MRS. NICHOLAS NUTTALL RECEIVES VISITORS.
Having completely made up her mind as to her right of possession, Mrs.
Nicholas Nuttall conducted herself in a manner befitting her high
position. Not only did it behove her to assert her superiority by
means of silks and satins and grand airs, but it behoved her also to
be practical. For she had settled it with herself that the property
must be improved and looked after. Nicholas was certainly not fit to
manage the Station: therefore she must manage it herself. There was no
telling how soon she might be called upon to undertake the
responsibility: her brother-in-law's constitution was evidently
broken; already he was beginning to stoop, and he seemed to have grown
a dozen years older in the few months she had known him. Then, he was
so reckless--galloping about, here, there, and everywhere on wild
horses; an accident so easily occurs! "I should never forgive myself,"
thought the estimable lady, "if anything were to happen--if his horse
were to tumble over a fence, for instance, or into a ditch, or the
dear man were to be gored by a bull--I should never forgive myself if
I were not in a position to manage the estate properly. To do this, I
must obtain information." In pursuance of this resolution, she set
about, with praiseworthy assiduity, obtaining information: as to when
was the lambing season; as to the rate of increase; as to supposing
you had twenty-thousand sheep this year how many would you be likely
to have next; as to how much wool you could get off a sheep's back,
and whether the poor things were not cold when they were sheared; as
to the increase of oxen; as to the value of hides and tallow; as to
the wild horses; and so on. Armed with little bits of information, she
would lock herself in her bed-room, and make calculations, the usual
result of which was that the property had been dreadfully mismanaged,
and that when her brother-in-law broke his collar-bone, poor fellow!
or was found gored to death by mad bulls, or "went off" in some other
way--there were so many dreadful chances to contemplate!--Nicholas,
under her management, should become a millionaire in a very short
time. Thus it came about that Nicholas found in the drawers scraps of
paper covered with figures and strange remarks in his wife's
handwriting, as thus: "Calculated at 100 per cent, increase,
first year, 100,000 sheep; second year, 200,000; third year, 400,000;
fourth year, 800,000; fifth year, 1,600,000; sixth year, 3,200,000;
seventh year, 6,400,000; eighth year, 12,800,000--that will do--stop
there--no, say another year--ninth year, 25,600,000--one year more,
positively the last, because we shall be growing old--tenth year,
51,200,000--_that_ will do! 51,200,000 sheep at £1 each, fifty one
millions, two hundred thousand pounds: ask Nicholas how much a year
that would be in the funds." And in the night, Mrs. Nuttall would keep
poor Nicholas awake with questions about interest, and puzzling sums
in multiplication and division. She was satisfied that she understood
everything, and was mastering everything, but the land question. That
bothered her dreadfully. She drove Nicholas almost crazy about it; the
land question, she read in the newspapers, vitally affected the
squatters. Therefore, as a future squatter-ess, it was of vital
interest to her. At length, one night, she settled the question.
"And who is it that is kicking up all this bother?" she asked.
"There's somebody at the bottom of it, of course. Tell me immediately
who it is." She made this demand in a tone which implied that she was
prepared to wither them, directly they were made known to her.
"It's the people," said Nicholas.
"Oh! The people!" she exclaimed, sarcastically. "And pray what do they
want?"
"They want to unlock the lands," murmured Nicholas.
"Unlock the lands!" she exclaimed. "Never! While we have the key--we
_have_ got it, I suppose, somewhere--and while I have a voice in the
matter, they shall never be unlocked. A nice thing, indeed!"
Then she dismissed the matter from her mind, and fell-to calculating
again.
One day the worthy lady was taking her afternoon walk, with a green
silk bonnet upon her head, and a white silk parasol in her hand--which
articles of feminine vanity, be it observed, were the objects of much
admiration and envy on the part of a Native, known as Old Man Tommy,
who, basking in the sun, was feasting his eyes upon them. Old Man
Tommy was an institution on Highlay Station. He was tolerated because
he was harmless and old, and because when he was drunk he told stories
of distant places, where he could find gold in "big bits;" indeed, he
often brought to a neighbouring store small nuggets of gold, averaging
a few penny-weights, which he exchanged for rum. When he was in his
drunken humours the men about the Station would try to extract from
the old man some information as to the exact locality of his gold
region; but the Native was too cunning for them. All they could obtain
from him was a comprehensive waving of his arms northwards, and the
words: "There! Plenty gold! Big lumps! Me King Tommy! All mine!" On
this afternoon he lay, sober for a wonder, looking admiringly at Mrs.
