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Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2010 with funding from
University of Toronto

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http://www.archive.org/details/bycreekgullystoOOfish

BY CREEK, AND GULLY

AUSTRALIAN NOVELS.)

Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. each.

PACIFIC TALES. By
LovuIs BECKE. Frontispiece
Portrait of the Author. Large
crown 8yo, cloth, 6s.

STEERER. By Louis !
BECKE. ‘Crown 8vo, cloth, °

FIRST FLEET |
FAMILY. By Lovis y
BECKE and WALTER JEF-
FERY. Second Edition. Large

crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, 6s. (GS
THE MUTINEER. By |\§ ay)
LOUIS ‘BECKE and WALTER Saas
JEFFERY. Large crown 8vo, y;
cloth, gilt top, 6s. ~~

cas ork

T, FISHER UNWIN

PEMBER REEVES, -- E. W. HORNUNG.

+ HON.

MARGARET THOMAS. -- OLIPHANT SMEATON. + E. S, RAWSON.

+ LALA FISHER. + LOUIS BECKE. + HUME NISBET.

By
Creek and Gully

Stories and Sketches mostly of Bush

Life. Told in Prose and Rhyme.
By Australian Writers in
England. Edited by

Lala Fisher fAgé

=

London

T. FISHER UNWIN

MDCCCXCIX

~

+ DOUGLAS SLADEN. -+ MRS. CAFFYN. + JOHN ELKIN. +

‘SUN

‘davad Wlde#dWVvo

‘SMW ++ CNOSGUVHOIN MNVYA +

‘H + ‘NNLYWN LLAHOLVa

‘od

LLOMYVAN

‘NOSLVM

To
W. KNOX D’ARCY, ESQ.,
OF
STANMORE HALL,

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED,

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CONTENTS

TO THE STORY-MAKERS
Lata FIsHER.

CROSS CURRENTS
Mrs, Patcuett Martin,

PAPAITONGA LAKE
Hon, PemsBer REEvEs.

POINT DESPAIR
H. B. Marriott Watson.

STRUCK GOLD ,
MarGareT THOMAS, ,

THE LARRIKIN OF DIAMOND CREEK
E. W Hornuna,

THE MAN FROM BOT’NY.
A. Patcuett MartTIn.

HIS LUCK ,
Lata FIsHER.

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS
Hume NIsBeET.

PAGE

53

75

85

105

109 ©

11g

Vili

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CONTENTS

LENCHEN ;
Mrs. Carryn (“Iota’’).

TO MY CIGARETTE
Marcaret THomas,

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL
OLIPHANT SMEATON.

HEIMWEH
Lata FIisHer.

AN INSIDE STATION
Dovctas SLADEN.

WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM?

E. S. Rawson.

THE OLD G. P. 0.
Joun Erk.

AN AUSTRALIAN ROSE
Mrs, Patcnett Martin.

THE SLEEPING SICKNESS OF LUI THE

KANAKA
LaLa FIsHEr,

THE OLD SCENES
Mrs, CAMPBELL PRAED.

_ LAST CRUISE OF FOHN MAUDESLEY

Louis Becks.

“AN INCIDENT OUT WEST”

Frank RIcHARDSON,

PAGE
145

163

167

185

189

211

225

247

251

261

283

299

Pee STORY-MAKERS

BY LALA FISHER

TO THE STORY-MAKERS
BY LALA FISHER

WY HEN fairies weave a wizard spell,
And conjure up before our eyes
Lhe days and scenes we loved so well,
And men and maids long lost arise—
When at their bidding camp-fires gleam
With boiling billy on the hook,
It seems so true and sweet a dream
The gazer nearer draws to look.

Up with the sun, we paddocks pass,
Where lazy bullocks lift their heaas
To see us go, then crop the grass
That grows beside the dry creek-beds.
The stock-whip coils upon our knee,
Our pannikin is strapped behind ;
We ride across the wakening lea
The lost and straying beasts to find.

The wary kangaroos close by
Are browsing when our nags draw near ;
Alarmed, they to their joeys fly,
Who in a twinkling disappear—
3

4

TO THE STORY-MAKERS

Disdaining haste—with measured bounds
They vanish oer the distant hill ;

We whistle back the eager dogs
So thirsty to pursue and hill.

Once more the crystal creek we breast,
Showering its pearl-drops high in air;
We part the rushes, see a nest
Of ducklings golden hidden there!
While fairy fish in glittering flocks
Dart oer the pebbles blue and red,
A kukaburra laughs and mocks,
Safe in a gum-tree overhead.

Now slowly forging up the track
The tired musterer returns ;
His hanging head and bended back
Above his horse one scarce discerns.
Hits idle reins no touch await
To guide or check the patient steed,
Who stops beside the homestead gate
To pull a switch of swamp-grown feed.

Then over all a tender light

Slow settles as the sunlight dies:
The tree-tops catch its misty white
Ere yet upon the land it lies;
The flowers know it and are glad,
The breezes meet it with a sigh,
The bushman sees it and grows sad
And thoughtful, though he recks not why.

TO THE STORY-MAKERS

°Tis night ! how still the bush has grown,
With sentinels of ring-barked trees ;
The ghostly stars give light alone,
And mournful whispers fill each breeze!
A lonely ’possum steals along
And lightly passes to its nest,
A sleepy mopoke drones a song,
Then the vast land sinks into rest.

A magic power indeed ye hold
Who wield the sweet, enchanted pen ;

To more old hearts than could be told
Thou bringest back life’s youth again !

Beneath thy thrall hopes blossom fair,
The soul’s regret forgotten lies,

With lagging wings afar flies Care,
And Foy beams forth from happy eyes !

