face upon the sea. "Water!" he shouted. "Water! Water!" And before any
of the sailors could raise a hand to stop him he had rolled over the
side of the boat.
The first mate shouted. The men, feeble though they were, sprang to do
his bidding. They were not in time. With a gurgling cry Davis was jerked
under the water suddenly. Next moment the water bubbled, and before it
grew calm again the surface was stained with blood.
"A shark's got him!" shrieked Hookway. And as he cried the great black
fin of some awful thing came gliding after the cutter.
"He's had _his_ dinner," said Gilliland grimly; "and he's waiting for
his supper now!"
III.
Oh! that terrible night, with the full moon shining down upon the quiet
water! So still! So calm! Not a ripple on the wave! And that awful black
something silently following us!
Sylvia lay with her head upon the doctor's knee--one poor thin arm, half
bared, across my lap. And so the morning found us.
There was something the matter with Evans--something desperate. He was
beginning to look like Davis--only worse. Something horrible in his
ghastly face. It was wolfish. And his eyes--they were not like human
eyes at all--they were the eyes of some fierce, wild beast. And they
were fastened with a wolfish glare on Sylvia's half-bared arm. _He
wanted to eat it!_
Stealthily he had got his clasp knife out. And stealthily he was
crouching as if to make a spring. And I couldn't speak!
My tongue, as the Bible expresses it, clave to the roof of my mouth. I
was powerless to make a sound. And none of the others happened to be
looking at him.
I put my hand on Mr. Wheeler's knee and gave him a feeble push. I
pointed dumbly at Evans.
"Put down that knife!" cried Mr. Wheeler in a voice of command. "Evans!"
With a cry so hideous--I can hear it now--the man lunged forward. Mr.
Wheeler tried to seize the knife; but Evans suddenly plunged it into his
shoulder; and the first mate fell with a groan.
Then there was an awful struggle.
Gilliland and Hookway fighting with Evans. And the doctor trying to
protect Sylvia and me; and dragging the first mate away from the
scuffling feet. And I praying out loud in my agony that death might come
to our relief.
He was down at last. Lying in the bottom of the boat, with Gilliland
sitting astride him, and Hookway getting a rope to tie him up! The
doctor leaning over Mr. Wheeler and trying to staunch the blood, and the
first mate fainting away!
And then--Oh! heavens! with a cry--Gilliland sprang to his feet,
shouting! gesticulating! waving his cap! Had he, too, now, suddenly gone
mad?
"Ship ahoy! ahoy!" he shrieked, and we followed his pointing hand.
And there, on the bosom of the endless sea, we saw a ship becalmed.
I suppose I swooned.
When I recovered my senses, the cutter was creeping under her lee, and
the crew were throwing us a rope.
"The women first," said somebody in a cheerful voice. "And after them
send up the wounded man."
And soon kind, pitying faces were bending over us. And very tender hands
were feeding Sylvia and me.
"They've had a pooty consid'able squeak, I guess," said the cheerful
voice.
And somebody answered, "That's so."
We had been picked up by an American schooner.
A STRANGE VISITOR.
BY MAUD HEIGHINGTON.
The Priory was a fine, rambling old house, which had recently come into
Jack Cheriton's possession through the death of a parsimonious relative.
Part of the building only had been kept in repair, while the remainder
had fallen into decay, and was, in fact, only a picturesque ruin.
The Cheritons' first visit to their newly acquired property was a sort
of reconnoitre visit. They had come from Town for a month's holiday,
bringing with them Thatcher--little Mollie's nurse--as general factotum.
They had barely been in the house an hour when a telegram summoned
Thatcher to her mother's deathbed, and a day or two later urgent
business recalled Jack to Town.
"I'll just call at the Lodge and get Mrs. Somers to come up as early as
she can this morning, and stay the night with you, so you will not be
alone long," he called as he hurried off.
His wife and Mollie watched him out of sight, and then returned to the
breakfast-room--the little one amusing herself with her doll, while her
mother put the breakfast things together.
Millicent Cheriton was no coward, but an undefinable sense of uneasiness
was stealing over her. The Priory was fully half an hour's walk from the
Lodge, which was the nearest house. Still further off, in the opposite
direction, stood a large building, the nature of which they had not yet
discovered.
Jack had never left her even for one night since their marriage--and
now she had not even Thatcher left to bear her company.
"Mrs. Somers will soon be here," she said in a comforting tone to
Mollie, who, however, was too intent upon her doll to notice, and
certainly did not share her mother's uneasiness.
Meanwhile, Jack had reached the Lodge and made his request to Somers,
the gamekeeper.
"I'm main sorry, sir, but the missus thought as you would want her at
eleven--as usual, so she started off early to get her marketing done
first. I'll be sure and tell her to take her things up for the night as
soon as she gets home."
"Ten o'clock! No Mrs. Somers yet!"
Mrs. Cheriton picked up her little daughter and carried her upstairs.
"We'll make the beds, Mollie, you and I," she said, tossing the little
maid into the middle of the shaken-up feather bed.
This was fine fun, and Mollie begged for a repetition of it.
"Hark! That must be Mrs. Somers," as a footstep sounded on the gravel
path.
"That's right, Mrs. Somers, I am glad you have come," called Millicent,
but as she heard no reply, she thought she had been mistaken, and
finished making the bed, then tying a sun-bonnet over Mollie's golden
curls, took her downstairs, intending to take her into the garden to
play.
What was it that came over Millicent as she reached the hall? Again that
strange uneasiness, and a feeling that some third person was near her.
She grasped Mollie's hand more firmly, with an impatient exclamation to
herself, for what she thought was silly nervousness, and walked into the
dining-room.
There, in the large armchair, lately occupied by her husband, sat a
tall, gentlemanly looking man.
He had already removed his hat, and was about to unlock a brown leather
bag, which he held on his knee. He rose and bowed as Mrs. Cheriton
entered the room.
"I must apologise for intruding upon you, madam, but I do so in the
cause of science, so I am sure you will pardon me."
The words were fair enough, but something in the manner made Millicent's
heart seem to stand still. Something also told her that she must not
show her fear.
"May I know to whom I am speaking?" she said, "and in what branch of
science you take a special interest?"
"Certainly, madam. My name is Wharton. I am a surgeon, and am greatly
interested in vivisection."
"Indeed!" said Millicent, summoning all her presence of mind, for as he
spoke his manner grew more excitable, and he began to open his bag.
"I called here," he said, "to make known a new discovery, which,
however, I should like to demonstrate," and he fixed his restless eye on
little Mollie, who was clinging shyly to her mother's gown.
"I am sure it is very kind of you to take an interest in us--but it is
so early, perhaps you have not breakfasted? May I get you some
breakfast?"
Would Mrs. Somers never come? and if she did, what could she do? for by
this time Millicent had no doubt that she was talking to a madman.
"Thank you, I do not need any," replied her visitor, as he began to take
from his bag all kinds of terrible looking surgical instruments, and
laid them on the table.
In spite of the terror within her, Millicent tried to turn his attention
from his bag, speaking of all kinds of general subjects as fast as they
came to her mind, but though he answered her politely, it was with
evident irritation, and he seemed to get more excitable every minute.
"This will never do," she thought, "I must humour him," and with sinking
heart she ventured on her next question.
"What is this wonderful discovery, Mr. Wharton? if I may ask."
"Certainly, madam. It is a permanent cure for deafness."
Millicent began to breathe more freely as the thought passed through her
mind "then it can't affect Mollie," for she forgot for a moment that
her guest was not a sane man. Again his eye rested on Mollie, and he
rose from his chair.
"The cure is a certain one," he said, "the right ear must be amputated,
and the passages thoroughly scraped, but I will show you," and he took a
step towards Mollie.
Millicent's face blanched.
"But Mollie is not deaf," she said; "it will hardly do to operate on
her."
"It will prevent her ever becoming so, madam, and prevention is better
than cure," and he stepped back to the table to select an instrument.
The mother's presence of mind did not desert her--though her legs
trembled so violently that she feared her visitor would see her terror.
"It would be a very good thing to feel sure of that," she said. "You
will want a firm table, of course, and good light. You might be
interrupted here. I will show you a better room for the operation."
"Thank you, madam, and I shall require plenty of hot water and towels."
"Certainly," said Millicent, and leading him to the hall, she directed
him to a room which had at one time been fitted as a laundry, and in
which was an ironing bench.
With sinking heart, she followed him to the top of the house--pointing
the way through two attics into a third.
"I will just leave you to arrange your things while I get hot water and
towels, and put on Mollie's nightdress," she said, and closing the door,
turned the key. It grated noisily, but the visitor was too much occupied
to notice it, and rushing through the other rooms, Millicent locked both
doors, and fled downstairs.
Snatching her little one in her arms, she hurried through the
garden--pausing at the gate to shift Mollie from her arms on to her
back.
She had barely left the gate when a horrible yell of baffled rage rent
the air, making her turn and glance up at the window of the attic.
The maniac had just discovered that the door was locked, and rushing to
the window caught sight of his hostess and desired patient fleeing from
the house.
One glance showed Millicent that he was about to get out of the window,
but whether he intended to clamber down by the ivy, or creep in at the
next attic, she did not stop to ascertain; only praying that she might
have strength to gain a place of safety she sped on, staggering under
the weight of her little one, who clung to her neck in wonder.
On and on, still with the wild yells of rage ringing in her ears, until
she had put three fields between herself and the house, when she stopped
for breath in a shady lane.
Hark! Surely it was the sound of wheels coming towards her. "Help! oh,
help!" she shouted. "Help! help! help!"
In another moment a brougham, drawn by two horses, appeared, coming
slowly up the hill towards her.
The coachman at a word from his master drew up, and Millicent, now
nearly fainting from terror and exhaustion, was helped into the
carriage.
Giving directions to the coachman to drive home as quickly as possible,
Dr. Shielding, for it was the medical superintendent of the Lunatic
Asylum, the long building already referred to, drew from her between
sobs and gasps the story of her fright.
At length they drew up before the doctor's house, in the grounds of the
asylum, and with a hasty word of introduction, Dr. Shielding left
Millicent and Mollie with his wife and daughter.
Summoning two burly-looking keepers, he stepped into his brougham again.
"To the Priory," he said, and then related the story to the men,
describing the position of the attic as told him by Millicent, adding
that he had just returned from a distant village, where he had been
called for consultation about a case of rapidly developed homicidal
mania of a local medical man, but the patient had eluded his caretaker,
the previous day, and could not be found.
