sigh, "I suppose it must. Now we're
going to be spliced by special license, Sarah and I. None of your
doing things by half. And Harry there is going to order the cabs and
carriages, and favours and music, and the parson, and everything
firstchop."
The idea of "ordering the parson" struck Archie as somewhat
incongruous; but Bob had his own way of saying things, and it was
evident he would have his own way in doing things too for once.
"And," continued Bob, "the ex-policeman's wife and I are going to buy
the bonnie things to-morrow. And as for the 'bobby' himself, we'll
have to send him away for the day. He is too fond of one thing, and
would spoil the splore."
Next day sure enough Bob did start off with the "bobby's" wife to buy
the bonnie things. A tall, handsome fellow Bob looked too; and the
tailor having dona his best, he was altogether a dandy. He would
persist in giving his mother, as he called her, his arm on the
street, and the appearance of the pair of them caused a good many
people to look after them and smile.
However, the "bonnie things" were bought, and it was well he had
someone to look after him, else he would have spent money uselessly
as well as freely. Only, as Bob said, "It was but one day in his
life, why shouldn't he make the best of it?"
He insisted on making his mother a present of a nice little gold
watch. No, he _wouldn't_ let her have a silver one, and it _should_
be "set with blue stones." He would have that one, and no other.
"Too expensive? No, indeed!" he cried. "Make out the bill, master,
and I'll knock down my cheque. Hurrah! one doesn't get married every
morning, and it isn't everybody who gets a girl like Sarah when he
does get spliced! So there!"
Archie had told Bob and Harry of his first dinner at the hotel, and
how kind and considerate in every way the waiter had been, and how he
had often gone back there to have a talk.
"It is there then, and nowhere else," said Bob, "we'll have our
wedding dinner."
Archie would not gainsay this; and nothing would satisfy the lucky
miner but chartering a whole flat for a week.
"That's the way we'll do it," he said; "and now look here, as long as
the week lasts, any of your friends can drop into breakfast, dinner,
or supper. We are going to do the thing proper, if we sell our best
jackets to help to pay the bill. What say, old chummie?"
"Certainly," said Harry; "and if ever I'm fool enough to get married,
I'll do the same kind o' thing."
A happy thought occurred to Archie the day before the marriage.
"How much loose cash have you, Bob?"
"I dunno," said Bob, diving his hands into both his capacious
pockets--each were big enough to hold a rabbit--and making a
wonderful rattling.
"I reckon I've enough for to-morrow. It seems deep enough."
"Well, my friend, hand over."
"What!" cried Bob, "you want me to bail up?"
"Bail up!"
"You're a downright bushranger, Archie. However, I suppose I must
obey."
Then he emptied his pockets into a pile on the table--gold, silver,
copper, all in the same heap. Archie counted and made a note of all,
put part away in a box, locked it, gave Bob back a few coins, mostly
silver, and stowed the rest in his purse.
"Now," said Archie, "be a good old boy, Bob; and if you want any more
money, just ask nicely, and perhaps you'll have it."
There was a rattling thunder-storm that night, which died away at
last far beyond the hills, and next morning broke bright, and cool,
and clear.
A more lovely marriage morning surely never yet was seen.
And in due time the carriages rolled up to the church door, horses
and men bedecked in favours, and right merry was the peal that rang
forth from St. James's.
Sarah did not make by any means an uninteresting bride. She had not
over-dressed, so that showed she possessed good taste.
As for the stalwart Northumbrian, big-bearded Bob, he really was
splendid. He was all a man, I can assure you, and bore himself as
such in spite of the fact that his black broadcloth coat was rather
wrinkly in places, and that his white kid gloves had burst at the
sides.
There was a glorious glitter of love and pride in his dark blue eyes
as he towered beside Sarah at the altar, and he made the responses in
tones that rang through all the church.
After the ceremony and vestry business Bob gave a sigh of relief, and
squeezed Sarah's hand till she blushed.
The carriage was waiting, and a pretty bit of a mob too. And before
Bob jumped in he said, "Now, Harry, for the bag."
As he spoke he gave a look of triumph towards Archie, as much as to
say, "See how I have sold you."
Harry handed him a bag of silver coins.
"Stand by, you boys, for a scramble," shouted Bob in a voice that
almost brought down the church.
"Coo--ee!"
And out flew handful after handful, here, there, and everywhere, till
the sack was empty.
When the carriages got clear away at last, there was a ringing cheer
went up from the crowd that really did everybody's heart good to hear.