5

GROSS CURRENTS

BILVMRS. PATCHETT MARTIN

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CROSS CURRENTS
BY MRS. PATCHETT MARTIN

I

A HALT BY THE RIVER

HEN Alma Belmont arrived at Bristowe she
had done about as foolish a thing as any young
woman of four-and-twenty could have done in the way
of marring a life that had been only too pleasant.
Spoilt as a child, indulged in her wilful, wayward
fancies as the only daughter of a long-widowed parent,
much petted and admired in the set in which she
moved, she had elected to consider herself an_ ill-
used and unhappy creature, and had impulsively and
hurriedly married a man who had come to her one day
with a plea to “save him from going to the devil, for
she was about the only woman who could do it.”
The excuse she made to the world was her father’s
second marriage; to herself the impossibility of marry-
ing the “only man she had ever really loved,” and
a kind of pride in the thought of reclaiming a poor
fellow who loved her from the error of his ways. She

was able to impose upon herself perhaps more success-
9

to ea CROSS CURRENTS

fully than on other people, who failed to see that a rich
stepmother who “entertained,” and did her duty by
society and marriageable maidens, was other than
a highly estimable person, or that, as far as Alma
herself was concerned, her devotion to a girlish ideal
had ever stood in the way of many flirtations and
a very patent enjoyment of her ballroom triumphs and
successes. As to reclaiming Captain Belmont, the
utter fallacy of such an aspiration revealed itself to her
in the early days of her marriage, which were spent on
board ship on their outward voyage to Australia.

He was one of those gentlemanly and agreeable
ne’er-do-weels whom other men characterise as “no
man’s enemy but his own,” who had a “ taking ” way
with women, much superficial good-nature, and an
utter absence of principle. Withal, not destitute of a
certain kind of cleverness, and possessed of a winning,
almost boyish, affectionateness, which made his own
womankind very gentle and tender and forgiving to-
wards him, until came those evil days when he had
sunk so low that even they could forgive and tolerate
him no longer.

It is not, however, the story of Alma Belmont’s
married life that I have to tell, though it would have
furnished material for a three-volume novel, but merely
to relate an episode which did not even indirectly con-
cern her husband, who had gone “up country ” at the
time in quest of one of those vague and frequently
mythical “ appointments ”” which he was very fond ot
talking about, and which entailed much acceptance or
hospitality and even of monetary loans from genial
hosts and open-handed Australian acquaintances, whom
the plausible and quick-witted Irishman won over by

CROSS CURRENTS II

his gift of ready speech and the inventive powers that
never failed him.

On this occasion, however, the “appointment,”
which was “something in the Customs,” was genuine,
and Alma Belmont was on her way to the northern
town of Stony Hollow to join her husband, who had
preceded her, and who was staying there with a
relative holding a position under Government.

Stony Hollow was reached by a three days’ sea and
river journey from the capital, from whence the high
Customs official, who had held out a helping hand to
the young couple, had seen Alma on board the steamer,
with the kindly information that he had requested his
brother collector at Ellenborough, where the vessel
stopped for a night to take in and discharge cargo, to
find her out on board, and thus make a break in the
loneliness of her solitary journey.

It was in summer time, and every mile that they
sped northward but increased the stifling heat and
discomfort of the passage. It had been rough in the
bay, there were even waves in the big river, and Alma
had been seasick and was very miserable.

A wretched little six-weeks-old kitten, which her
husband had requested her to bring for his cousin’s
children, had added to her misery by its piteous refusal
to drink milk that had turned sour, and she was every
moment expecting the poor little thing would die in
the stuffy basket in which she had brought it so far at
much personal inconvenience. “The premature demise
of a baby kitten may not seem a trouble to distress
one’s self about ; but the lonely young wife was in that
condition of forlornness that she had almost grown
to care for her little travelling companion, and the

12 CROSS CURRENTS

stewardess’s openly-expressed opinion that she couldn’t
think how any one could have troubled themselves
with a “common little tabby kitten” quite grated
upon her feelings.

She had been reviewing in her mind all the circum-
stances that had attended her short stay in the colony ;
how they had landed with no possessions beyond the
clothing in their boxes and a ten-pound note, half of
which had gone to pay the laundress for washing the
linen that had accumulated during the hundred days of
their long journey in a sailing ship. She dwelt on the
dismay with which she had contemplated the plethoric
linen-bag and the attenuated purse, and the joyful
surprise with which she had accepted a kindly hos-
pitality proffered “until they could turn themselves
round, and Captain Belmont should find something
to do.”

They had not only “turned themselves round ”
pretty frequently in the pleasant riverside home of
their kind entertainers, but had even gyrated in the
viceregal precincts, and assisted at balls and receptions
at Government House, where Captain Belmont’s
waltzing and Mrs. Belmont’s pretty French frocks
had come in for a fair share of admiration. Several
things had been found for Captain Belmont to do, but
his doings had been of a perfunctory nature, and the
illegible scrawl on which he rather prided himself had
not advanced his position in the Government office
which he had honoured with a trial. “Set of scrib-
bling cads!” was his remark to his wife. ‘“ Ought to
think themselves d——d lucky to have a gentleman
amongst them.”