"I have no doubt it is the same man," he said, "and there he is!" he
added, as they stopped before the Priory gate, to find the strange
visitor was trying to descend from the window by the ivy.
There he clung, bag in hand, still five-and-twenty feet from the ground.
When hearing their voices, he turned to look at them, and in so doing
lost his hold, falling heavily to the ground.
They hastened to the spot, just in time to see a spasmodic quiver of the
limbs as he drew his last breath. He had struck his head violently
against a huge stone and broken his neck.
The body was removed to the mortuary of the asylum, with all speed, and
the relatives of the poor man telegraphed for, and when Dr. Shielding
returned home he found that his wife had insisted upon keeping Mollie
and Millicent as their guests until Jack's return, to which arrangement
he heartily assented.
* * * * *
Jack's face blanched as he read a paragraph describing the adventure in
his morning paper the following day, and when his letters were brought
in, he hastily broke the seal of one in his wife's handwriting, and read
the story in her own words, finishing with, "Oh, Jack, dear, I never,
never can go back there again; do come and fetch us home."
They never did return to the Priory, for on his way to the station, Jack
put it into the hands of an agent for sale, and when he reached
Beechcroft, he begged Mrs. Somers to go and pack up all their personal
belongings and send them back to Town.
It was with feelings of deep thankfulness that he clasped his wife and
little one in his arms once more, inwardly vowing that come what might,
he would never again leave them without protection, even for an hour.
THE THIRD PERSON SINGULAR.
BY LUCY HARDY.
"You remember the old coaching days, granny?"
"Indeed I do," replied the old lady, with a smile, "for one of the
strangest adventures of my life befell me on my first stage-coach
journey. Yes, you girls shall hear the story; I am getting into my
'anecdotage,' as Horace Walpole calls it," and granny laughed with the
secret consciousness that her "anecdotes" were always sure of an
appreciative audience.
"People did not run about hither and thither in my young days as you
girls do now," went on the old lady, "and it was quite an event to take
a coach journey. In fact, when I started on my first one, I was nearly
twenty years old; and my father and mother had then debated a good while
as to whether I could be permitted to travel alone by the stage. My
father was a country parson, as you know, and we lived in a very remote
Yorkshire village. But an aunt, who was rich and childless, had lately
taken up her residence at York, and had written so urgently to beg that
I might be allowed to spend the winter with her, and thus cheer her
loneliness, that it was decided that I must accept the invitation. It
was the custom then for many of the local country gentry to visit the
great provincial towns for their 'seasons' instead of undertaking the
long journey to the metropolis. York, and many another country town, is
still full of the fine old 'town houses' of the local gentry, who now go
to London to 'bring out' their young daughters; but who, in the former
days, were content with the gaieties offered by their own provincial
capital. Very lively and pleasant were the 'seasons' of the country
towns in my youth; and I think there was more real hospitality and
sociability found among the country neighbours than one meets with in
London society nowadays. I, of course, was delighted at the prospect of
exchanging the dull life of our little village for the gaieties of York;
but when it actually came to saying good-bye to my parents, from whom I
had never yet been separated, I was half inclined to wish that Aunt
Maria's invitation had been refused. Farmer Gray, who was to drive me to
the neighbouring town, where I should join the coach, was very kind; and
pretended not to see how I was crying under my veil. We lumbered along
the narrow lanes and at length reached the little market town where I
was deposited at the 'Blue Boar' to have some tea and await the arrival
of the mail. I had often watched the coach dash up, and off again, when
visiting the town with my father; but it seemed like a dream that I,
Dolly Harcourt, was now actually to be a passenger in the conveyance.
The dusk of a winter's evening was gathering as the mail came in sight,
its red lamps gleaming through the mist. Ostlers prided themselves upon
the celerity with which the change of horses was effected, and
passengers were expected to be equally quick; I was bustled inside (my
place had been taken days previously) before I had time to think twice.
Fortunately, as I thought, remembering the long night journey which lay
before me, I found the interior of the coach empty, several passengers
having just alighted; but, as I settled myself in one corner, two
figures hurried up, a short man, and a woman in a long cloak and
poke-bonnet, with a thick veil over her face.
"'Just in time,' cried the man. 'Yes, I've booked two places, Mr. Jones
and Miss Jenny,' and the pair stumbled in just as the impatient horses
started.
"'Miss Jenny.' Well, I was glad that I was not to have a long night
journey alone with a strange man. I glanced at the cloaked and veiled
figure which sank awkwardly into the opposite corner of the vehicle, and
then leaned forward to remove some of my little packages from the seat;
in so doing I brushed against her bonnet.
"'I beg your pardon, madam,' I said politely; 'I was removing these
parcels, fearing they might incommode you.'
"'All right, all right, miss,' said the man, a red-faced, vulgar-looking
personage; 'don't you trouble about Jenny, she'll do very well;' and he
proceeded to settle his companion in the corner rather unceremoniously.
"'Is she his sister or his wife, I wonder,' I thought; 'he does not seem
particularly courteous to her;' and I took a dislike to my
fellow-passenger on the spot. He, however, was happily indifferent to my
good or evil opinion; pulling a cap from his pocket, he exchanged his
hat for it, settled himself comfortably by his companion's side, and, in
a few moments, was sound asleep, as his snores proclaimed. I could not
follow his example. I felt terribly lonely, and not a little nervous. As
we sped along at what appeared to my inexperience such a break-neck rate
(ten miles an hour seemed so _then_, before railways whirled you along
like lightning), I began to recall all the dismal stories of coach
accidents, and of highwaymen, which I had read or heard of during my
quiet village existence. Suppose, on this very moor which we were now
crossing, a highwayman rode up and popped a pistol in at the window. I
myself had not much to lose, though I should have been extremely
reluctant to part with the new silk purse which my mother had netted for
me, and in which she and father had each placed a guinea--coins not too
plentiful in our country vicarage in those days. And suppose the
highwayman was not satisfied with mere robbery, but should oblige me to
alight and dance a minuet with him on the heath, as did Claud Duval;
suppose--here my nervous fears took a fresh turn, for the cloaked lady
opposite began to move restlessly, and the man, half waking, gave her a
brisk nudge with his elbow and cried sharply,--
"'Now, then, keep quiet, I say.'
"This was a strange manner in which to address a lady. Could this man be
sober, I thought, and a shiver ran through me at the idea of being
doomed to spend so many hours in company with a possibly intoxicated,
and certainly surly man. How rudely he addressed his companion, how
little he seemed to care for her comfort! As I looked more carefully at
the pair (the rising moon now giving me sufficient light to do this) I
noted that the man's hand was slipped under the woman's cloak, and that
he was apparently holding her down in her seat by her wrist. A fresh
terror now assailed me--was I travelling with a lunatic and her keeper?
I vainly tried to obtain a glimpse of the woman's countenance, so
shrouded by her poke-bonnet and thick veil.
"The man was speedily snoring again, and I sat with my eyes fixed on the
cloaked figure, wondering--speculating. Poor thing, was she indeed a
lunatic travelling in charge of this rough attendant? Pity filled my
heart as I thought of this afflicted creature, possibly torn from home
and friends and sent away with a surly guardian; who, I now felt _sure_,
was not too sober. Was the woman old or young, of humble rank or a lady?
I began to weave a dozen romantic stories in my head about my
fellow-passengers, quite forgetting all my recent fears about the
'knights of the road.' So sorry did I feel for the woman that I leant
across and addressed some trivial, polite remark to her, but received no
reply. I gently touched her cloak to draw her attention, but the lady's
temper seemed as testy as that of her companion; she abruptly twisted
away from my touch with some inarticulate, but evidently angry
exclamation, which sounded almost like a growl. I shrank back abashed
into my corner and attempted no more civilities. Would the coach never
reach York and I be freed from the presence of these mysterious
fellow-passengers? I was but a timid little country lass, and this was
my first flight from home. It was certainly not a pleasant idea to
believe oneself shut up for several hours with a half-tipsy man and a
lunatic; as I now firmly believed the woman to be. I sat very still,
fearing to annoy her by any chance movement, but my addressing her had
evidently disturbed her, for she began to move restlessly, and to make a
kind of muttering to herself. I gradually edged away towards the other
end of the seat, so as to leave as much space between myself and the
lady as possible, and in so doing let my shawl fall to the floor of the
coach. I stooped to pick it up, and there beheld, protruding from my
fellow-passenger's cloak, _her foot_. Oh horrors! I saw no woman's
dainty shoe--but a hairy paw, with long nails--was it _cloven_?
* * * * *
"The frantic shriek I gave stopped the coach, and the guard and the
outside passengers were round the door in a moment. For the first time
in my life I had fainted--so missed the first excited turmoil--but soon
revived to find myself lying on the moor, the centre of a kindly group
of fellow-travellers, who were proffering essences, and brandy, and all
other approved restoratives; while in the background, like distant
thunder, were heard the adjurations of the guard and the coachman, who
were swearing like troopers at the other--or rather at the _male_,
inside passenger. Struggling into a sitting position, I beheld this man,
sobered now by the shock of my alarm, and by the vials of wrath which
were being emptied upon him, standing in a submissive attitude, while
beside him, her cloak thrown back and her poke-bonnet thrust on one
side, was the mysterious 'lady'--now revealed in her true character as a
_performing bear_. It seemed that a showman, desirous of conveying this
animal (which he described as 'quiet as an hangel') with the least
trouble and expense to himself, bethought him of the expedient of
booking places in the coach for himself and the bear, which bore the
name of 'Miss Jenny'; trusting to her wraps and to the darkness to
disguise the creature sufficiently. I will not repeat the language of
the guard and coachman on discovering the trick played; but after
direful threats as to what the showman might 'expect' as the result of
his device, matters were amicably arranged. The owner of the bear made
most abject apologies all round (I fancy giving more than _civil words_
to the coach officials), I interceded for him, and the mail set off at
double speed to make up for lost time. Only, with my knowledge of 'Miss
Jenny's' real identity, I absolutely declined to occupy the interior of
the coach again despite the showman's assertions of his pet's
harmlessness; and the old coachman sympathising with me, I was helped up
to a place by his side on the box, and carefully wrapped up in a huge
military cloak by a young gentleman who occupied the next seat, and who
was, as he told me, an officer rejoining his regiment at York. The
latter part of my journey was far pleasanter than the beginning; the
coachman was full of amusing anecdotes, and the young officer made
himself most agreeable. It transpired, in course of conversation, that
my fellow-traveller was slightly acquainted with Aunt Maria; and this
acquaintanceship induced him to request that he might be permitted to
escort me to her house and see me safe after my disagreeable adventure.