Of course the bridegroom stood up and waved his hat back, and when at
last he subsided:
"Och!" he sighed, "that is the correct way to get married. I've got
all their good wishes, and they're worth their weight in gold, let
alone silver."
The carriages all headed away for the heights of North Shore, and on
to the top of the bay, from whence such a glorious panorama was
spread out before them as one seldom witnesses. The city itself was
a sight; but there were the hills, and rocks, and woods, and the
grand coast line, and last, though not least, the blue sea itself.
The breakfast was _al fresco_. It really was a luncheon, and it
would have done credit to the wedding of a Highland laird or lord,
let alone a miner and quondam poacher. But Australia is a queer
place. Bob's money at all events had been honestly come by, and
everybody hailed him king of the day. He knew he was king, and
simply did as he pleased. Here is one example of his abounding
liberality. Before starting back for town that day he turned to
Archie, as a prince might turn:
"Archie, chummie," he said.
"You see those boys?"
"Yes."
"Well, they all look cheeky."
"Very much so, Bob."
"And I dearly love a cheeky boy. Scatter a handful of coins among
them, and see that there be one or two yellow ones in the lot."
"What nonsense!" cried Archie; "what extravagant folly, Bob!"
"All right," said Bob quietly. "I've no money, but----" He pulled
out his splendid gold hunter.
"What are you going to do?"
"Why, let them scramble for the watch."
"No, no, Bob; I'll throw the coins."
"You have to," said Bob, sitting down, laughing.
The dinner, and the dance afterwards, were completely successful.
There was no over-crowding, and no stuckupness, as Bob called it.
Everybody did what he pleased, and all were as happy and jolly as the
night was long.
Bob did not go away on any particular honeymoon. He told Sarah they
would have their honeymoon out when they went to the Bush.
Meanwhile, day after day, for a week, the miner bridegroom kept open
house for Archie's friends; and every morning some delightful trip
was arranged, which, faithfully carried out, brought everyone hungry
and happy back to dinner.
There is more beauty of scenery to be seen around Sydney in winter
than would take volumes to describe by pen, and acres of canvas to
depict; and, after all, both author and artist would have to admit
that they had not done justice to their subject.
Now that he had really found friends--humble though they might be
considered in England--life to Archie, which before his accident was
very grey and hopeless, became bright and clear again. He had a
present, and he believed he had a future. He saw new beauties
everywhere around him, even in the city; and the people themselves,
who in his lonely days seemed to him so grasping, grim, and
heartless, began to look pleasant in his eyes. This only proves that
we have happiness within our reach if we only let it come to us, and
it never will while we sit and sulk, or walk around and growl.
Bob, with his young wife and Archie and Harry, made many a pilgrimage
all round the city, and up and through the sternly rugged and grand
scenery among the Blue Mountains. Nor was it all wild and stern, for
valleys were visited, whose beauty far excelled anything else Archie
had ever seen on earth, or could have dreamt of even. Sky, wood,
hill, water, and wild flowers all combined to form scenes of
loveliness that were entrancing at this sweet season of the year.
Twenty times a day at least Archie was heard saying to himself, "Oh,
how I wish sister and Rupert were here!"
Then there were delightful afternoons spent in rowing about the bay.
I really think Bob was taking the proper way to enjoy himself after
all. He had made up his mind to spend a certain sum of money on
seeing all that was worth seeing, and he set himself to do so in a
thoroughly business way. Well, if a person has got to do nothing,
the best plan is to do it pleasantly.
So he would hire one of the biggest, broadest-beamed boats he could
find, with two men to row. They would land here and there in the
course of the afternoon, and towards sunset get well out into the
centre of the bay. This was the time for enjoyment. The lovely
chain of houses, the woods, and mansions half hid in a cloudland of
soft greens and hazy blues; the far-off hills, the red setting sun,
the painted sky, and the water itself casting reflections of all
above.
Then slowly homewards, the chains of lights springing up here, there,
and everywhere as the gloaming began to deepen into night.
If seeing and enjoying such scenes as these with a contented mind, a
good appetite, and the certainty of an excellent dinner on their
return, did not constitute genuine happiness, then I do not know from
personal experience what that feeling is.
But the time flew by. Preparations had to be made to leave this
fascinating city, and one day Archie proposed that Bob and he should
visit Winslow in his suburban villa.
CHAPTER VII.
_MR. WINSLOW IN A DIFFERENT LIGHT._
"You'll find him a rough stick," said Archie.
"What, rougher than me or Harry?" said Bob.