Nuttall's bonnet and parasol. She was not at all offended at his
admiration. It is surprising how lenient we can be to the defects or
failings of those who minister to our vanity! In Mrs. Nuttall's eyes,
the savage was a very shrewd and estimable person, and she strolled by
him two or three times, as if unconscious of him, but really to reward
him for his good taste. While she was thus occupied, Marian ran up to
her, almost breathless, and cried,--
"Oh, mamma! such a dreadful thing has happened! A stockman's wife has
lost three children--such dear children! We noticed them yesterday,
you know. The men have been out all night looking for them, but have
not found them. The poor woman is in such a dreadful way! She says
they have lost themselves in the bush, and will starve to death. And I
have got a message for you, and one for Old Man Tommy--"
"Me, Old Man Tommy," said the Native, rising, and throwing his dirty
blanket over his shoulders.
The girl started back, half frightened.
"You no frightened Old Man Tommy!" he said. "What you want?"
"You go--find children--lost in bush; you go--join them." And Marian
pointed to a little knot of men in the distance.
"Ah!" grunted Old Man Tommy. "Piccaninny lost in bush. Me go find
him." And he was walking away, when artful cupidity caused him to turn
back.
"You give Old Man Tommy white money, him find piccaninny!"
"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Marian, "give him some money. He will be sure
to track them! Uncle said so."
"I'm sure I shall do nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Nuttall,
indignantly. "Give money to a savage, indeed!"
"Me take hat," said Old Man Tommy, looking covetously at Mrs.
Nuttall's green silk bonnet. Mrs. Nuttall started back.
"There, mamma!" cried Marian. "If you don't give him money, he will
take your new bonnet."
Old Man Tommy's eyes twinkled, for he understood every word that was
said. Mrs. Nuttall, to preserve her bonnet, took out her purse, and
extracted a shilling.
"There, bad man!" she said, dropping the coin into his skinny palm.
"Now, you go."
Old Man Tommy grinned, and with a leap, he raced off at full speed.
"He is a disgrace to the station," said Mrs. Nuttall, her opinion
of the savage being entirely altered, "and when we come into
possession--"
"_We_ come into possession, mamma!"
"Yes, my dear. We are your uncle's only relatives, and of course,
shall come into the property. When we come into possession, that
savage, whose personal appearance is positively indecent, shall not be
allowed to remain here a day."
"I am glad he is gone with them," said Marian. "All the men on the
Station have joined in the search, and I heard one of them say that
Old Man Tommy could smell footsteps--"
"All he is fit for!" exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall.
"And would be certain to discover the tracks of the poor children. And
they think Little Peter is lost as well, for they cannot find him
anywhere. Uncle's gone, and papa, too."
"Mercy on me! Your papa gone! What does he know about the bush!"
"I don't know, mamma. He and uncle kissed me, and told me to tell you
not to be frightened--"
"Frightened! at what, I should like to know?"
"As, perhaps, they would not come home until to-morrow."
"Good gracious, Marian! You don't mean to say that we shall be left
alone all the night?"
"Yes, mamma, uncle said it was very likely; and we are to see that the
windows and doors are locked. I hope we shall _not_ be left alone,
mamma; for if they come back, they will have found the dear children,
and I shall be so pleased."
"Well," said Mrs. Nuttall, as they walked to the house, "how your
papa, at his time of life, can go poking about in the bush all the
night, after a pack of children, is beyond my comprehension! But he
always was a mystery to me, Marian. When you marry, I hope you will
get a husband you can understand. Your father will come back with
rheumatics, as sure as his name's Nicholas!"
There was, however, nothing for it but resignation, and Mrs. Nuttall
made herself as comfortable as she could, under the circumstances.
Excepting herself and Marian, there was nobody in the house but the
cook, whose husband had also joined the search party.
"The natural anxiety of a wife," said Mrs. Nuttall, when the candles
had been lighted, "entirely destroys any idea of sleep. Suppose we
have a game of cribbage, Marian."
Now, it must be confessed that cribbage was a game of which Mrs.
Nuttall was profoundly ignorant. She knew that there were so many
cards to be dealt to each; that two cards were to be thrown out by
each for crib; and that there was a board with holes in it, and pegs
to stick into the holes. She had also (without knowing exactly how
they were to be applied) certain vague notions of "fifteen two," and
"one for his nob." Her knowledge of the mysteries of cribbage extended
no further. And it was a proof of the wonderful confidence the little
woman had in herself, that, in an off-hand way, she should suggest
cribbage as a means of passing the time, just as though she were
mistress of the game.
They played for about an hour. It was nearly ten o'clock, and Mrs.
Nuttall was growing fidgety.
"There!" she said, throwing up her cards; "I'll not play any more.