I had no objection to his accompanying myself and the staid maidservant
whom I found waiting for me at the inn when the coach stopped at York;
and Aunt Maria politely insisted on the young man's remaining to partake
of the early breakfast she had prepared to greet my arrival."
"Well, your fright did not end so badly after all, granny," remarked one
of her listeners.
"Not at all badly," replied the old lady with a quiet smile; "but for my
fright I should never have made the acquaintance of that young officer."
"And the officer was----"
"He was _Captain_ Marten then, my dears--he became _General_ Marten
afterwards--and was _your grandfather_."
"HOW JACK MINDED THE BABY."
BY DOROTHY PINHO.
The _Etruria_ was on its way to New York. The voyage had been, so far,
without accidents, or even incidents; the weather had been lovely; the
sea, a magnificent stretch of blue, with a few miniature wavelets
dancing in the sunlight.
Amongst the passengers of the first-class saloon everybody noticed a
slight girlish figure, always very simply attired; in spite of all her
efforts to remain unnoticed, she seemed to attract attention by her
great beauty. People whispered to each other, "Who is she?" All they
knew was that her name was Mrs. Arthur West, and that she was going out
to New York with her two babies to join her husband.
Every morning she was on deck, or sometimes, if the sun was too fierce,
in the saloon, and she made a charming picture reclining in her
deck-chair, with baby Lily lying on her lap, and little Jack playing at
her feet. Baby was only three or four months old; hardly anything more
than a dainty heap of snowy silk and lace to anybody but her mother,
who, of course, thought that nothing on earth could be as clever as the
way she crowed and kicked out her absurd pink morsels of toes.
Master Jack was quite an important personage; he was nearly four years
old and very proud of the fact that this was his second voyage, while
Lily had never been on a ship before, and, as he contemptuously
remarked, "didn't even know who dada was." He was a quaint,
old-fashioned little soul, and though he rather looked down upon his
little sister from the height of his dignity and his first
knickerbockers, he would often look after her for his mother and pat her
off to sleep quite cleverly.
We must not forget to mention "Rover," a lovely retriever; he was quite
of the family, fairly worshipped by his little master, and the pet of
the whole ship. He looked upon baby Lily as his own special property,
and no stranger dare approach if he were guarding her.
On the afternoon my story opens baby Lily had been very cross and
fretful; the intense heat evidently did not agree with her. Poor little
Mrs. West was quite worn out with walking up and down with her trying to
lull her off to sleep. Jack was lying flat on the floor, engrossed in
the beauties of a large picture-book; two or three times he raised his
curly head and shook it gravely. Then he said, "Isn't she a naughty
baby, mummie?"
"Yes, dear," answered his mother, "and I'm afraid that if she doesn't
soon get good, we shall have to put her right through the porthole. We
don't want to take a naughty baby-girl to daddy, do we?"
"No, mummie," answered Jack very earnestly, and he returned once more to
his pictures.
"There, she has gone off," whispered Mrs. West, after a few moments.
"Now, Jackie, I am going to put her down, and you must look after her
while I go and see if the stewardess has boiled the milk for the night.
Play very quietly, like a good little boy, because I don't think she is
very sound asleep." And, with a parting kiss on his little uplifted
face, she slipped away.
The stewardess was nowhere to be found; so Mrs. West boiled the milk
herself, as she had often done before, and after about ten minutes,
returned to her cabin.
Little Jack was in a corner, busy with a drawing-slate; he turned round
as his mother came in. The berth where she had put the baby down was
empty.
"Was baby naughty? Has the stewardess taken her?" she asked.
"No, mummie; baby woke up d'rectly you went, an' she was so dreff'ly
naughty--she just _wouldn't_ go to sleep again; so I thought I'd better
punish her, an' I put her, just this minute, through the porthole, like
you said; but I dessay she'll be good now, and p'raps you'd
better----but what's the matter, mummie? Are you going to be seasick?"
for his mother had turned deathly white, and was holding on to the wall
for support.
"My baby, my little one!" she gasped; then, pulling herself together
with a sudden effort, she rushed towards the stairs; little Jack,
bewildered, but suddenly overcome by a strange feeling of awe, following
in the rear. As she reached the deck, she became aware that the liner
had stopped; there was a great commotion among the passengers; she heard
some one say, "Good dog! brave fellow!" and Rover, pushing his way
between the excited people, brought to her feet a dripping, wailing
bundle, which she strained to her heart, and fainted away.
Need I narrate what had happened? When little Jack had "put naughty baby
through the porthole," Rover was on deck with his two front paws up on
the side of the vessel, watching intently some sea-gulls dipping in the
waves. He suddenly saw the little white bundle touch the water; some
marvellous instinct told him it was his little charge, and he gave a
sudden leap over the side. A sailor of the crew saw him disappear, and
gave the alarm: "Stop the ship! man overboard!"
A boat was lowered, and in a few seconds Rover was on deck again,
holding baby Lily fast between his jaws.
Mrs. West never left her children alone after that; and when, a few days
later, on the quay at New York, she was clasped in her husband's arms,
she told him, between her sobs, how near he had been to never seeing his
little daughter.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S ADVENTURE.
_A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT._
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
My grandmother was one of the right sort. She was a fine old lady with
all her faculties about her at eighty-six, and with a memory that could
recall the stirring incidents of the earlier part of the century with a
vividness which made them live again in our eager eyes and ears. She was
born with the century and was nearly fifteen years old when Napoleon
escaped from Elba, and the exciting circumstances that followed,
occurring as they did at the most impressionable period of her life,
became indelibly fixed upon her mind. She had relatives and friends who
had distinguished themselves in the Peninsula war, in memory of one of
whom, who fell in the last grand charge at Waterloo, she always wore a
mourning ring.
But it was not at Waterloo that my grandmother met with the adventure
which it is now my business to chronicle. It was a real genuine
adventure, however, and it befell her a year or so after the final fall
of Napoleon, and in a quiet, secluded spot in the county of Wiltshire,
England, not far from Salisbury Plain; but as I am quite sure I cannot
improve upon the dear old lady's oft-repeated version of the story, I
will try and tell it as it fell from those dear, worn lips now for ever
silent in the grave.
"I was in my sixteenth year when it was decided that, all fear of
foreign invasion being over, I should be sent to London to complete my
education and to receive those finishing touches in manners and
deportment 'which a metropolis of wealth and fashion alone can give.'
"Never having left home before, I looked forward to my journey with some
feeling of excitement and not a little of foreboding and dread. I could
not quite make up my mind whether I was really sorry or glad. The quiet
home life to which I had been accustomed, varied only by occasional
visits from the more old-fashioned of the local country families, made
me long for the larger life, which I knew must belong to the biggest
city in the world (life which I was simple enough to think I might see a
great deal of even from the windows of a boarding-school), and made me
look forward with joyful anticipation to my journey; while the fear of
flying from the humdrum that I knew, to discipline I knew not of, made
me temper my anticipations with misgivings and cloud my hopes with
fears. To put the matter practically, I think I was generally glad when
I got up in the morning and sorry when I went to bed at night.
"My father's house stood about a hundred yards from the main road, some
three miles west of Salisbury, and in order to take my passage for
London, it was necessary that I should be driven into Salisbury in the
family buggy to join the Exeter mail. I well remember the start. My
carpet-bag and trunk had been locked and unlocked a great many times
before they were finally signed, sealed, and delivered to the old
man-servant who acted as gardener, coachman, and general factotum to our
household, and when we started off my father placed a book in my hands,
that I might have something with me to beguile the tedium of the
journey. My father accompanied me as far as Salisbury to bespeak the
care and attention of the guard on my behalf, but finding that the only
other inside passenger was an old gentleman of whom he had some slight
knowledge, he commended me to my fellow-passenger's protection, and with
many admonitions as to my future conduct, left me to pursue the journey
in his company.
"I was feeling rather dull after my companion had exhausted the
commonplaces of conversation, and experienced a strange loneliness when
I saw that he had fallen fast asleep in his comfortable corner enveloped
in rugs and furs. Driven in upon my own resources I opened my book, and
began to read, though the faint light of the coach lamp did not offer me
much encouragement.
"The volume was one of 'Travel and Adventure,' and told of the
experiences of the writer even in the lion's mouth. It recounted
numerous hair-breadth escapes from the tender mercies of savage animals,
and described them with such thrilling detail that I soon became
conscious of those creepy sensations which are so well calculated to
make us take fright at the least unusual circumstance. I had just got to
a part at which a wounded lion had struck down his intrepid hunter and
was standing with one paw upon his breast roaring his defiance to the
four winds of heaven, when suddenly the coach pulled up with a
suddenness that threw me into the arms of my companion and somewhat
unceremoniously aroused him from his slumber. The next moment the coach
rolled back a few paces and the next plunged forward a few more.
Meanwhile, the shouts and cries of the outside passengers and the
rumbling and clambering on the roof of the coach made it clear that
something terrible had happened. Naturally nervous, and rendered doubly
so by the narrative I had been reading, I concluded that all Africa was
upon us and that either natives or wild animals would soon eat us up. My
companion was no less excited than I was, excitement that was in no way
lessened by his sense of responsibility for my welfare, and perceiving a
house close to the road but a few yards in the rear of the coach, he
hurried me out of the vehicle with more speed than ceremony, and in
another moment was almost dragging me towards the door. As we alighted,
our speed was suddenly accelerated by the unmistakable roar of some wild
beast which had apparently leapt out of the leaves of the book I had
been reading and was attempting to illustrate the narrative which had so
thrilled my imagination. There was no mistake about it now; some wild
beast had attacked the coach, and I was already, in thought, lying
prostrate beneath his feet. The next thing that I remember was awakening
in the presence of an eager and interested group gathered round a fire
in the waiting-room of a village post-house.