Alma did not feel very sanguine as to the appoint-

CROSS CURRENTS 13

ment in the Customs, and she was looking forward
with nervous dread of the unknown life to which she
was going, the unknown connections whose house
they were to share, and the very slight prospect of
any permanent home of their own being ever pro-
vided for her. She was tired of living with or upon
other people, and this shuttlecock state of existence
was highly distasteful to her. Stony Hollow, too,
from all accounts, was not exactly the place one
would select for a residence in summer, being built
down in a basin and surrounded by a range of low
hills, which were quite high enough to exclude all air
from the dwellers in its midst. So her musings were
not of a very pleasant nature as she sat alone in her
deck chair watching the sunset until it grew dark
with the sudden darkness of a sky that has no twilight.
Cockroaches were beginning to issue forth from the
nooks and crannies in which they had lain concealed
during the day, and as the ship made its way up the
river through narrowing banks, on which the dismal
mangrove grew thickly, the large spotted mosquito
which haunts these shores deserted the accursed shrub
that gives it shelter to settle about the ship and on its
sweltering denizens.

They were nearing Ellenborough, where a halt was
to be made during the night to discharge and take in
cargo, the new goldfields that had lately been dis-
covered a few miles from the township having given
it a commercial impetus which warranted the delay,
even in the case of a vessel that called itself a passenger
steamer. They had now reached the landing-stage ;
ropes had been made fast to the piles with the usual
accompaniment of “‘ Heave away!” “‘ Hold fast there!”

14 CROSS CURRENTS
and “aye ayeing;” and the Custom House officials
were stepping on board. Amongst them was a tall,
slender lad with a profusion of brown curls tumbling
out from under his straw hat, who accosted the
captain, and to Alma’s astonishment at once asked
if “ Mrs. Belmont was on board.” When directed by
a wave of the hand towards the lady in question, he
came straight up to her, and as he raised his hat with
a courteous gesture, introduced himself as “ Athanase
Bingham.”

“ My father, you know, is the Collector of Customs
here, and Mr. Thornhill, of Bristowe, asked him to
look you up. My mother charged me to bring you
to the house to supper, and to say that you must not
think of going back to the steamer to-night, as there
is a bed at your-disposal.”

“Indeed, I shall be only too glad,” responded Alma,
hastily adjusting the small toque she wore, and rising
from her chair to follow her young visitor, who care-
fully assisted her to land, walking some distance along
the quay and leading the way through a small gate
that opened to the wharf, from an enclosure in which
stood the Custom House. Passing one side of the
building, and along the wall of a covered passage that
seemed to connect it with a low, one-storied, veran-
dahed dwelling-house, they found themselves in a
garden, through which they passed, entering the house
through a broad French window opening out on the
verandah into a large, untidy, and yet comfortable-
looking room, that revealed the harmonious life of a
family by its combined masculine, feminine, and boyish
litter. It was imperfectly lit by a lamp on a centre
table, and at first Alma could but dimly discern the

CROSS CURRENTS 15

figure belonging to a rich voice that greeted her in
foreign accents..

“ Be welcome, my dear young lady, and excuse me
that I do not rise. Nasi, approach that fauteuil. Bon.
Now sit down by me, my dear, and remove your hat.
Ouf! what a heat!” ‘The speaker was reclining on
a fully-extended cane lounging-chair, fanning herself
with an indolent, rythmic movement. She was a
large woman of about forty years of age, and must
have been handsome till she grew stout ; her massive
proportions, that were evidently untrammelled by any
corset, were exaggerated by the shapeless white cambric
robe she wore, and masses of waving brown hair were
hanging loosely by the side of her face, escaping from
a thick twist coiled low down on her neck.

Alma Belmont’s first impression of the lingering,
liquid tones that had greeted her was almost effaced
by this superabundant and untidy vision, but presently
she spoke again, fixing on her visitor a pair of soft,
sleepy brown eyes that matched the voice to per-
fection.

“ Chere petite, what a ridiculous little hat is that
you have there! Your pretty fair face is all brown
and burnt, and your poor nose—those terrible mos-
quitoes, how they have arranged you! Nasi, fetch
the eau de Cologne, and a soft mouchor, and dab her
‘face ; doucement, you know—but first, come and kiss
your mother.”

The tall lad came to her and leant over her chair,
and his brown curls mingled with her luxuriant brown
tresses. As he left the room, she half raised herself
and turned to Alma, saying, “ Ah! no one can tell
what a son that is! J had so longed that my little

16 CROSS. CURRENTS

child should be a daughter, for I had one son already ;
but he is son and daughter both, ce cher Nasi!”
The subject of her eulogy here appeared with the
eau de Cologne, but did not attempt the dabbing
process recommended by his mother, who sent him
again out of the room on a fresh errand to see and
report if the evening meal were ready. He returned
presently with his father, a quiet, gentlemanly man
of middle age, whose thoughtful face bore traces of
disappointment or dissatisfaction with life generally,
that showed themselves in the linés on his forehead,
and in the querulous tones of a thin voice. Of the
Irishman, nothing, no accent, no vivacity, nothing
but the name. With a courteous allusion to the
introduction of his friend, the Collector of Bristowe,
he gave Alma his arm, while Athanase dragged his
mother up from her reclining posture, and they went
into an adjoining room, where a cloth was laid with
cold meats, fruit, and salad, cakes, tea, and lemonade,
and adorned with flowers. Alma’s head was aching
frightfully, -and she did but scant justice to the
appetising repast, though it offered a delightful contrast
to the greasy, ill-served meals on board the steamer.
The little party had been increased by the addition
of a good-looking boy of twelve, who, with his head ~
resting between his hands and his elbows on the
table, had appeared on their entrance to be completely
engrossed by a book he was reading.