You're so stupid, Marian, that you can't win a game. How _could_ your
papa be so foolish as to leave us alone! Oh, dear me! Don't you hear
some one moving in the house?"
"No, mamma," said Marian. "You are getting quite nervous."
"Nervous, miss!" exclaimed Mrs. Nuttall, packing the cards. "I am
surprised at you! Why, you are as bad as your papa! Me nervous,
indeed! I should like--"
The sentence was not completed. The cards dropped from her hands, and
she fell back, trembling, in her chair. For at the door stood the
apparition of a man, his face covered with black crape. Marian
screamed and rushed into her mother's arms, where she lay almost
senseless from terror.
"Don't be frightened, ladies," said the apparition; "don't be
frightened. Strike me petrified! but I'm as gentle as a dove, and
wouldn't hurt a chicken! Only don't you scream again, or we'll have to
gag your pretty mouths. Come in, Jim; the garrison's deserted."
At this invitation, another apparition, his face also covered with
black crape, entered the room. Mrs. Nuttall's heart beat fast with
fear, but she had courage enough to say,--
"Oh, please, good gentlemen--" when the second apparition interrupted
her.
"None of that gammon. We're not good gentlemen--we're bushrangers. Is
there anyone in the house besides yourselves?"
"No, sir," said the trembling woman, contradictorily; "only the cook."
"Where are all the men? Come--answer quickly."
As well as she was able, Mrs. Nuttall explained the cause of the men's
absence.
"That's lucky for them," said Jim Pizey, "and lucky for us, too.
Children lost, eh! Whose children?"
"A stockman's, sir, and Little Peter."
"Little Peter! What! a pale little sickly kid, with a white face and
no flesh. Grif's Little Peter! How did he come here?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You do know!" exclaimed the Tenderhearted Oysterman, fiercely. "And
if you don't tell--"
How Mrs. Nuttall kept herself from swooning dead away was a mystery to
her for ever afterwards. The Oysterman had laid his hand savagely upon
her shoulder, when Marian interposed, and in a trembling voice told
the story of Grif and Little Peter, and of how Grif had begged her
uncle to take care of Little Peter, and would not come to Highlay
Station himself because he had made a promise to a lady who had been
kind to him.
"And didn't say who the lady was, eh?" asked the Tenderhearted
Oysterman.
"No, sir."
"I wonder what the old bloke would have said if he had known that lady
was his own daughter!" exclaimed the Oysterman.
As Mrs. Nicholas Nuttall heard this, and learnt for the first time
that her brother-in-law had a daughter, all her dreams of future
greatness faded away, and the fifty-one millions of sheep vanished
into thin air. Notwithstanding her terror, she felt indignant that
Mathew should dare to have a daughter (who would naturally come into
the property), and not mention the fact to her.
"That's enough of that, Oysterman," said Jim Pizey; "we can't stop
listening to women's yarns. We're safe enough for the next hour or
two. We'll turn the place upside down in that time. Let there be a
good watch kept outside. The first thing we'll do will be to have
something to eat. Now, just you look here," he said, addressing Mrs.
Nuttall, who betrayed symptoms of becoming hysterical; "we ain't going
to have any of your nonsense--none of your screaming, or anything of
that sort. We won't hurt you, if you're quiet. Do you hear? Get us
something to eat--the best in the house--and some brandy. Make us a
cup of tea, too. I should like to drink a cup of tea made by a lady."
That Mrs. Nuttall should come to this! But she made the tea, and
placed meat and bread upon the table, and waited upon the bushrangers,
too, while they ate and drank.
The fancy entered their heads that they would have music with their
meal, and they ordered Marian to play to them. When they had finished
eating and drinking, the Tenderhearted Oysterman said,
"You shan't say you played for us for nothing. Here, put this round
your neck." And he flung to her Little Peter's stone heart, which he
had found in the bag of gold he had taken from the Welshman after the
murder. "Put it round your neck, I say," he cried, as the girl shrank
into a corner, "or I'll do it for you!"
The trembling girl put the heart round her neck; and then Jim Pizey,
jumping up, said,--
"Now, boys, no idling! To work--to work! Come, old woman, just show us
over the house. Where's the old bloke's private room?"
But before Mrs. Nuttall could reply, a whistle was heard.
"Strike me dead!" cried the Oysterman. "That's Ralph's signal. The men
are coming back." At that moment a shot was fired outside, and was
followed by a scream of pain. "Look here!" he said, rapidly to the
women; "if you stir from this spot, by the living Lord, I'll shoot
you! Stay you here, and don't move, for your lives!"
More shots were heard; and, cursing fiercely, the bushrangers hurried
from the room, locking the door upon the terrified women.