"Many versions of the story were current for years among the gossips of
the country-side, and they differed very materially in the details of
the narrative. One said it was a tiger which was being conveyed to the
gardens of the Zoological Society in London, another that it was a
performing bear which had suddenly gone mad and killed its keeper while
on its way to Salisbury Fair. Of course the papers published various
accounts of it, and the story with many variations found its way into
several books. As you know, I was not an eye-witness of the
circumstances any further than I have described them, so I am dependent
upon others for the true account of the facts. The fullest account that
I have seen in print appeared in a book I bought many years after the
event, and now if you will get me my spectacles I will read you the
remainder of the story from that volume.
"'Not many years ago, a curious example of the ferocity of the lioness
occurred in England. The Exeter mail-coach, on its way to London, was
attacked on Sunday night, October 20th, 1816, at Winter's Law-Hut, seven
miles from Salisbury, in a most extraordinary manner. At the moment when
the coachman pulled up, to deliver his bags, one of the leading horses
was suddenly seized by a ferocious animal. This produced a great
confusion and alarm. Two passengers, who were inside the mail, got out,
and ran in the house. The horse kicked and plunged violently; and it was
with difficulty the coachman could prevent the carriage from being
overturned. It was soon observed by the coachman and guard, by the light
of the lamps, that the animal which had seized the horse was a huge
lioness. A large mastiff dog came up and attacked her fiercely, on which
she quitted the horse, and turned upon him. The dog fled, but was
pursued and killed by the lioness, within about forty yards of the
place. It appears that the beast had escaped from a caravan, which was
standing on the roadside, and belonged to a menagerie, on its way to
Salisbury Fair. An alarm being given, the keepers pursued and hunted the
lioness, carrying the dog in her teeth, into a hovel under a granary,
which served for keeping agricultural implements. About half-past eight,
they had secured her effectually by barricading the place, so as to
prevent her escape. The horse, when first attacked, fought with great
spirit; and if he had been at liberty, would probably have beaten down
his antagonist with his fore-feet; but in plunging, he embarrassed
himself in the harness. The lioness, it appears, attacked him in front,
and springing at his throat, had fastened the talons of her fore-feet on
each side of his gullet, close to the head, while the talons of her
hind-feet were forced into the chest. In this situation she hung, while
the blood was seen streaming, as if a vein had been opened by a lancet.
The furious animal missed the throat and jugular vein; but the horse was
so dreadfully torn, that he was not at first expected to survive. The
expressions of agony, in his tears and moans, were most piteous and
affecting. Whether the lioness was afraid of her prey being taken from
her, or from some other cause, she continued a considerable time after
she had entered the hovel roaring in a dreadful manner, so loud, indeed,
that she was distinctly heard at the distance of half a mile. She was
eventually secured, and taken to her den; and the proprietor of the
menagerie did not fail to take advantage of the incident, by having a
representation of the attack painted in the most captivating colours and
hung up in front of his establishment.'"
My dear old grandmother quite expected to see "the lions" when she
reached London, but she was not quite prepared to meet a lioness even
half way.
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS EVE.
BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.
I was always a very fearless girl. I do not say I never knew what fear
was, for on the occasion I am about to relate I was distinctly
frightened; but I was able to bear myself through it as if I felt
nothing, and by this means to reassure my poor mother, who perhaps
realised the danger more thoroughly than I did.
Norah says if it had happened to her she would just have died of fright,
and I do think she would have, for she is so delicate and timid, and has
such very highly-strung nerves. Mother and I always call it our
adventure. I, with a laugh now; but mother, always with a shudder and a
paling of her sweet face, for she and Norah are very much alike in
constitution. She says if I had not been her stay and backbone on that
occasion she must surely have let those awful French people rob her of
all she possessed. But I am going on too fast.
It happened in this way. Father had some business to transact in France
in connection with his firm, and had gone off in high spirits, for after
the business was finished and done with he had arranged to do a little
travelling on his own account with Mr. Westover--an old chum of his.
We had heard regularly from him as having a very good time till one
morning the post brought a letter to say he had contracted a low fever
and was lying sick at a wayside inn. He begged us not to be alarmed for
his friend was very attentive, and he hoped soon to be himself again.
Mother was unhappy, we saw that, but Norah and I tried to cheer her up
by saying how strong father always was, and how soon he shook off any
little illness. It was his being sick away from home and in a foreign
country that troubled her.
A few days after a telegram arrived from Mr. Westover. He said mother
must come at once, for the doctor had serious misgivings as to the turn
the fever might take.
"Mother, you must take Phyllis with you," decided Norah, who was
trembling from head to foot, but trying to appear calm for mother's
sake.
I looked up at mother with eager eyes, for though the thought of dear
father lying dangerously ill chilled me all over, yet the idea of
travelling to France made my heart leap within me.
Mother was packing a handbag when Norah spoke. She looked up and saw my
eyes round with delight.
"Yes," she said, "I would prefer a companion. Phyllis, get ready at
once, for we haven't much time."
Her voice sounded as if tears were in it, and I sprang up and kissed her
before rushing away to my room.
My little bag was packed before mother's, but then she had money
arrangements to make which I had not.
Two hours after the receipt of the telegram we were driving down the
road to the railway station two miles from our home.
Our journey was of no moment at first starting. We crossed the water
without any mishap, and on arriving at Dunkirk bore the Custom-house
officers' searching of our handbags with a stoical calmness. What
mattered such trifles when our one thought, our one hope lay in the
direction of that wayside inn where father lay tossing in delirium?
We spent one night at an hotel, and the next morning, which was
Christmas Eve, we were up early to catch the first express to Brives.
From Brives to Fleur another train would take us, and the rest of our
journey would have to be accomplished by _diligence_.
It was cold, bitterly cold, and I saw mother's eyes look apprehensively
up to the leaden sky. I knew she was fearing a heavy fall of snow which
might interrupt our journey.
We reached Fleur at three o'clock in the afternoon, and took the
_diligence_ that was awaiting the train. Then what mother feared took
place. Snow began to fall--heavy snow, and the horses in the _diligence_
began to labour after only one hour's storm. Mother's face grew paler
and paler. I did not dare to look at her, or to think what we should do
if the snow prevented us getting much farther. And father! what would
father do! After two hours' weary drive we sighted the first stopping
place.
"There is the inn!" said a portly fellow-traveller. "And a good thing,
too, that we'll have a roof over our heads, for there will be no driving
farther for some days to come."
"We must make a jovial Christmas party by ourselves," said another old
gentleman, gathering all his belongings together in preparation for
getting out.
I looked at mother. Her face was blanched.
"But surely," she said, "this snow won't prevent the second _diligence_
taking my daughter and myself to the _Pomme d'Or_ at Creux? It is only a
matter of an hour from here."
"You'll get no _diligence_ either to-day or to-morrow, madame," was the
answer she received.
The inn was reached--a funny little old-fashioned place--and we all
descended ankle deep into the newly-fallen snow.
The landlord of the inn was waiting at the door, and invited us all in
with true French courtesy. The cosy kitchen we entered had a lovely wood
fire in the old-fashioned grate, and the dancing flames cast a cheery
light upon the whitewashed walls. Oh, if only this had been the inn
where father was staying! How gladly we would have rested our weary
limbs and revelled in that glorious firelight. But it was not to be.
Mother's idea of another _diligence_ was quite pooh-poohed.
"If it had been coming it would have been here before now," announced
the landlord.
"Then we must walk it," returned my mother.
"Impossible," was the landlord's answer, and the portly old gentleman
seconded him. "It is a matter of five miles from here."
"If I wish to see my husband alive I must walk it," said my mother in
tremulous tones.
There was a murmur of commiseration, and the landlord, a kindly, genial
old Frenchman, trotted to the door of the inn and looked out. He came
back presently, rubbing his cold hands.
"The snow has ceased, the stars are coming out. If Madame insists----"
he shrugged his shoulders.
"We shall walk it if you will kindly direct us the way."
As she spoke my mother picked up her handbag, and I stooped for mine,
but was arrested by a deep voice saying,--
"I am going part of the way. If madame will allow me I will walk with
her."
I saw the landlord's open brow contract, and I turned to look at the
speaker. He was a tall, dark, low-browed man, with shaggy black hair and
deep-set eyes. He had been sitting there on our arrival, and I had not
liked his appearance at first sight. I now hoped that mother would not
accept his company. But mother, too intent on getting to her journey's
end, jumped at the offer.
"_Merci, monsieur_," she said gratefully. "We will start at once if you
have no objection."
The fellow got on his feet at once, and stretching out his hand took a
slouched hat off the chair behind him and clapped it on his head. I did
see mother give him one furtive look then--it gave him such a
brigand-like appearance, but she resolutely turned away, and thanked the
landlord for the short shelter he had afforded us. She was producing her
purse, but the landlord, with a hasty glance in the direction of our
escort, motioned her to put it away. He and the two gentlemen came to
see us start, the landlord causing me some little comfort by calling
after us that he would make inquiries as soon as he was able, as to
whether we had reached our destination in safety.
Our escort started ahead of us, and we followed close on his footsteps.
We had journeyed so for two miles, plodding heavily and slowly along,
for the snow was deep and the wind was cutting. Our companion never once
spoke, and would only look occasionally over his shoulder to see if we
were keeping up with him, and I was beginning to lose my fear of him and
call myself a coward for being afraid, when suddenly the snow began
again. This time it came down in whirling drifts penetrating through all
our warm clothing, and making our walking heavier and more laboured than
before. It was all we could do to keep our feet, for the wind whistled
and moaned, threatening at every turn to bear us away.
Then only did our companion speak.
"_C'est mauvais_," he shouted above the storm, and his voice, sounding
so gruff and deep and so unexpected, made me jump in the air.
Mother assented in her gentle voice, and we plodded on as before, I
wishing with all my heart that we had never left that cosy kitchen, for
I could not see how we were to cover another three miles in this
fashion. I said not a word, however, for I would not have gainsaid
mother in this journey, considering how much there was at stake.
It was she herself who came to a standstill after walking another half
mile.
"Monsieur," she called faintly, "I do not think I can go farther."
He turned round then and, was it my fancy? but I thought, as he retraced
his steps to our side, that an evil grin was making his ugly face still
uglier.
"Madame is tired. I am not surprised, but if she can manage just five
minutes' more walk we shall reach my own house, where she can have
shelter."
Mother was grateful for his offer. She thanked him and continued her
weary walk till a sudden bend in the road brought us almost upon a small
house situated right on the road, looking dark and gloomy enough, with
just one solitary light shining dimly through the darkness.