“This is our scholar,” said the father, with a glance
of affectionate pride. ‘Our baby, too,” interposed
the mother, who seated herself between her boys,
while Mr. Bingham and Alma completed the circle
at the round table. The hospitable hostess expressed

CROSS CURRENTS uy

herself au désespoir that her guest could not eat.
Mr. Bingham said little, but his inquiries about books,
politics, society “at home,” all showed a hankering
after the old country. It was easy to see that the
duties of his life were not congenial, however close
and dear were the home ties of the family. Alma
could not restrain a sympathetic feeling of pity for
the man who had probably hoped for and anticipated
a very different career, while at the same time, sur-
rounded by this soft atmosphere of home, her pity for
herself grew stronger, and she envied the lot of the
happy wife and mother.

Rising from the table, Mr. Bingham said he had
“some work to do” ; the studious boy was going to
“help his father with his accounts,” and the two ladies
and Athanase adjourned to chairs on the verandah.

“Ah! but they are clever, my husband and
Sosthene,” said the Creole lady, “and Nasi here is
my dear, good boy, and my eldest son, Hilarion, who
is away, is beau comme Apollon.” And so she babbled
on with her simple talk, little knowing that she was
planting daggers of regret in the heart of the girl
who had cut herself off from home, and so keenly
realised that she had bartered her birthright for a
mess of pottage as bitter to the taste as the apples
of the Dead Sea. When she had been further in-
formed that Athanase was named after his grandfather,
and Sosthene after his uncle, who were planters in
the Isle of France, and that the good lady’s own
name was Zephyrine, an incongruity upon which she
herself commented with fat chuckles of enjoyment,
Alma at last ventured to say that she was tired, and
would fain retire for the night.

3

\

18 CROSS CURRENTS

“Ah! my poor child! That I should not have
thought of it! And you are pale—pale as this linen,”
waving a handkerchief that in the morning had
probably been whiter. ‘Come; Nasi and I will show
you to your room. Unfortunately, we have no spare
apartment in the house, and it is really in the Custom
House ; but the bed is comfortable. You are young
and tired and will sleep soundly, and in the morning
early I will send round some one to you with a cup of
tea. Come, chére enfant.”

They proceeded round the verandah to the other
side of the house and through the long, covered passage
in the garden that they had skirted on Alma’s arrival,
then down a short one in the Custom House, into
which doors opened from various rooms.

Under the closed door of one of them shone a
brighter light than the dim oil wicks with which the
building was scantily lit.

“That is where they are ‘ working,” said Mrs.
Bingham ; “we will not disturb them—you are so
fatigued, and I will wish them bonne nuit for you.”

She threw open a door as she spoke, and ushered
her guest into a large, cool, bare room, with two
windows, situated at right angles to each other, one
of which was shaded by a drawn down venetian, the
other, which was long and narrow and barred with
iron, had neither blind nor venetian, so that the bright
moonlight streamed through it, illuminating that part
of the room and leaving the rest in darkness. Lighting
a little lamp that stood on a table near the bed, which,
with a washstand, a couple of chairs, and a strip of
Indian matting on the floor, constituted the whole
furniture, Mrs, Bingham gave a motherly kiss to the

CROSS CURRENTS 19

girl, while Nasi clasped her hand in his lithe, lissom
young fingers.

“© Bonne nuit! Dormez bien!” and they departed.
Left to herself, Alma’s first act was to fasten the door
and extinguish the little lamp, that was smelling vilely
and aggravating her sick headache. Then she sat
down on her bed, and tried not to think, but just to
rest a little before undressing herself in the quiet, dark
corner, swaying gently backwards and forwards with
closed eyes, as if rocking her own lullaby.

At first, she could hear occasional faint snatches
of talk, in which she recognised the voices of Mr.
Bingham and his son, in an adjoining room. Presently,
she ceased to distinguish them, becoming absorbed in
the thoughts which crowded into her mind, whether
she would or no.

How wretched she had felt on leaving Bristowe,
and parting with the kind friends who had kept.
her with them after her husband’s departure. Mr.
Thornhill, fine, honourable English gentleman that he
was—if a little proud, as some people seemed to think.
Who, after all, had more cause to be so? And his
clever, brilliant wife, who would have held her own as
leader of a “salon” in the most select set of London
or Paris society. The interesting daughter of the
house, too ; a little satirical, a little reserved perhaps,
but so proud of her mother, and so singularly free her-
self from small feminine foibles and vanities. A
charming family, whom Alma had learnt to love.
Why were all her affections and friendships to be torn
up almost as soon as they had struck root? ‘These
kind people, under whose roof she was at this moment,
were hardly like strangers, but she would have.to leave

20 CROSS CURRENTS

them, too, the next morning, and so probably it would
always be.

Footsteps along a passage and the shutting of doors
here interrupted the course of her reflections. Evi-
dently Mr. Bingham and Sosthéne were returning to
the house. Then came a tremendous clang, as if a
heavy door had suddenly swung to, and Alma could
even fancy she heard a lock or a bolt shot. It must
be the door of the long passage dividing the Customs
from the dwelling-house. And all at once she realised
that she was shut out for the whole night in a strange,
empty, solitary building, quite alone !

It was not a pleasant feeling, for she had never been
brave even as a girl, and had become a nervous, easily-
agitated young woman. So she thought she would
undress as quickly as possible and, child-like, bury
herself and her fears under cover of the friendly bed-
clothes. But her hand shook so that she could hardly
manage to unfasten her dress, and the obstinate strings
of a petticoat got knotted and entangled to such a
degree that she was seriously contemplating jumping
into bed without any further attempt at divesting
herself of her ordinary attire.