"Well, as you've put the question I'll answer you pat. I don't
consider either you or Harry particularly rough. If you're rough
you're right, Bob, and it is really wonderful what a difference
mixing with the world has done for both of you; and if you knew a
little more of the rudiments of English grammar, you would pass at a
pinch."
"Thank ye," said Bob.
"You've got a bit of the bur-r-r of Northumbria in your brogue, but I
do believe people like it, and Harry isn't half the Cockney he used
to be. But, Bob, this man--I wish I could say gentleman--Winslow
never was, and never could be, anything but a shell-back. He puts me
in mind of the warty old lobsters one sees crawling in and out among
the rocks away down at the point yonder.
"But, oh!" added Archie, "what a little angel the daughter is! Of
course she is only a baby. And what a lovely name--Etheldene! Isn't
it sweet, Bob?"
"I don't know about the sweetness; there is a good mouthful of it,
anyhow."
"Off you go, Bob, and dress. Have you darned those holes in your
gloves?"
"No; bought a new pair."
"Just like your extravagance. Be off!"
Bob Cooper took extra pains with his dressing to-day, and when he
appeared at last before his little wife Sarah, she turned him round
and round and round three times, partly for luck, and partly to look
at him with genuine pride up and down.
"My eye," she said at last, "you does look stunning! Not a pin in
sight, nor a string sticking out anywheres. You're going to see a
young lady, I suppose; but Sarah ain't jealous of her little man.
She likes to see him admired."
"Yes," said Bob, laughing; "you've hit the nail straight on the head;
I am going to see a young lady. She is fourteen year old, I think.
But bless your little bobbing bit o' a heart, lass, it isn't for her
I'm dressed. No; I'm going with t' young Squire. He may be all the
same as us out here, and lets me call him Archie. But what are they
out here, after all? Why, only a set o' whitewashed heathens. No, I
must dress for the company I'm in."
"And the very young lady?----"
"Is a Miss Winslow. I think t' young Squire is kind o' gone on her,
though she is only a baby. Well, good-bye, lass."
"Good-bye, little man."
Etheldene ran with smiles and outstretched arms to meet Archie, but
drew back when she noticed the immense bearded stranger.
"It's only Bob," said Archie. "Is your father in?"
"Yes, and we're all going to have tea out here under the trees."
The "all" was not a very large number; only Etheldene's governess and
father, herself, and a girl playmate.
Poor Etheldene's mother had died in the Bush when she was little more
than a baby. The rough life had hardly suited her. And this child
had been such a little bushranger from her earliest days that her
present appearance, her extreme beauty and gentleness, made another
of those wonderful puzzles for which Australia is notorious.
Probably Etheldene knew more about the blacks, with their strange
customs and manners, their curious rites and superstitions, and more
about the home life of wallabies, kangaroos, dingoes, birds, insects,
and every thing that grew wild, than many a professed naturalist; but
she had her own names, or names given by blacks, to the trees and to
the wild flowers.
While Etheldene, somewhat timidly it must be confessed, was leading
big Bob round the gardens and lawns by the hand as if he were a kind
of exaggerated schoolboy, and showing him all her pets--animate and
inanimate--her ferns and flowers and birds, Winslow himself came upon
the scene with the _Morning Herald_ in his hand. He was dressed--if
dressing it could be called--in the same careless manner Archie had
last seen him. It must be confessed, however, that this
semi-negligent style seemed to suit him. Archie wondered if ever he
had worn a necktie in his life, and how he would look in a dress
suit. He lounged up with careless ease, and stuck out his great
spade of a hand.
Archie remembered he was Etheldene's father, and shook it.
"Well, youngster, how are you? Bobbish, eh? Ah, I see Ethie has got
in tow with a new chum. Your friend? Is he now? Well, that's the
sort of man I like. He's bound to do well in this country. You
ain't a bad sort yourself, lad; but nothing to that, no more than a
young turkey is to an emu. Well, sit down."
Mr. Winslow flung himself on the grass. It might be rather damp, but
he dared not trust his weight and bulk on a lawn-chair.
"So your friend's going to the Bush, and going to take you with him,
eh?"
Archie's proud soul rebelled against this way of talking, but he said
nothing. It was evident that Mr. Winslow looked upon him as a boy.
"Well, I hope you'll do right both of you. What prospects have you?"
Archie told him how high his hopes were, and how exalted his notions.