The fellow paused here with his hand on the latch, and I noticed a small
sign-board swaying and creaking in the wind just above our heads. This
then was an inn too? Why then had the landlord of that other inn cast
such suspicious glances at the proposal of this man?
Such questions were answerable only the next morning, for just now I was
too weary to care where I spent the night as I stumbled after mother
into a dark passage, and then onwards to a room where the faint light
had been dimly discernible from outside.
In that room there was an ugly old woman--bent and aged--cooking
something over a small fire; and crouched upon a low seat near the stove
sat a hunchbacked man, swarthy, black-haired, and ugly too. My heart
gave one leap, and then sank down into my shoes. What kind of a house
had we come into to spend a whole night?
Our escort said something rapidly in French--too rapidly for me to
follow, and then motioned us to sit down as he placed two wooden chairs
for us. Mother sank down, almost too wearied to return the greeting
which the old hag by the fire accorded her.
The hunchback eyed us without a word, but when I summoned up courage to
occasionally glance in his direction I fancied that a sinister smile
crossed his face, making him look curiously like our escort.
Two bowls of soup were put down before us, and the old woman hospitably
pressed us to partake of it. The whole family sat down to the same meal,
but the hunchback had his in his seat by the fire. It was cabbage soup,
and neither mother nor I fancied it very much, but for politeness' sake
we took a few spoonfuls, and ate some of the coarse brown bread, of
which there was plenty on the table.
The warmth of the room was beginning to have effect on me, and my body
was so inexpressibly weary that I felt half dozing in my seat, and my
eyelids would close in spite of myself.
All of a sudden I heard mother give a little scream. I was wide awake
in an instant, and to my amazement saw the hunchback crawling on his
hands and knees under the table. My mother's lips were white and
trembling as she stooped to pick up the purse she had let fall in her
fright, but before she could do so our escort stooped down and handed it
to her with a--
"_Permettez moi, madame._"
At the same time he kicked out under the table, muttering an oath as he
did so, and the hunchback returned to his seat by the fire and nursed
his knees with his sinister grin.
Mother began to apologise for her little scream.
"I am very tired," she said, addressing the old woman; "and if it will
not inconvenience you, my daughter and I would much like to retire for
the night, as we wish to be up early to continue our journey."
The old woman lighted a candle, looking at our escort as she did so.
"Which room?" she asked.
He gave a jerk of his head indicating a room above the one we were in;
and then he opened the door very politely for us, and hoped we'd have a
pleasant night.
I could not resist the inclination to look back at the hunchback. He had
left off nursing his knees, but his whole body was convulsed with silent
laughter, and he was holding up close to his eyes a gold coin.
The room the old woman conducted us to was a long one, with half-a-dozen
steps leading up to it. She bade us good night and closed the door,
leaving us with the lighted candle.
The minute the door closed upon her, I darted to it. But horrors! there
was no key, no bolt, nothing to fasten ourselves in. I looked at mother.
She was sitting on the bed, and beckoned me with her finger to come
close. I did so. She whispered,--
"Phyllis, be brave for my sake. I have done a foolish thing in bringing
you to this house. I distrust these people."
"So do I," I whispered back.
"That purse of mine that fell--they saw what was in it."
"Did it fall open?"
"Yes, and a napoleon rolled out--that hunchback picked it up and put it
into his pocket. He did not think I saw him."
"How much money have you got altogether?"
"Twenty napoleons, and a few francs."
"And they saw all that?"
"I am afraid so. Of course they could not tell how much there was. They
saw a number of coins. If they attempt to rob us of it all to-night we
shall have nothing to continue our journey to-morrow. And how we can
keep it from them I don't know."
Mother's face was white and drawn. Father and Norah would not have
recognised her.
"We shall hide it from them," I answered as bravely as I could. I would
not let mother see that I was nervous.
The room was bare of everything but just the necessary furniture. A more
difficult place to hide anything could not easily be found. Every
article of ours would be ransacked, I felt sure. Our handbags would be
searched; our clothes ditto. Where on earth could we put that purse?
I was sitting on the bed as I looked round the room. We would, of
course, be lying in the bed when they came to search the room, and even
our pillows would not be safe from their touch. Stay! What did the bed
clothes consist of? A hasty examination disclosed two blankets and a
sheet, and under those the mattress. That mattress gave me an idea. I
had found a hiding-place.
"Have you scissors and needle and cotton in your bag?" I whispered.
Mother nodded. "I think Norah put my sewing case in."
She opened it. Yes, everything was to hand.
With her help I turned the mattress right up, and made an incision in
the middle of the ticking.
"Give me the money," I said in a low voice.
She handed it silently. I slipped each coin carefully into the incision.
"We'll leave them the francs," mother whispered. "They might ... they
might ... wish to harm us if they found nothing."
I nodded. Then with the aid of the needle and cotton I stitched up the
opening I had made, and without more ado we took off our outer clothes,
our boots and stockings, and lay down in the bed.
But not to sleep! We neither of us closed an eyelid, so alert were we
for the expected footstep on the other side of the door.
They gave us a reasonable time to go to sleep. Our extinguished candle
told them we were in bed. Near about twelve o'clock our strained hearing
detected the sound of a slight fumbling at the door. It opened, and the
moonlight streaming in through the uncurtained windows showed us,
through our half-shut eyelids, the figures of our escort and the
hunchback. They moved like cats about the room. It struck me even then
that they were used to these midnight searches.
A thrill of fear went through me as the hunchback passed the bed, but a
dogged persistency was with me still that they should not have our
money. Our handbags were taken out of the room, doubtless to be examined
at leisure by the old woman, and mulct of anything valuable. We heard a
slight clink of money which meant the purse was emptied. Our clothes
were shaken and examined, even our boots were looked into.
Lastly they came to the bed. My eyes were glued then to my cheeks, and
mother's must have been so as well. I could not see what they did, but I
could feel them. They were practised though in their handling of our
pillows, for had I been really asleep I should never have felt anything.
They looked everywhere, they felt everywhere, everywhere but in the
right place, and then with a hardly-concealed murmur of dissatisfaction
they went from the room, closing the door after them. Mother and I lay
quiet. The only thing we did was to hold one another's hands under the
bed-clothes, and to press our shoulders close together.
Only once again did the door open, and that was to admit our escort, who
had brought back our handbags.
And then the door closed for good and all, but we never said a word all
the long night through, though each knew and felt that the other was
awake. The grey dawn stealing in saw us with eyes strained and wide, and
we turned and looked at each other, and mother kissed me. It was
Christmas Day.
Our hearts were braver with the daylight, and what was joy unspeakable
was to see the snow melting fast away under the heavy thaw that had set
in during the early hours of the dawn. Our journey could be pursued
without much difficulty, for if need be we could walk every step of the
way.
When it was quite light we got up and dressed. I undid my stitching of
the night before, gave mother back the gold safe and intact, and then
sewed up the incision as neatly as I could.
We went down hatted and cloaked to the room we had supped in the night
before. It presented no change. Over the fire the old woman bent,
stirring something in a saucepan; our escort was seated at the table,
and by the stove sat the hunchback nursing his knees--with only one
difference,--there was no grin upon his face. He looked like a man
thwarted.
We had just bade them good morning and the old woman was asking us how
we had slept, when the noise of wheels and horses' feet sounded outside.
It was the second _diligence_. The landlord of the inn had told the
conductor to call and see if we had been forced to take refuge in our
escort's house. The jovial conductor was beaming all over as he stamped
his wet feet on the stone floor of the kitchen, laughing at the
miraculous disappearance of all the snow. His very presence seemed to
put new life into us.
"And what am I indebted to you," asked mother, "for the kindly shelter
you have afforded us?"
Our escort shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever madame wishes," was his
reply.
So mother placed a napoleon upon the table. It was too much, I always
maintained, after all the francs they had robbed from the purse, and the
gold piece the hunchback had picked up, but it was the smallest coin
mother had, and she told me afterwards she didn't grudge it, for our
lives had been spared us as well as the bulk of our money.
The _diligence_ rattled briskly along, and we reached the _Pomme d'Or_
to find that father's illness had taken a favourable turn during that
terrible night, and the only thing he needed now was care and good
nursing. When he was well again he reported our experiences to the
police, and we had good reason to believe that no credulous wayfarer
ever had to undergo the terrible ordeal that we did that night. The
house was ever after kept under strict police surveillance.
A NIGHT OF HORROR.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
The jaguar, otherwise known as the American leopard, belongs to the
forests of South America, and has many points of difference from, as
well as some of similarity with, the leopard of Asia. Though ferocious
in his wild state, he is amenable to civilising influences and becomes
mild and tame in captivity. He is an excellent swimmer and an expert
climber, ascending to the tops of high branchless trees by fixing his
claws in the trunks. It is said that he can hunt in the trees almost as
well as he can upon the ground, and that hence he becomes a formidable
enemy to the monkeys. He is also a clever fisherman, his method being
that of dropping saliva on to the surface of the water, and upon the
approach of a fish, by a dexterous stroke of his paw knocking it out of
the water on to the bank.
But the jaguar by no means confines his attention to hunting monkeys and
defenceless fish. He will hunt big game, and when hungry will not
hesitate to attack man.
The strength of the jaguar is very great, and as he can climb, swim, and
leap a great distance, he seems to be almost equally formidable in three
elements. He is said to attack the alligator and to banquet with evident
relish off his victim. D'Azara says that on one occasion he found a
jaguar feasting upon a horse which it had killed. The jaguar fled at his
approach, whereupon he had the body of the horse dragged to within a
musket shot of a tree in which he purposed watching for the jaguar's
return. While temporarily absent he left a man to keep watch, and while
he was away the jaguar reappeared on the opposite side of a river which
was both deep and broad. Having crossed the river the animal approached,
and seized the horse with his teeth, dragged it some sixty paces to the
water side, plunged in with it, swam across the river, pulled it out
upon the other side, and carried it into a neighbouring wood.
Such an animal could not but be a formidable foe to any one who had the
misfortune to be unarmed when attacked, as many an early settler in the
Western States of America found to his cost. Among such experiences, the
following story of a night of horror told by Mrs. Bowdich stands out as
a tale of terror scarcely likely to be surpassed.