Hark! what is that? A sound of footsteps outside
the window—a kind of cat-like tread of unshod feet,
and surely a dusky shadow goes past, and yet another
and another! Blacks! Her heart, which had been
thumping loudly, gave a great leap and then stood
still. She had come across a few of them in Bristowe,
town blacks, tame creatures, who spoke English and
begged for pennies. She had only just begun to
tolerate the young gins, with their little brown
picaninnies slung over their shoulders, but the old

CROSS CURRENTS 21

hags with their pipes and their dilly bags, and the
spindle-shanked men with their hungry, wolf-like dogs
and their waddies, had always remained to her objects
of horror. She never could understand why “ King
Billy,” who wore a brass plate round his neck with
the title duly set forth thereon, should be a persona
grata at Riverview, where he was allowed the run of
the offices, and quite failed to see what amusement the
household could find in his mimic antics when he
strutted about on the lawn. ‘“ Now, me Honourable
William Thornhill. Wait; you see. Now, me
Governor, Sir George.” But, at any rate, he was
partially civilised and harmless. All the blood-
curdling stories she had ever heard or read about
savage atrocities came into her mind. She shivered
where she sat, and her teeth chattered with fright.
What did it matter if the window was barred? Why,
if they were only to look in, if she saw a black face at
the pane, she knew she should die of fright. Fora
moment she contemplated snatching up a shawl, a
towel, no matter what, and pinning it across the
window: but that would only attract attention.
Besides, she could not endure not knowing what
they were about ;- at all risks, she must see for herself.
So she got off her bed and crept along by the walls
until she came to the window, crouching down so
that her head was on a level with the sill.

The sight that met her -eyes paralysed her with
terror, so that, fearful as she was of being seen, she
could not move from her constrained position. The
bright moonlight made everything as plain as day, and
the fires which the blacks had lighted around the
circle within which they were congregated in some

22 CROSS CURRENTS

numbers threw up lurid flames, and cast fantastic
reflections on the painted and besmeared faces of the
warriors, who were flourishing their spears and nulla-
nullas, and brandishing waddies above their heads in
terrible mimicry of real warfare. Their hoarse cries
and fierce yells mingled with the discordant music and
monotonous chanting of the gins, who were beating
tom-toms and swaying backwards and forwards as
they sat in the background, with eyes fixed on the
pantomime of their braves. The mimic combat was
succeeded by a dance, if possible, even more terrible,
in which the fighting men became so many grinning
demons, with countenances distorted by every vile
passion, dancing through the flames and throwing up
their arms with wild screams and sudden shouts of
fiendish laughter, such as one could imagine proceed-
ing from the devils torturing the damned in the
accursed orgies of an Inferno. Alma could have
screamed herself, but her dry throat was voiceless.
Her temples throbbed violently, and all the blood
in her benumbed body seemed to have concentrated
itself in her head, which felt as if it would burst.
She turned sick and faint, and suddenly losing con-
sciousness, sank down in a heap on the floor beneath
the window.

How long she had lain there she never knew, but
when she revived all was silent. Shuddering, while
she nerved herself for the effort, she once more raised
herself to her knees and cast a fearful glance in the
direction of the scene that had been enacted. No
traces remained beyond the ashes of the extinguished
fires, strewing the ground where they had been lit.
But for that, all might have been a hideous dream born

CROSS CURRENTS 23

of her frightened fancies and fevered imagination. Her
trembling limbs could hardly drag her to the bedside ;
but, reassured in a degree, though still quivering in
every nerve, she was at last able to close her strained
and aching eyes in a sleep of utter prostration and
exhaustion,

Alma Belmont was young and strong in those days,
however, and when she was awakened by the brilliant
sunlight streaming into the room, followed by the
arrival of the promised cup of tea, she was able to dress
and appear at the breakfast table with very little trace
of any more trying experience than the fatigue and
indisposition of the previous evening. She had made
up her mind to say nothing about it, being rather
ashamed of her fright, for a little calm reflection had
convinced her that her kind host would not have left
her in a position in which she could have incurred any
actual danger, that the ship was not far off along the
quay, and that her alarm had been utterly groundless.
She felt glad to have come to this decision when Mr.
Bingham said he “ hoped she had not been disturbed
during the night by the antics of his black friends,”
that they generally chose a night when the moon was
at the full for.the indulgence of their pantomimic
diversions, and that he had given them leave to as-
semble when they pleased on the piece of waste ground
adjoining the Customs enclosure. He was sorry he
had not warned her, as she might have been alarmed
by a sight that must be novel and unexpected to a
“new chum.” ‘Towhich Alma merely replied, with a
smile, that his hospitality was quite on an Eastern scale
in providing such entertainments for his guests, and
that she certainly had to thank him for a new sensation,

24 CROSS CURRENTS

But time and tide brought round the moment of
departure. With a sob in her throat Alma bade
farewell to the warm-hearted Creole lady, whose
soft brown eyes rested on her through tears as she
affectionately embraced her, and wished her don
voyage! She had not been allowed to refuse the
offer of Nasi’s last new straw hat in lieu of the petit
chapeau ridicule that had aroused Mrs. Bingham’s
womanly concern for her “poor nose” and com-
plexion ; and thus equipped, and laden with fruit and
flowers in a basket, and other trifles that might con-
duce to her comfort and recreation, she watched the
little party from the deck of the steamer until a bend
in the river hid them and the township of Ellenborough
from eyes that were dimmed by grateful tears.

She never saw any of the family again, with the
exception of the absent Hilarion, whose acquaintance
she made about a year later.

But that, as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.

II
AN HOUR IN TWO LIVES

THE pair on board the river steamer bound from a
Northern township in Queensland to its capital were
about the same age as far as years counted, and
these might have been five-and-twenty. The young
man had “lived,” to use his own expression. The
woman had had five years’ experience of marriage—an
unhappy one. She had been sobered and saddened by
it, and in consequence, imagined that she felt very

CROSS CURRENTS 25

much older than she did, and mentally characterised
her companion as “a remarkably good-looking boy.”