"Them's your sentiments, eh? Then my advice is this: Pitch 'em all
overboard--the whole jing-bang of them. Your high-flown notions sink
you English greenhorns. Now, when I all but offered you a position
under me----"
"Under your gardener," said Archie, smiling.
"Well, it's all the same. I didn't mean to insult your father's son.
I wanted to know if you had the grit and the go in you."
"I think I've both, sir. Father--Squire Broadbent----"
"Squire Fiddlestick!"
"Sir!"
"Go on, lad, never mind me. Your father----"
"My father brought me up to work."
"Tossing hay, I suppose, raking flower-beds and such. Well, you'll
find all this different in Australian Bush life; it is sink or swim
there."
"Well, I'm going to swim."
"Bravo, boy!"
"And now, sir, do you mean to tell me that brains go for nothing in
this land of contrariety?"
"No," cried Winslow, "no, lad. Goodness forbid I should give you
that impression. If I had only the gift of the gab, and were a good
writer, I'd send stuff to this paper" (here he struck the sheet that
lay on the grass) "that would show men how I felt, and I'd be a
member of the legislature in a year's time. But this is what I say,
lad, _Brains without legs and arms, and a healthy stomach, are no
good here_, or very little. We want the two combined; but if either
are to be left out, why leave out the brains. There is many an
English youth of gentle birth and good education that would make
wealth and honour too in this new land of ours, if he could pocket
his pride, don a workman's jacket, and put his shoulder to the wheel.
That's it, d' ye see?"
"I think I do."
"That's right. Now tell me about your uncle. Dear old man! We
never had a cross word all the time I sailed with him."
Archie did tell him all, everything, and even gave him his last
letter to read.
By-and-by Etheldene came back, still leading her exaggerated
schoolboy.
"Sit down, Mr. Cooper, on the grass. That's the style."
"Well," cried Archie, laughing, "if everybody is going to squat on
the grass, so shall I."
Even Etheldene laughed at this; and when the governess came, and
servants with the tea, they found a very happy family indeed.
After due introductions, Winslow continued talking to Bob.
"That's it, you see, Mr. Cooper; and I'm right glad you've come to me
for advice. What I don't know about settling in Bushland isn't worth
knowing, though I say it myself. There are plenty long-headed
fellows that have risen to riches very quickly, but I believe, lad,
the same men would have made money in their own country. They are
the geniuses of finance; fellows with four eyes in their head, and
that can look two ways at once. But they are the exception, and the
ordinary man needn't expect such luck, because he won't get it.
"Now there's yourself, Mr. Cooper, and your friend that I haven't
seen; you've made a lucky dive at the fields, and you're tired of
gold-digging. I don't blame you. You want to turn farmer in
earnest. On a small scale you are a capitalist. Well, mind, you're
going to play a game, in which the very first movement may settle you
for good or evil.
"Go to Brisbane. Don't believe the chaps here. Go straight away up,
and take time a bit, and look round. Don't buy a pig in a poke.
Hundreds do. There's a lot of people whose interest is to sell A1
claims, and a shoal of greenhorns with capital who want to buy. Now
listen. Maybe not one of these have any experience. They see
speculation in each other's eyes; and if one makes a grab, the other
will try to be before him, and very likely the one that lays hold is
hoisted. Let me put it in another way. Hang a hook, with a nice
piece of pork on it, overboard where there are sharks. Everyone
would like the pork, but everyone is shy and suspicious. Suddenly a
shark, with more speculation in his eye than the others, prepares for
a rush, and rather than he shall have it all the rest do just the
same, and the lucky one gets hoisted. It's that way with catching
capitalists. So I say again, Look before you leap. Don't run after
bargains. They may be good, but---- This young fellow here has some
knowledge of English farming. Well, that is good in its way, very
good; and he has plenty of muscle, and is willing to work, that is
better. If he were all alone, I'd tell him to go away to the Bush
and shear sheep, build fences, and drive cattle for eighteen months,
and keep his eyes wide open, and his ears too, and he'd get some
insight into business. As it is, you're all going together, and
you'll all have a look at things. You'll see what sort of stock the
country is suited for--sheep, or cattle, or both; if it is exposed,
or wet, or day, or forest, or all together. And you'll find out if
it be healthy for men and stock, and not 'sour' for either; and also
you'll consider what markets are open to you. For there'd be small
use in rearing stock you couldn't sell. See?"
"Yes," said Bob; "I see a lot of difficulties in the way I hadn't
thought of."
"Go warily then, and the difficulties will vanish. I think I'll go
with you to Brisbane," added Winslow, after a pause. "I'm getting
sick already of civilized life."