Two of the early settlers in the Western States of America, a man and
his wife, once closed their wooden hut, and went to pay a visit at a
distance, leaving a freshly-killed piece of venison hanging inside. The
gable end of this house was not boarded up as high as the roof, but a
large aperture was left for light and air. By taking an enormous leap, a
hungry jaguar, attracted by the smell of the venison, had entered the
hut and devoured part of it. He was disturbed by the return of the
owners, and took his departure. The venison was removed. The husband
went away the night after to a distance, and left his wife alone in the
hut. She had not been long in bed before she heard the jaguar leap in at
the open gable. There was no door between her room and that in which he
had entered, and she knew not how to protect herself. She, however,
screamed as loudly as she could, and made all the violent noises she
could think of, which served to frighten him away at that time; but she
knew he would come again, and she must be prepared for him. She tried to
make a large fire, but the wood was expended. She thought of rolling
herself up in the bed-clothes, but these would be torn off. The idea of
getting under the low bedstead suggested itself, but she felt sure a paw
would be stretched forth which would drag her out. Her husband had taken
all their firearms. At last, as she heard the jaguar this time
scrambling up the end of the house, she in despair got into a large
store chest, the lid of which closed with a spring. Scarcely was she
within it, and had dragged the lid down, inserting her fingers between
it and the side of the chest, when the jaguar discovered where she was.
He smelt round the chest, tried to get his head in through the crack,
but fortunately he could not raise the lid. He found her fingers and
began to lick them; she felt them bleed, but did not dare to move them
for fear she should be suffocated. At length the jaguar leaped on to the
lid, and his weight pressing down the lid, fractured these fingers.
Still she could not move. He smelt round again, he pulled, he leaped on
and off, till at last getting tired of his vain efforts, he went away.
The poor woman lay there till daybreak, and then only feeling safe from
her enemy, she went as fast as her strength would let her to her nearest
neighbour's, a distance of two miles, where she procured help for her
wounded fingers, which were long in getting well. On his return, her
husband found a male and female jaguar in the forest close by, with
their cubs, and all were destroyed.
Human hair has been known to turn white in a single night, and is often
said to do so in the pages of fiction. Whether it did so or not in the
present case is not recorded, but certainly if it did not, it lost an
exceptional opportunity.
AUNT GRIEVES' SILVER.
BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.
When Kate Hamilton's father had been dead six months, and Kate had had
time to realise that the extensive sheep station belonged to her and to
her alone--that she, in fact, was what the shearers called "the
boss"--then did she sit down and pen a few lines to her aunt in
England--her father's only sister. She did not exactly know what
possessed her to do it. She had never at any time during her nineteen
years corresponded with her aunt; it was her father who had kept up the
tie between his sister and himself. But notwithstanding that she was now
"boss," perhaps a craving for a little of the sympathy and the great
affection with which her father had always surrounded her, had something
to do with her wishing to get up a correspondence with his sister.
Whatever the reason the impulse was there, and the letter was despatched
to the England that Kate had never seen except through her father's
eyes.
A few weeks later she received an answer that filled her with surprise.
After a few preliminary remarks relating to the grief she felt at the
news of her brother's death, Mrs. Grieves wrote as follows:
"Your cousin Cicely and I cannot bear to think of your
being alone--young girl that you are--without a single
relative near for comfort or advice. I have made up my mind
to start for Australia as soon as I can arrange my affairs
satisfactorily. There is nothing to keep us in England
since Cicely's father died last year, and I long to see my
brother's only child. Moreover, the voyage will do Cicely
good, for she is very fragile, and the doctor warmly
approves of the idea. So adieu, my dear child, till we
meet. I shall send a cablegram the day before our vessel
starts.
"Your affectionate aunt,
"CAROLINE GRIEVES."
Kate's face was a study when she had finished reading the letter.
Surprise she certainly felt, and a little amusement, too, to think that
she--an Australian bush-born girl--could not look after herself and her
affairs without an English aunt and an English cousin travelling many
thousands of miles across the water to aid her with their advice.
Hadn't she been for the last three years her father's right hand in the
store, and in the shearing-shed, too, for that matter? Didn't she
understand thoroughly how the books were kept? For this very reason her
father, knowing full well that the complaint from which he suffered
would sooner or later cause his death, had kept her cognisant of how the
station should be managed. And now these English relatives were leaving
their beautiful English home to give her advice upon matters that they
were totally ignorant of!
Kate sat down with the letter in her hand and laughed. Then she looked
sober. It would after all be pleasant to see some of her own relatives,
not one of which--either on her dead mother's or her father's side--did
she possess in Australia.
Yes, after all, the idea, on closer investigation, did not seem at all
disagreeable, and Kate took up the letter again and read it with
pleasure this time.
Even if she had wished to put a stop to the intended visit, she could
not have had time, for three weeks later she received the cablegram:
"_We are leaving by the steamer Europia._"
She really felt a thrill of joy as she read this. She could now
calculate upon the day they were likely to arrive. The days flew fast
enough, for Kate had not time to sit down and dream over the appearance
of the travellers. The "boss" was wanted everywhere, and she must needs
know the why and wherefore of matters pertaining to account-books,
shearing sheds, cattle-yards, stores, and everything relating to the
homestead.
"It is good you were born with your father's business head," said Phil
Wentworth, with a scarcely concealed look of admiration.
He was the manager of the station at Watakona. Mr. Hamilton had chosen
him five years before to be his representative over the shearing-shed
and stores, finding him after that length of time fully capable of
performing all and more than was expected of him. He was a good-looking
young man of thirty, with a bright, cheery manner, that had a good
effect upon those employed at the station.
"Not a grumble from one of the men has ever been heard since Wentworth
came here as manager," Kate's father had often said to her. "So
different from that rascal Woods, who treated some of the men as if they
were dogs, and allowed many a poor sheep to go shorn to its pen cut and
bleeding from overhaste, with never a word of remonstrance."
And Kate bore that in mind, as also some of her father's last words:
"Don't ever be persuaded to part with Wentworth. He is far and away the
best man I have ever had for the business."
At last the day came when Mrs. Grieves and her daughter Cicely arrived
at Watakona.
There was a comical smile on the manager's good-looking face as trunk
after trunk was lifted down off the waggon, and Kate's aunt announced
that "there was more to come."
"More to come!" answered Kate, surprised. And then, bursting into a
laugh, "Dear aunt, what can you have brought that will be of any use to
you in this out-of-the-way place?"
Mrs. Grieves smilingly nodded her head. "There is not one trunk there
that I could possibly do without."
And Kate, with another smile, dismissed the subject.
But not so her aunt. When they were all seated together after a
comfortable tea, she began in a whisper, looking round cautiously first
to see that no one was within hearing:
"You are curious, Kate dear, to know what those trunks contain?"
"My curiosity can stay, aunt. I am only afraid that what you have
brought will be of no use to you. You see, I live such a quiet life
here, with few friends and fewer grand dresses, that I fear you will be
disappointed at not being able to wear any of the things you have
brought."
Cicely, a pretty, delicate-looking girl, laughed merrily.
"They do not hold dresses, Kate. No, I have not thought to lead a gay
life on a sheep station in Australia. What I have brought is something
that I could not bear to leave behind. Those trunks contain all the
silver I used to use in my English home."
"Silver! What kind of silver?"
"Teapots, cream ewers, epergnes, candlesticks, to say nothing of the
spoons, forks, fish-knives, etc.," said Cicely gaily.
"You've brought all those things with you here?" cried Kate, horrified.
"Oh, aunt, where can I put them all for safety?"
Mrs. Grieves looked nonplussed. "I suppose you have some iron safes----"
she began.
"But not big enough to store that quantity of silver!"
Kate spent a restless night. Visions of bushrangers stood between her
and sleep. What would she do with that silver?
"Bank it," suggested Phil Wentworth the next morning, as she explained
her difficulty to him in the little counting-house after breakfast.
Kate shook her head. "Aunt wouldn't do it. If she did she might as well
have banked it in England."
The manager pulled his moustache. "How much is there?"
"I haven't seen it, but from what Cicely says I should say there are
heaps and heaps."
"Foolish woman," was the manager's thought, but he wisely kept it to
himself.
When, however, the silver was laid before her very eyes, and piece after
piece was taken from the trunks, ranged alongside one another in Mrs.
Grieves's bedroom, Kate's heart failed her.
"Mr. Wentworth must see it and advise me," was all she could say. And
her aunt could not deter her.
Kate's white brow was puckered into a frown, and her pretty mouth
drooped slightly at the corners as she watched Mr. Wentworth making his
inspection of the silver. She knew his face so well, she could tell at
one glance that he was thinking her aunt an exceedingly foolish woman,
and Kate was not quite sure that she did not agree with him.
However, the silver was there, and they had to make the best of it, for
Mrs. Grieves utterly rejected the idea of having it conveyed to a bank
in Sydney.
"The only thing to do," said the manager gloomily, turning to Kate, "is
to place it under the trap-door in the counting-house."
Kate looked questioningly at him. He half smiled.
"I think that the only thing you are not aware of in the business is the
fact that the flooring of the counting-house can be converted at will
into a strong lock-up. Come, and I will show you."
The three women followed him. To Cicely's English eyes the entire
homestead was a strangely delightful place.
Rolling to one side the matting that covered the floor of the
counting-house, Mr. Wentworth paused, and introducing a lever between
the joining of two boards upheaved a square trap-door, revealing to the
eyes of the astonished English ladies, and the no less astonished
Australian "boss," a wide, gaping receptacle, suitable for the very
articles under discussion.
It looked dark and gloomy below, but on the manager's striking a wax
match and holding it aloft, they were enabled each one to descend the
short ladder which the opening of the flooring revealed. Beneath the
counting-house Kate found to her amazement a room quite as large as the
one above it, furnished with chairs, a table, and a couple of stout iron
safes. Upon the table stood an old iron candlestick into which Mr.
Wentworth inserted a candle lighted from his wax match.
"You never told me," were Kate's reproachful words, and still more
reproachful glance.
"I tell you now," he said lightly. "There was no need to before. Your
father showed it me when I had been here a year. Indeed, he and I often
forgot that the counting-house had been built for a double purpose,--but
that was because there was nothing to stow away of much value. Now I
think we have just the hiding-place for all that silver."
It was indeed the place, the very place, and under great secrecy the
silver was conveyed through the trap-door, and firmly locked into the
iron safes.
So far so good, and Kate breathed again with almost as much of her old
light-heartedness as before.