The first time she saw him she had said to herself
that there was too much of the Greek god about him,
and “ very little room for brains in that small head” ;
but her indifferent glance had lingered a moment on
the classic contour of a face and form that excited a
warmer admiration in most women than their antique
prototypes of Antinous or Apollo.

On his side he had noted this initial indifference, and
a dominant expression of sadness on a naturally mobile
countenance. But he had also seen that the gaze o
the dreamy, grey eyes could quicken to animation, ana
that they lighted up even when the mouth sometimes
remained set and serious.

He had heard about her from his own people, and
others—of the unhappiness of her married life, and
how it had been said at head-quarters that her husband
would have lost his billet over and over, but for “ that
little wife of his, you know.” He had long wished to
meet her, and chance had brought them together a
couple of days ago.

They had at once taken up a position of frank
friendliness towards each other, and he had talked a
good deal of his aspirations and ambitions, to which
she had responded with apparent sympathetic interest.
Still, he did not feel sure of the kind of impression he
had made, or if when they met in the society of the
capital, the entrée to her house would be allowed him
for any other reason than that of previous acquaintance
with his family. In fact, he had not quite made up
his mind—in spite of what he considered an extensive
knowledge of women—in what category to place her.

26 CROSS CURRENTS

At the moment he wanted her to go on shore with
him, but did not feel at all sure of her consent, or of
his own powers of persuasion should she refuse. It
would be pleasant to have a ramble in the moonlight
while the wretched little boat was coaling and drop-
ping cargo and passengers; but he was hardly surprised
that she demurred to the proposition when made.

“T assure you, Mrs. Belmont, it would be quite
impossible for you to remain on board while they are
coaling. You have no conception how it would
annoy you, and the captain says he will be quite a
couple of hours about it. What would you do?”

“ Well, I thought I would go to bed, you know,
it’s nearly ten o’clock, isn’t it? ”

“But you couldn’t possibly go to sleep with the
noise, and even if you half stifled yourself shutting
down the port and drawing the curtain across your
door, it wouldn’t keep out the coal dust.”

“So bad as that, really ?”

“Oh! ever so much worse! Heat intolerable,
men swearing, pandemonium itself! Do be persuaded
for your own sake—everybody does. It can’t be
helped that you happen to be the only lady on
board. Tl take such good care of you, and you
cannot surely resist that moon.”

Mrs. Belmont hesitated. She had not been long in
this semi-tropical country, she knew people did things
“out there” they would not do “at home,” still, it
did seem an outré proceeding to wander off till mid-
night in a strange place with a young man she had
only known a couple of days on board ship. ‘True,
she knew his family, but this Hilarion Bingham had
the reputation of being what was called “ fortunate”

CROSS CURRENTS 27

in his relations with her sex, and it was notorious that
her husband left her very much to her own devices—
all the more reason that she should be more circum-
spect than a better guarded woman.

It would of course be very pleasant to leave the
dirty, evil-smelling vessel for a couple of hours, and
breathe a purer atmosphere in that glorious moonlight
and the radiance of the Southern Cross—if only people
wouldn’t say ill-natured things and make her position
more difficult. Life was bad enough while they spoke
well of her ; what might it not be should they speak
ill or even think it !

Some of these reflections must have made themselves
visible on her countenance, for even as she turned to
speak, the young man arrested her unspoken words—
© Don’t vex your soul on the score of Mrs. Grundy,”
he said with a smile, “it would be nothing out of the
way, and even if it were, there’s nobody to say anything
about it.”

“There are reasons ”—she began gravely.

“There always are,” he interrupted. “We know
all about that, Mrs. Belmont, and now that you have
sacrificed on the altar of the conventions, and made
your nice, proper little protest, you’ll come, won’t
you?”

Before she could utter the rejoinder that came to
her lips, a young man crossed the deck towards them,
calling out as he advanced—“ You’re going on shore
of course, Bingham. I see the gangway is lowered,
but it’s rather awkward for a lady. You'd better let
him go first, Mrs. Belmont, while I follow you, and
between us, I don’t think we’ll let you slip over the
side.” The slight cloud that had contracted Mrs,

28 CROSS CURRENTS

Belmont’s pretty brows cleared off as she turned to the
new-comer.

“ What an observant person you must be, Mr.
Young! So much more so than Mr. Bingham, for
example, who never noticed that I was frightened
out of my wits at the mere thought of venturing on
that ladder.” She gave a kind of little shudder, and
continued: “Let us go before my courage fails me
again.”

Hilarion Bingham turned upon her a look half
amused and half reproachful, and silently preceded
her down the rickety kind of ladder with one
narrow plank nailed lengthwise across the rungs
which had been thrown from the deck to the landing
stage.

“‘ Easy to see they don’t lay themselves out for lady
passengers,” said the other young fellow, who was
following with both arms stretched out until his
hands rested lightly on either side of Mrs. Belmont’s
waist.

“‘T had no business to come on a cargo boat, had
I?” she retorted with a little laugh, tripping over the
awkward bridge with the careless ease of a child, and
hardly availing herself of Bingham’s outstretched hand
as she swung herself down on the quay.

Alma Belmont was not the sort of woman to put on
helplessness with an idea of making herself “ interest-
ing,” and for all that Hilarion Bingham’s beautiful
head was “too small for much brains,” he knew this
much, and she knew that he knew it. The other
simple youth was much flattered by being credited
with superior powers of discrimination, and made a
remark to the effect that he had sisters, and ought to

CROSS CURRENTS 29

know something about women, and that they always
“liked a fellow to look after them, and that sort of
thing, don’t you think, Mrs. Belmont ?”