Etheldene threw her arms round her father's neck.
"Well, birdie, what is it? 'Fraid I go and leave you too long?"
"You mustn't leave me at all, father. I'm sometimes sick of
civilized life. I'm going with you wherever you go."
That same evening after dinner, while Etheldene was away somewhere
with her new friend--showing him, I think, how to throw the
boomerang--Winslow and Archie sat out in the verandah looking at the
stars while they sipped their coffee.
Winslow had been silent for a time, suddenly he spoke.
"I'm going to ask you a strange question, youngster," he said.
"Well, sir?" said Archie.
"Suppose I were in a difficulty, from what you have seen of me would
you help me out if you could?"
"You needn't ask, sir," said Archie. "My uncle's friend."
"Well, a fifty-pound note would do it."
Archie had his uncle's draft still with him. He never said a word
till he had handed it to Winslow, and till this eccentric individual
had crumpled it up, and thrust it unceremoniously, and with only a
grunt of thanks, into one of his capacious pockets.
"But," said Archie, "I would rather you would not look upon it as a
loan. In fact, I am doubting the evidence of my senses. You--with
all the show of wealth I see around me--to be in temporary need of a
poor, paltry fifty pounds! Verily, sir, this is the land of
contrarieties."
Winslow simply laughed.
"You have a lot to learn yet," he said, "my young friend; but I
admire your courage, and your generous-heartedness, though not your
business habits."
Archie and Bob paid many a visit to Wistaria Grove--the name of
Winslow's place--during the three weeks previous to the start from
Sydney.
One day, when alone with Archie, Winslow thrust an envelope into his
hands.
"That's your fifty pounds," he said. "Why, count it, lad; don't stow
it away like that. It ain't business."
"Why," said Archie, "here are three hundred pounds, not fifty pounds!"
"It's all yours, lad, every penny; and if you don't put it up I'll
put it in the fire."
"But explain."
"Yes, nothing more easy. You mustn't be angry. No? Well, then, I
knew, from all accounts, you were a chip o' the old block, and there
was no use offending your silly pride by offering to lend you money
to buy a morsel of claim, so I simply borrowed yours and put it out
for you."
"Put it out for me?"
"Yes, that's it; and the money is honestly increased. Bless your
innocence! I could double it in a week. It is making the first
thousand pounds that is the difficulty in this country of
contrarieties, as you call it."
When Archie told Bob the story that evening, Bob's answer was:
"Well, lad, I knew Winslow was a good-hearted fellow the very first
day I saw him. Never you judge a man by his clothes, Archie."
"First impressions certainly are deceiving," said Archie; "and I'm
learning something new every day of my life."
* * * * * *
"I am going round to Melbourne for a week or two, boys," said Winslow
one day. "Which of you will come with me?"
"I'll stop here," said Bob, "and stick to business. You had better
go, Archie."
"I would like to, if--if I could afford it."
"Now, just look here, young man, you stick that eternal English pride
of yours in your pocket. I ask you to come with me as a guest, and
if you refuse I'll throw you overboard. And if, during our journey,
I catch you taking your pride, or your purse either, out of your
pocket, I'll never speak another word to you as long as I live."
"All right," said Archie, laughing; "that settles it. Is Etheldene
going too?"
"Yes, the child is going. She won't stay away from her old dad. She
hasn't a mother, poor thing."
Regarding Archie's visit to Victoria, we must let him speak himself
another time; for the scene of our story must now shift.
Book III.
CHAPTER I.
"_IN THIS NEW LAND OF OURS._"
There was something in the glorious lonesomeness of Bush-life that
accorded most completely with Archie's notions of true happiness and
independence. His life now, and the lives of all the three, would be
simply what they chose to make them. To use the figurative language
of the New Testament, they had "taken hold of the plough," and they
certainly had no intention of "looking back."
Archie felt (this too is figurative) as the mariner may be supposed
to feel just leaving his native shore to sail away over the broad,
the boundless ocean to far-off lands. His hand is on the tiller; the
shore is receding; his eye is aloft, where the sails are bellying out
before the wind. There is hardly a sound, save the creaking of the
blocks, or rattle of the rudder chains, the joyous ripple of the
water, and the screaming of the sea-birds, that seem, to sing their
farewells. Away ahead is the blue horizon and the heaving sea, but
he has faith in his good barque, and faith in his own skill and
judgment, and for the time being he is a Viking; he is "monarch of
all he surveys."