In spite of her doubt of the wisdom of bringing such valuables so far
and to such a place, she and Cicely took a secret delight in a weekly
cleaning up of the silver, secure of all observation from outsiders. It
was a pleasure to Kate to lift and polish the handsome epergne, and to
finger the delicate teaspoons and fanciful fish-knives and forks.
"What a haul this would be for a bushranger!" she said one day, as she
carefully laid the admired epergne back into its place in the iron safe.
Cicely gave a gasp and a shudder. "You--you don't have them in these
parts, surely!" she ejaculated.
"If they find there is anything worth lifting they'll visit any
homestead in the colony," returned Kate.
"But oh! dear Kate, what should we do if they came here? I should die of
fright."
"Yes, I'm afraid you would," said Kate, glancing compassionately at the
delicate figure beside her, and at the cheeks which had visibly lost
their pink colour. "No, Cicely, I don't think there is any chance of
such characters visiting us just now. The first and last time I saw a
bushranger was when I was fifteen years old. He and his men tried to
break into our house for, somehow, it had got wind that father had in
the house a large sum of money--money which of course he usually banked.
I can see dear old father now, standing with his rifle in his hand at
the dining-room window, and Mr. Wentworth standing beside him. They were
firing away at three men who were as much in earnest as my father and
his manager were."
"And what happened?" asked Cicely breathlessly, as Kate stopped to look
round for her polishing cloth.
"Father killed one man, the two others got away, not, however, before
Mr. Wentworth had shot away the forefinger of the leader. We found it
after they had gone, lying on the path beside the cattle-yard. He was a
terrible fellow, the leader of that bushranging crew. He went by the
name of Wolfgang. He may be alive now, I don't know. I have not heard of
any depredations committed by him for two or three years now."
"And I hope you never will," said Cicely with a shudder. "Kate, have you
done all you want to do here? I should so like to finish that letter to
send off by to-day's mail."
"Then go. I'll just stay to lock up. You haven't much time if you want
Sam Griffiths to take it this afternoon."
Cicely jumped up without another word, and climbed the ladder.
Kate lifted the case of fish-knives into the safe, and stretched out her
hand for the other articles without turning her head. She felt her hand
clutched as in a vice by fingers cold as ice. She turned sharply round.
Cicely was at her side with lips and cheeks devoid of colour.
"Good gracious, Cicely! what is the matter? How you startled me!" said
Kate in a vexed tone.
Cicely laid one cold, trembling, finger upon her cousin's lips.
"He has seen us--he has been looking down on us," was all she could
articulate.
"Who? What do you mean?" But Kate's voice was considerably lowered.
"The bushranger Wolfgang. He--he has seen all the silver!"
Kate broke into a nervous laugh. "I think you are dreaming, Cicely. How
do you know you saw Wolfgang? And how could he see us down here?"
"It is no dream," answered Cicely in the same husky whisper. "Kate, as I
climbed the ladder quickly I saw the face of a man disappear from the
trap-door, but not before I caught sight of the forefinger missing off
the hand that held one side of the trap-door. Kate, Kate, it was
Wolfgang. He has been staring down at us."
Kate looked up wildly at the opening above. It was free from all
intruders now. She locked every article into the safe without uttering a
word; then said, "Come."
Together they mounted the ladder; together they latched down the
trap-door; together they left the counting-house.
"Tell Sam to ride to the shed and ask Mr. Wentworth to come to me at
once--at once." Kate gave the order in a calm voice to the one woman
servant that did the work in the house.
"Sam isn't in the yards," was the answer. "He told me three hours ago
that he was wanted by Mr. Wentworth to ride to the township for
something or other. He was in a fine way about it, for he said it was
taking him from his work here."
Some of Kate's calm left her. She looked round at the helpless
women--three now, for her aunt had joined them.
"Aunt," she said, forcing herself to speak quietly, "I have fears that
this afternoon we shall be attacked by bushrangers. Unfortunately Sam
has been called away, and he is the only man we have on the premises.
There is not another within reach, except at the shearing-shed, and you
know where that is. Which of you will venture to ride there for help? I
dare not go, for I must protect the house."
She glanced at each of the three faces in turn, and saw no help there.
Becky, the servant, had utterly collapsed at the word bushranger; the
other two faces looked as if carved in stone.
"Kate, Kate, is there no other help near?"
"Not nearer than the shearing-shed, aunt."
"I daren't go. I couldn't ride that distance."
"Cicely?" Kate's tone was imploring.
"Don't ask me," and Cicely burst into a flood of tears.
"We must defend ourselves, then."
The Australian girl's voice was quiet, albeit it trembled slightly.
"Come to the counting-house. Becky, you come too. We must barricade the
place. I'll run round and fasten up every door. They will have a tough
job to get in," she murmured grimly.
How she thanked her father for the strong oak door! The oaken shutters
with their massive iron clamps! It would seem as if he had expected a
raid from bushrangers at some time or other in his life. The
counting-house door was stronger than the others. She now understood the
reason why. The room below had been taken into consideration when that
door was put up.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon. A broiling, sun-baking afternoon.
They were prepared, sitting, as it were, in readiness for the attack
they were momentarily expecting.
It came at last. The voice that sounded outside the counting-house door
took her back to the time when she was fifteen years of age. It was a
strange, harsh voice, grating in its harshness, strange in being like no
other. She remembered it to be the voice of the man that had challenged
her father that memorable day--remembered it to be the voice of
Wolfgang.
Like an evil bird of prey had he scented from afar the silver stored
under the trap-door, just as he had scented the sum of money her father
had hidden away in the house.
"It's no use your sheltering yourselves in there," said the voice. "We
want to harm no one--it's against our principles. What we want is just
the silver hidden under the counting-house, and we want nothing more."
With one finger upraised, cautioning silence, Kate saw for the twentieth
time to the priming of her rifle--the very rifle that had shot
Wolfgang's chief man four years before. There was no need for her to
caution her companions to silence. They knelt on the floor--a huddled,
trembling trio.
If only Kate could see how many men there were! But she could not.
"It will take them some time to batter in that door," thought she, "and
by that time, who knows, help may come from some unexpected quarter."
"Do you dare to defy us?" said the voice again. "We know you are utterly
helpless. Sam has been got out of the way by a cooked-up story, ditto
your manager. They are both swearing in the broiling township by now."
And the voice broke off with a loud "Ha! ha!"
At which two other voices echoed "Ha! ha! ha! ha!"
Kate strained her ears to catch the sounds. Were there only three, then,
just as there had been three four years before?
Then ensued a battering at the door, but it stood like a rock. They were
tiring at that game. It hurt them, and did no good. There was silence
for the space of some minutes, and then the sound of scraping reached
Kate's ears.
What were they doing now?
It sounded on the roof of the counting-house. O God! they were never
going to make an entrance that way!
Scrape, scrape, scrape. The sound went on persistently.
Kate's face was hidden in her hands. Was she praying? thought Cicely.
Then she, too, lifted up a silent prayer for help in their time of need.
Kate's voice whispering in her ear aroused her. "Come," she breathed.
And with one accord, without a question, the three followed her
silently.
The room beyond the counting-house was up a narrow flight of stairs. It
used to be called by Kate, in derision, "Father's observatory." Through
a small pane of glass in this room she could see the roof of the
counting-house.
Sawing away at the wooden structure upon which he was perched sat
Wolfgang himself, whilst the man beside him was busily engaged in
removing the thatch piece by piece.
Kate waited to see no more. Raising her rifle to her shoulder she
fired--fired straight at the leading bushranger.
She saw him stagger and roll--roll down the sloping roof, and fall with
a dull thud to the ground below.
She could only lean against the wall, and hide her face in her trembling
hands. Was he dead? Had she killed him? Or had the fall off the house
completed the deed?
She felt a hand on her arm. Becky was standing beside her. "Give me the
rifle," she breathed. "I can load it."
With a faint feeling of surprise at her heart, Kate handed her the
weapon with fingers slightly unsteady. She received it back in silence,
and mounted to her place of observation again.
Wolfgang's companion was crouching. His attitude struck Kate
disagreeably. His back was turned to her. What was he looking at?
She strained her eyes, and descried, galloping at the top of his speed,
Black Bounce, and on his back was Phil Wentworth. Behind him at
breakneck pace came six of the shearers--tall, brawny men, the very
sight of whom inspired courage.
Wentworth's rifle was raised. A shot rang through the air. Then another.
And yet another. Bang! bang! bang! What had happened?
Kate, straining her eyes, only knew that just as the manager's rifle
went off, the bushranger on the roof had fired at him, not, however,
before Kate's shot disabled him in the arm, thus preventing his aim from
covering the manager.
"Thank God, thank God, we are saved!" she cried.
And now that the danger was over, Kate sank down upon the floor of the
"observatory," and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Becky--her bravery returning as the sound of horses' hoofs struck upon
her ear--slipped from the room, leaving Mrs. Grieves and Cicely to play
the part of consolers to her young mistress.
It appeared that a trumped-up story, purporting to come from one of his
friends in the township, had caused Phil Wentworth to go there that
morning, and that on his way he overtook Sam Griffiths, who grumpily
asked him why he should have been ordered to the township when his hands
were so full of work at home. This led the young manager to scent
something wrong, and telling Griffiths to follow him home quickly he
rode straight back to the shed, and getting some of the shearers to
accompany him, made straight tracks for the house.
Mrs. Grieves and Cicely had by this time had as much as they cared for
of bush life, and very shortly after announced that the Australian
climate did not suit either Cicely or herself as she had hoped it might,
and that they had made up their minds to return to England.
"I hope they intend to take their silver away with them," said the
manager when Kate told him.
She replied with a laugh, "Oh yes, I don't believe aunt would think life
worth living if she had not her silver with her."
Poor Aunt Grieves! the vessel she travelled by had to be abandoned
before it reached England, and the silver she had suffered so much for
lies buried in the sands of the deep.
As for Kate, she subsequently took Philip Wentworth into partnership,
and he gave her his name.
BILLJIM.
BY S. LE SOTGILLE.
Nestling in the scrub at the head of a gully running into the Newanga
was a typical Australian humpy. It was built entirely of bark. Roof,
back, front, and sides were huge sheets of stringy bark, and the window
shutters were of the same, the windows themselves being sheets of
calico; also the two doors were whole sheets of bark swung upon leathern
hinges.
The humpy was divided into three rooms, two bedrooms and a general room.