“We know that you want to look after 27e woman,
at any rate,” interposed Bingham, “and I am sure
Mrs. Belmont will not wish to divert you from your
allegiance, so don’t hesitate about dropping our com-
pany at the corner.”

The three had been walking abreast along a
straggling kind of street, consisting of a few stores or
shops with a one-storied dwelling-house here and
there sandwiched in between them. They were for
the most part dark and silent, as if the inmates were
abed, but at the first turning—the “corner” alluded
to—sounds of mirth and merriment and the music
of a fiddle came towards them, proceeding from a
brightly-lighted house, from which a signboard was
swinging.

“Well, good-night, then,’ said Frank Young,
stopping to shake hands with his friend. ‘“ They
seem to be keeping it up still; I expect the bridal
pair, though, will have made themselves scarce by this
time «

“And pretty Lucy will want consoling for the loss
of her twin sister, eh, Frank: Good luck to your
wooing, my boy!”

“Let me wish you good luck, too, said Alma,
holding out her hand with a charming smile and
gesture ; “I had no idea I was treading on the heels
of a romance.”

The young man laughed as he again shook hands
warmly with the pair, and walked down the street with
glowing eyes and rapid, elastic footstep.

30 CROSS CURRENTS

“ Now tell me all about it!” cried Mrs. Belmont,
turning to her companion; “is it the innkeeper’s
pretty daughter, or who is responsible for that beatific
expression on our young friend’s ingenuous coun-
tenance ? ”

“ Pretty sister, and a really nice girl, Mrs. Belmont.
You have been long enough in the colony now not to
be surprised if, indeed, I say a charming young lady.
Report .has it that the brother was an Oxford man ;
he is at any rate a gentleman, and a capable one to
. boot. He transformed a low public into a respectable
house of entertainment, which has completely altered
the character of the district, and when those twin
orphan sisters of his came out to him instead of
governessing for a livelihood, ey found themselves
treated like young princesses.”

“And what of the bridegroom. Is the match a
suitable one for this—young lady ? ”

Hilarion replied to the pause rather than to the
question :

“Ah! I see you are incredulous. He is a very
decent fellow, a surveyor, and there is plenty of work
here for men of his profession. Young and he are
starting together on a three months’ expedition into
the heart of the country the day after to-morrow, I
believe.”

“Poor young bride! A short honeymoon! ”

“Yes, poor fellow! A short honeymoon indeed !”

There was a perceptible difference in the two
intonations : a note of wistful regret in the woman’s ;
in the man’s a ring of impatience and some other
feeling.

It was such a night as one sees only in the tropics,

CROSS CURRENTS 31

flooded in moonlight and as bright as day. One
could distinguish the different shades of leaf and
flower, the delicate pink of the oleander, the greenish
white of the seringa bloom, the waxen hue of the
magnolia; the air was full of soft sounds and mys-
terious murmurs, laden with nutty fragrance and the
heavier scent of the datura and trumpet-blossom.
They had walked on till they had left the scarce
habitations behind them, and Alma felt as if she were
in some enchanted place. There was an unreality
about this luxuriance of beauty, in the midst of which
Hilarion and she were walking together as Adam
and Eve in the Garden of Eden; its very loveliness
oppressed her, and she gave an involuntary little sigh
and stopped short. They had come to a kind of
gully with a range of low hills on one side, on the
slope of which was built a solitary wooden house,
shut in by a hedge of prickly pear that surrounded it.
It was new and unbeautiful, the trellised sides of the
verandah as yet bare of creeper or vine, and the front
open to the gully. By the roadside where they
were standing lay a tree log, and a small clump of
trees still further back cast a kind of shadow
onwards.

“ Let us stop here,” said Alma; “ we can sit down
and speculate on that solitary, silent house, which
would be almost ugly if it were not transfigured in
this silvery radiance. And yet,” she continued, “I
would sooner make my home there than go on, go
back to ” she stopped abruptly with a quiver of
pain in her voice.

“ Yes, I know, everybody knows,” cried Hilarion ;
“0 back to a man whose very presence is a degra-

32 CROSS CURRENTS

dation to your womanhood, to a life which must
be one long endurance and martyrdom. ‘ Why do
you do it, you poor little woman? God, why do
you do it?”

There was a note of passion in his voice that had
not sounded till that moment.

‘Stop, exclaimed Alma, “say no more; for pity’s
sake, stop, Mr. Bingham.”

She shrank away a little, putting up her hand as
if to hide her face, but he caught hold of her wrist
and grasped it firmly while he went on with a torrent
of rapid speech that she was powerless to check.

“You shall hear what people say about this hus-
band of yours: that but for you he would not have
a single friend or acquaintance, that no one would
receive him into their houses. Do you know that
you could divorce him to-morrow if you chose?
What should hinder you from doing it, and entrust-
ing your happiness to other keeping?” His voice
softened as he spoke, and he dropped the hand he had
grasped and laid his own gently upon it. “Don’t
sacrifice your whole life. He has himself disgraced
the name he gave you. Cast it off, even if you accept
no other.”

Alma turned upon him almost fiercely. ‘ Do you
think I should take back my own, the name that I
never sufficiently valued, the name that belongs to my
brothers, who sustain its honour in the service of their
country? You must have a very poor opinion of me,
Mr. Bingham, for I fear, indeed, I have brought this
upon myself. Let us go back to the ship.” She
spoke with dignity and made a movement to rise, but
Hilarion gently restrained her, and her gaze followed

CROSS CURRENTS 33

his gesture as he pointed to the house on the hill-
side.