"Monarch of all he surveys?" Yes; these words are borrowed from the
poem on Robinson Crusoe, you remember; that stirring story that so
appeals to the heart of every genuine boy.
There was something of the Robinson Crusoe element in Archie's
present mode of living, for he and his friends had to rough it in the
same delightfully primitive fashion. They had to know and to
practise a little of almost every trade under the sun; and while life
to the boy--he was really little more--was very real and very
earnest, it felt all the time like playing at being a man.
But how am I to account for the happiness--nay, even joyfulness--that
appeared to be infused in the young man's very blood and soul? Nay,
not appeared to be only, but that actually was--a joyfulness whose
effects could at times be actually felt in his very frame and muscle
like a proud thrill, that made his steps and tread elastic, and
caused him to gaily sing to himself as he went about at his work.
May I try to explain this by a little homely experiment, which you
yourself may also perform? See, here then I have a small disc of
zinc, no larger than a coat button, and I have also a shilling-piece.
I place the former on my tongue, and the latter between my lower lip
and gum, and lo! the moment I permit the two metallic edges to touch
I feel a tingling thrill, and if my eyes be shut I perceive a flash
as well. It is electricity pissing through the bodily medium--my
tongue. The one coin becomes _en rapport_, so to speak, with the
other. So in like manner was Archie's soul within him _en rapport_
with all the light, the life, the love he saw around him, his body
being but the wholesome, healthy, solid medium.
_En rapport_ with the light. Why, by day this was everywhere--in the
sky during its mid-day blue brightness; in the clouds so gorgeously
painted that lay over the hills at early morning, or over the wooded
horizon near eventide. _En rapport_ with the light dancing and
shimmering in the pool down yonder; playing among the wild flowers
that grew everywhere in wanton luxuriance; flickering through the
tree-tops, despite the trailing creepers; gleaming through the tender
greens of fern fronds in cool places; sporting with the strange
fantastic, but brightly-coloured orchids; turning greys to white, and
browns to bronze; warming, wooing, beautifying all things--the light,
the lovely light. _En rapport_ with the life. Ay, there it was.
Where was it not? In the air, where myriads of insects dance and
buzz and sing and poise hawk-like above flowers, as if inhaling their
sweetness, or dart hither and thither in their zigzag course, and
almost with the speed of lightning; where monster beetles go droning
lazily round, as if uncertain where to alight; where moths, like
painted fans, hover in the sunshine, or fold their wings and go to
sleep on flower-tops. In the forests, where birds, like animated
blossoms, living chips of dazzling colours, hop from boughs, climb
stems, run along silvery bark on trees, hopping, jumping, tapping,
talking, chattering, screaming, with bills that move and throats that
heave even when their voices cannot be heard in the feathered babel.
Life on the ground, where thousands of busy beetles creep, or play
hide-and-seek among the stems of tall grass, and where ants
innumerable go in search of what they somehow never seem to find.
Life on the water slowly sailing round, or in and out among the
reeds, in the form of bonnie velvet ducks and pretty spangled teal.
Life in the water, where shoals of fish dart hither and thither, or
rest for a moment in shallows to bask in the sun, their bodies all
a-quiver with enjoyment. Life in the sky itself, high up. Behold
that splendid flock of wonga-wonga pigeons, with bronzen wings, that
seem to shake the sunshine off them in showers of silver and gold,
or, lower down, that mob of snowy-breasted cockatoos, going somewhere
to do something, no doubt, and making a dreadful din about it, but
quite a sight, if only from the glints of lily and rose that appear
in the white of their outstretched wings and tails. Life everywhere.
_En rapport_ with all the love around him. Yes, for it is spring
here, though the autumn tints are on the trees in groves and woods at
Burley. Deep down in the forest yonder, if you could penetrate
without your clothes being torn from your back, you might listen to
the soft murmur of the doves that stand by their nests in the green
gloom of fig trees; you would linger long to note the love passages
taking place among the cosy wee, bright, and bonnie parrakeets; you
would observe the hawk flying silently, sullenly, home to his castle
in the inaccessible heights of the gum trees, but you would go
quickly past the forest dens of lively cockatoos. For everywhere it
is spring with birds and beasts. They have dressed in their gayest;
they have assumed their fondest notes and cries; they live and
breathe and buzz in an atmosphere of happiness and love.
Well, it was spring with Nature, and it was spring in Archie's heart.
Work was a pleasure to him.