The "galley" was just outside, a three-sided, roofed arrangement, and
the ubiquitous bark figured in that adjunct of civilisation.
In springtime the roof and sides of this humpy were one huge blaze of
Bougainvillaea, and not a vestige of bark was visible. It was surrounded
by a paling fence, rough split bush palings only, but in every way
fitted for what they were intended to do--that is, keep out animals of
all descriptions.
In the front garden were flowers of every conceivable hue and variety,
from the flaring giant sunflower to the quiet retiring geranium, and
stuck to old logs and standing dead timber were several beautiful
orchids of different varieties. Violets, pansies, fuchsias and
nasturtiums bordered the walks in true European fashion, and one
wondered who had taken all this trouble in so outlandish a spot.
At the back of the humpy rose the Range sheer fifteen hundred feet with
huge granite boulders, twice the size of the humpy itself, standing
straight out from the side of the Range, giving one the idea that they
were merely stuck there in some mysterious manner, and were ready at a
moment's notice to come tumbling down, overwhelming every one and
everything in their descent.
On the other three sides was scrub. Dense tropical scrub for miles,
giving out a muggy disagreeable heat, and that peculiar overpowering
smell common, I think, to all tropical growth. No one could have chosen
a better spot than this if his desire were to escape entirely from the
busy world and live a quiet sequestered life amongst the countless
beautiful gifts that Dame Nature seems so lavish of in the hundred nooks
and corners of the mountainous portion of Australia. In this humpy,
then, hidden from the world in general, and known only to a few miners
and prospectors, lived Dick Benson, his wife, and their daughter
Billjim. That is what she was called, anyway, by all the diggers on the
Newanga. It wasn't her name, of course. She was registered at Clagton
Court House as Katherine Veronica Benson, but no one in all the district
thought of calling her Kitty now, and as for Veronica--well, it was too
much to ask of any one, let alone a rough bushman.
The name Billjim she practically chose herself.
One evening a digger named Jack L'Estrange, a great friend of the
Bensons, was reading an article from the _Bulletin_ to her father, and
Kitty, as she was then called, was whiling away the time by pulling his
moustache, an occupation which interfered somewhat with the reading, but
which was allowed to pass without serious rebuke.
In this article the paper spoke of backblocks bushmen under the generic
soubriquet of Billjim. And a very good name too, for in any up-country
town one has but to sing out "Bill" or "Jim" to have an answer from
three-fourths of the male population.
The name tickled Kitty immensely, and she chuckled, "Billjim! Billjim!
Oh, I'd like to be called that."
"Would you though?" asked her father, smiling.
"Yes," answered Kitty; "it's a fine name, Billjim."
"Well, we will call you Billjim in future," said Dick; and from that day
the name stuck to her. And it suited her.
She was the wildest of wild bush girls. At twelve years old she could
ride and shoot as well as most of us, and would pan out a prospect with
any man on the Newanga.
She had never been to school, there being none nearer than Clagton,
which was some fifteen miles away, but she had been taught the simple
arts of reading and writing by her mother, and Jack L'Estrange had
ministered to her wants in the matter of arithmetic.
With all her wildness she was a good, kindly girl, materially helping
her mother in the household matters, and all that flower garden was her
special charge and delight.
Wednesday and Thursday of every week were holidays, and those two days
were spent by Billjim in roaming the country far and wide. Sometimes on
horseback, when a horse could be borrowed, but mostly on her own
well-formed feet.
She would wander off with a shovel and a dish into the scrub, and,
following up some gully all day, would return at night tired out and
happy, and generally with two or three grains of gold to show for her
day's work. Sometimes she would come back laden with some new orchid,
and this she would carefully fix in the garden in a position as similar
as possible to that in which she had found it, and usually it would
blossom there as if it were thankful at being so well cared for.
When Billjim wasn't engaged making her pocket-money, as she termed it,
her days would be spent with Jack L'Estrange.
Jack was a fine, strapping young fellow of twenty-three, and was doing
as well on the Newanga as any. Since the day he had snatched Billjim
(then a wee mite) from the jaws of an alligator, as Queensland folk will
insist upon calling their crocodile, he had been _l'ami de la maison_ at
the Bensons', and Billjim thought there was no one in the world like
him. He in return would do any mortal thing which that rather capricious
young lady desired.
One evening, when they were all sitting chatting round the fire in the
galley, Benson said:
"Don't you think, Jack, that Billjim ought to go to some decent school?
The missus and me of course ain't no scholars, but now that we can
afford it we'd like Billjim to learn proper, you know."
Jack looked at Billjim, who had nestled up closer to him during this
speech, and was on the point of answering in the negative, when less
selfish thoughts entered his head, and he replied:
"Well, Dick, much against my inclination, I must say that I think she
ought to go. You see," he continued, turning to Billjim and taking her
hand, "it's this way. We should all miss you, lass, very much, but it's
for your own good. You must know more than we here can teach you if you
wish to be any good to your father and mother."
Billjim nodded and looked at him, and Jack had to turn his eyes away and
speak to Mrs. Benson for fear of going back on his words.
"You see, Mrs. Benson," said Jack, "it wouldn't be for long, for Billjim
would learn very quickly with good teachers, and be of great use to you
when Dick makes that pile."
Mrs. Benson smiled in spite of herself when Jack mentioned "that pile."
Dick had been going to strike it rich up there on the Newanga for over
seven years, and the fortune hadn't come yet.
"I suppose you're right," she said, "and I'm sure Billjim will be a good
girl and study quick to get back. Won't you, lass?"
"Yes'm," answered Billjim, with a reservoir of tears in her voice, but
none in her eyes. She wouldn't have cried with Jack there for the world!
So after a lot of talking it was settled, and Billjim departed for
school, and the humpy knew her no more for four long years.
Ah! what a dreary, dreary time that was to Mrs. Benson and Dick. Jack
kept her flower garden going for all those years, and Snowy, her dog,
lived down at his camp. These had been Billjim's last commands.
Dick worked away manfully looking for that pile, and succeeded passing
well, as the account at Clagton Bank could show, but there was no
alteration made at the "Nest," as the humpy was designated.
Jack passed most of his evenings up there, and on mail days was in great
request to read Billjim's epistles out loud.
No matter who was there, those letters were read out, and some of us who
knew Billjim well passed encouraging remarks about her improvement, etc.
We all missed her, for she had been used to paying periodical flying
visits, and her face had always seemed to us like a bright gleam of
sunshine breaking through that steaming, muggy, damp scrub.
One mail day, four years very near to the day after Billjim's departure,
the usual letter was read out, and part of it ran so:
"Oh, mum dear, do let me come back now. I am sure I have learned enough,
and oh! how I long for a sight of you and dad, and dear old Jack and
Frenchy, and Jim Travers, and all of you in fact. Let me come, oh! do
let me come back."
Upon my word, I believe there was a break in Jack's voice as he read.
Mrs. Benson was crying peacefully, and Dick and French were blowing
their noses in an offensive and boisterous manner.
A motion was put and carried forthwith that Billjim should return at
once. Newanga couldn't go on another month like this. Quite absurd to
think of it.
The letter was dispatched telling Billjim of the joyful news, and
settling accounts with the good sisters who had sheltered and cared for
her so long.
Great were the preparations for Dick's journey to the coast to meet her
when the time came. So great was the excitement that a newcomer thought
some great reef had been struck, and followed several of us about for
days trying to discover its location and get his pegs in!
Every one wanted to lend something for Billjim's comfort on the journey
out. No lady's saddle was there in all the camp, and great was Dick's
trouble thereat, until Frenchy rigged his saddle up with a bit of wood
wrapped round with a piece of blanket, which, firmly fixed to the front
dees, did duty for a horn.
"It's a great idea, Frenchy," said Dick; "but, lord, I'd ha' sent her
the money for one if I'd only ha' thought of it, but, bless you, I was
thinking of her as a little girl yet."
'Twas a great day entirely, as Micky the Rat put it, when Billjim came
home.
Every digger for miles round left work and made a bee-line from his
claim to the road, and patiently waited there to get a hand-shake and a
smile from their friend Billjim, and they all got both, and went back
very grateful and very refreshed.
Billjim had turned into a pretty woman in those four years, and I think
every one was somewhat staggered by it.
Jack L'Estrange's first meeting with his one-time playmate was at the
Nest, and it so threw Jack off his balance that he was practically
maudlin for a week after the event.
When he entered the door he stood at first spell-bound at the change in
his favourite, then he said:
"Why, Bill--er Kate, I.... 'Pon my word, I don't know what to say. Oh,
Christopher! you know this is comical; I came up here intending to kiss
my little friend Billjim, and I find you grown into a beautiful woman."
"Kiss me, Jack?" broke in Billjim; "kiss me? Why, I'm going to hug you!"
And she did, and Jack blushed to the roots of his curly golden hair, and
was confused all the evening over it.
The four years' schooling had not changed Billjim one iota as far as
character went. She was the identical Billjim grown big and grown
pretty, that was all.
But something was to happen which was to turn the wild tom-boy into a
serious woman, and it happened shortly after her return home.
It was mail night up at the Nest, and Jack L'Estrange was absent from
the crowd that invariably spent an hour or two getting their mail and
discussing items of grave interest. Being mail night, Jack's absence was
naturally noticed, and every one made some remark about it.
However, old Dick said: "Oh, Jack's struck some good thing, I suppose,
and got back to camp too late to come up. He'll come in the morning
likely."
This seemed to satisfy every one save Billjim. She turned to Frenchy,
and said:
"Do you know whereabouts Jack was working lately?"
"Yes," answered Frenchy. "He was working at the two mile, day before
yesterday, so I suppose he's there yet."
"Yes," said Billjim, "I suppose he will be." But Billjim wasn't
satisfied. When every one was asleep she was out, and knowing the scrub
thoroughly, was over to Jack's camp in a quarter of an hour. Not finding
Jack there, she made for the two mile with all speed, for something told
her she knew not what. An undefinable feeling that something was wrong
came across her. She saw Jack lying crushed and bleeding and no one
there to help him! Do what she would, dry, choking sobs burst from her
tight-closed lips as she scrambled along over boulders and through the
thick scrub. Brambles, wait-a-bit vines, and berry bushes scratched and
stung her, and switched across her face, leaving bleeding and livid
marks on her tender skin. But she pushed on and on in the fitful
moonlight through the dense undergrowth, making a straight line for the
two mile.