That last sentence really deserves a line to itself. Without the
ghost of an intention to moralise, I must be permitted to say, that
the youth who finds an undoubted pleasure in working is sure to get
on in Australia. There is that in the clear, pure, dry air of the
back Bush which renders inactivity an impossibility to anyone except
ne'er-do-wells and born idiots. This is putting it strongly, but it
is also putting it truthfully.
Archie felt he had done with Sydney, for a time at all events, when
he left. He was not sorry to shake the dust of the city from his
half-wellingtons as he embarked on the _Canny Scotia_, bound for
Brisbane.
If the Winslows had not been among the passengers he certainly would
have given vent to a sigh or two.
All for the sake of sweet little Etheldene? Yes, for her sake. Was
she not going to be Rupert's wife, and his own second sister? Oh, he
had it all nicely arranged, all cut and dry, I can assure you!
Here is a funny thing, but it is also a fact. The very day that the
_Canny Scotia_ was to sail, Archie took Harry with him, and the two
started through the city, and bore up for the shop of Mr. Glorie.
They entered. It was like entering a gloomy vault. Nothing was
altered. There stood the rows on rows of dusty bottles, with their
dingy gilt labels; the dusty mahogany drawers; the morsel of
railinged desk with its curtain of dirty red; there were the murky
windows with their bottles of crusted yellows and reds; and up there
the identical spider still working away at his dismal web, still
living in hopes apparently of some day being able to catch a fly.
The melancholy-looking new apprentice, who had doubtless paid the new
premium, a long lantern-jawed lad with great eyes in hollow sockets,
and a blue-grey face, stood looking at the pair of them.
"Where is your master, Mr.----?"
"Mr. Myers, sir. Myers is my name."
"Where is Mr. Glorie, Mr. Myers?"
"D' ye wish to see 'm, sir?"
"Don't it seem like it?" cried Harry, who for the life of him "could
not help putting his oar in."
"Master's at the back, among--the soap."
He droned out the last words in such a lugubrious tone that Archie
felt sorry for him.
Just then, thinking perhaps he scented a customer, Mr. Glorie himself
entered, all apron from the jaws to the knees.
"Ah! Mr. Glorie," cried Archie. "I really couldn't leave Sydney
without saying ta-ta, and expressing iny sorrow for breaking----"
"Your indenture, young sir?"
"No; I'm glad I broke that. I mean the oil-jar. Here is a sovereign
towards it, and I hope there's no bad feeling."
"Oh, no, not in the least, and thank you, sir, kindly!"
"Well, good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Myers. If ever I return from the
Bush I'll come back and see you."
And away they went, and away went Archie's feeling; of gloom as soon
as he got to the sunny side of the street.
"I say," said Harry, "that's a lively coon behind the counter. Looks
to me like a love-sick bandicoot, or a consumptive kangaroo. But
don't you know there is such a thing as being too honest? Now that
old death-and-glory chap robbed you, and had it been me, and I'd
called again, it would have been to kick him. But you're still the
old Johnnie."
* * * * * *
Now if I were writing all this tale from imagination, instead of
sketching the life and struggles of a real live laddie, I should have
ascended into the realms of romance, and made a kind of hero of him
thus: he should have gone straight away to the bank when he received
that £50 from his uncle, and sent it back, and then gone off to the
bush with twopence halfpenny in his pocket, engaged himself to a
squatter as under-man, and worked his way right up to the pinnacle of
fortune.
But Archie had not done that; and between you and me and the
binnacle, not to let it go any further, I think he did an extremely
sensible thing in sticking to the money.
Oh, but plenty of young men who do not have uncles to send them
fifty-pound notes to help them over their first failures, do very
well without such assistance! So let no intending emigrant be
disheartened.
Again, as to Winslow's wild way of borrowing said £50, and changing
it into £300, that was another "fluke," and a sort of thing that
might never happen again in a hundred years.
Pride did come in again, however, with a jump--with a gay
Northumbrian bound--when Bob and Harry seriously proposed that
Johnnie, as the latter still called him, should put his money in the
pool, and share and share alike with them.
"No, no, no," said the young Squire, "don't rile me; that would be so
obviously unfair to you, that it would be unfair to myself."
When asked to explain this seeming paradox, he added:
"Because it would rob me of my feeling of independence."
So the matter ended.
But through the long-headed kindness and business tact of Winslow,
all three succeeded in getting farms that adjoined, though Archie's
was but a patch compared to the united great farms of his chums, that
stretched to a goodly two thousand acres and more, with land beyond
to take up as pasture.
But then there was stock to buy, and tools, and all kinds of things,
to say nothing of men's and boys' wages to be paid, and arms and
ammunition to help to fill the larder.
At this time the railway did not go sweeping away so far west as it
does now, the colony being very much younger, and considerably
rougher; and the farms lay on the edge of the Darling Downs.
This was a great advantage, as it gave them the run of the markets
without having to pay nearly as much in transit and freight as the
stock was worth.
They had another advantage in their selection--thanks once more to
Winslow--they had Bush still farther to the west of them. Not
adjacent, to be sure, but near enough to make a shift of stock to
grass lands, that could be had for an old song, as the saying is.
The selection was procured under better conditions than I believe it
is to be had to-day; for the rent was only about ninepence an acre,
and that for twenty years, the whole payable at any time in order to
obtain complete possession.*
* At present agricultural farms may be selected of not more than 1280
acres, and the rent is fixed by the Land Board, not being less than
threepence per acre per annum. A license is issued to the selector,
who must, within five years, fence in the land or make permanent
improvements of a value equal to the cost of the fence, and must also
live on the selection. If at the end of that time he can prove that
he has performed the above conditions, he will be entitled to a
transferable lease for fifty years. The rent for the first ten years
will be the amount as at first fixed, and the rent for every
subsequent period of five years will be determined by the Land Board,
but the greatest increase that can be made at any re-assessment is
fifty per cent.
It must not be imagined that this new home of theirs was a land
flowing with milk and honey, or that they had nothing earthly to do
but till the ground, sow seed, and live happy ever after. Indeed the
work to be performed was all earthly, and the milk and honey had all
to come.
A deal of the very best land in Australia is covered with woods and
forests, and clearing has to be done.
Bob wished his busy little body of a wife to stay behind in Brisbane
till he had some kind of a decent crib, as he called it, ready to
invite her to.
But Sarah said, "No! Where you go I go. Your crib shall be my crib,
Bob, and I shall bake the damper." This was not very poetical
language, but there was a good deal of sound sense about Sarah, even
if there was but little poetry.
Well, it did seem at first a disheartening kind of wilderness they
had come to, but the site for the homesteads had been previously
selected, and after a night's rest in their rude tents and waggons,
work was commenced. Right joyfully too.
"Down with, them! Down
With the lords of the forests."
This was the song of our pioneers. Men shouted and talked, and
laughed and joked, saws rasped and axes rang, and all the while duty
went merrily on. Birds and beasts, never disturbed before in the
solitude of their homes, except by wandering blacks, crowded
round--only keeping a safe distance away--and wondered whatever the
matter could be. The musical magpies, or laughing jackasses, said
they would soon settle the business; they would frighten those new
chums out of their wits, and out of the woods. So they started to do
it. They laughed in such loud, discordant, daft tones that at times
Archie was obliged to put his fingers in his ears, and guns had to be
fired to stop the row. So they were not successful. The cockatoos
tried the same game; they cackled and skraighed like a million mad
hens, and rustled and ruffled their plumage, and flapped their wings
and flew, but all to no purpose--the work went on.
The beautiful lorries, parrakeets, and budgerigars took little notice
of the intruders, but went farther away, deserting half-built nests
to build new ones. The bonnie little long-tailed opossum peeped down
from his perch on the gums, looking exceedingly wise, and told his
wife that not in all his experience had there been such goings on in
the forest lands, and that something was sure to follow it; his wife
might mark his words for that. The wongawongas grumbled dreadfully;
but great hawks flew high in the air, swooping round and round
against the sun, as they have a habit of doing, and now and then gave
vent to a shrill cry which was more of exultation than anything else.
"There will be dead bones to pick before long." That is what the
hawks thought. Snakes now and then got angrily up, puffed and blew a
bit, but immediately decamped into the denser cover.
The dingoes kept their minds to themselves until night fell, and the
stars came out; the constellation called the Southern Cross spangled
the heaven's dark-blue, then the dingoes lifted up their voices and
wept; and, oh, such weeping! Whoso has never heard a concert of
Australian wild dogs can have no conception of the noise these
animals are capable of. Whoso has once heard it, and gone to sleep
towards the end of it, will never afterwards complain of the harmless
musical reunions of our London cats.
But sleep is often impossible. You have got just to lie in bed and
wonder what in the name of mystery they do it for. They seem to
quarrel over the key-note, and lose it, and try for it, and get it
again, and again go off into a chorus that would "ding doon"
Tantallan Castle. And when you do doze off at last, as likely as
not, you will dream of howling winds and hungry wolves till it is
grey daylight in the morning.