“ Look,” he said, “look, we are in shadow and they
cannot see us.”

A lamp had been brought into a room opening on
the verandah, where a man and woman were standing
close together, the moonlight full upon them. The
man’s arm was round his companion’s shoulders, and
one of hers, from which the loose sleeve of her white
wrapper had fallen, was raised against the verandah
post, her head resting on her hand; she was looking
out into the night with a rapt expression, while his
gaze rested on her face. For a few moments they
stood thus like statues, marble-white in the moonlight,
the pair below motionless as they. Suddenly they saw
the man put his hand under the girl’s rounded chin
and turn her head towards him, when she flung
- both arms round his neck and was almost lifted off
her feet as he clasped her to him in a close, long
embrace.

In a transport of passion Hilarion caught Alma to
his heart with wild kisses that she hardly repulsed.
The spell of the night was upon her, and the happiness
of the wedded lovers throbbed and thrilled in her
breast as in his, knocking at her heart with a clamant
persistence.

“You love me, Alma,” he whispered ; “look up
and say you love me.”

As Alma raised her head, she saw the verandah was
deserted, the lights extinguished, and the house once
more in silence and darkness. With a sudden revul-
sion of feeling, like the snapping of a string too
tightly strained, she burst into tears and thrust

4

34 CROSS CURRENTS

Hilarion from her with a cry—‘ How could you—
how could you?”

The reproach in her voice stung ‘him like a blow
as she sank sobbing on the tree trunk from which
they had risen, and he uttered no word of protest or
appeal till she had grown calmer ; then he said simply—

“Forgive me, Mrs. Belmont; I was wrong. You
do not love me, but I—love you. Give me a little
pity for my love.”

“Pity! I have none to spare. I need it all for
myself. You knew it. You cannot expect that I
should either pity or forgive.”

She spoke with the cruelty, the perverse injustice
of a woman at war with herself and unable to resist
inflicting her own suffering on another, jerking out
her words like so many lashes; and thus Hilarion
felt them as he stood before her with head bowed
and eyes cast down.

In the curious mechanical way that we see objects
with our bodily eyes while the absorbed mind looks
inwards, he became conscious of watching what
appeared to be a piece of stick lying in the dust at
a little distance from Alma’s feet, and all at once it
seemed to have changed its position and to be moving
or dragging itself along the ground, till it had almost
reached the hem of her dress. In a sudden he had
realised her danger. Without a word of warning he
lifted Alma up in his arms, and carried her some yards
before setting her down again on her feet. As he did
so, she struck him full in the mouth with the back of
her ringed hand.

“How dare you? How dare you?” she cried
furiously.

CROSS CURRENTS 35

He had already gone back to the spot where she
had been sitting, and was striking with his stick at a
wriggling, hissing reptile. Then for the first time
she realised the danger from which he had saved her.
She was trembling from hand to foot when he
rejoined her.

“Thank God you are safe!” he exclaimed, with
an indrawn gasp of relief.

“T owe you my life,” she said simply, then suddenly
cried out, “ But you are hurt—what is it ?”

His face was lividly white from emotion, and he
was holding a handkerchief to his mouth; as he
removed it to reply, she saw that his lower lip was
cut and bleeding, and again cried out anxiously,
“Oh! what is it '—what is it?”

“ Curious!” he said, with a smile that she felt to
be worse than any reproach—“ curious how remorse-
‘lessly women can break a man’s heart, and yet be
pitiful over a drop of blood! ‘There is no harm
done, Mrs. Belmont. I was yours, and you have
marked me with your brand—that is all!”

“And you saved my life!” She broke into a
passion of tears.

“This is my reward,” he said, gently taking her
hand in his and raising it to his lips. “I do not ask
again for love nor pity—nor even for remembrance.
If you think you owe me anything, give me your
forgiveness. It is a compact, is it not? You shall
forgive and forget, and I will forgive and —
remember.”

He dropped the hand he held and waited, but Alma
uttered no word. Moved by an impulse that she did
not attempt to resist, she placed both hands on his

36 CROSS CURRENTS

shoulders and, with a grave tenderness that was almost
a blessing, kissed him on the forehead.

“Goodbye, Hilarion ! ”

They stood a moment facing each other, looking
each into the other’s eyes. Then Hilarion quietly
drew Alma’s arm within his own.

“We will go back to the ship,” he said. And side
by side—nearer rather than further from each other in
spirit since that mutual farewell—they retraced their
steps in silence.

III
AN INN OF STRANGE MEETINGS

Ir was drawing to the end of September, and the
consequent close of the season at Beauplage. Still
a fair sprinkling of subscribers were patronising the
afternoon concert at the Casino, and a small group
of English visitors sitting on the red velvet raised
benches at the end of the room (a coign of ’vantage
from whence to discern the entrances and exits of
one’s friends and acquaintances) had been loud in their
applause of a pot pourri of national airs played by the
local band of the Casino.

“To clap them for once, Mrs. Belmont,” said the
girl of the party, which consisted, besides herself, of
her brother and mother and the very pretty woman
whom she was addressing. ‘That nice conductor is
looking this way, and it’s his own arrangement, you
know.”

“But I so abominate such hotch-potch productions,

CROSS CURRENTS 37

my dear child; there’s only one thing worse than
these jumbles of airs, and that’s the single air with
variations.”

“Well, I don’t like that myself, when it comes to
practising time,” returned the -bright-looking young
English girl ; “ each variation always goes on getting
more difficult than the other, and one never seems to
have half enough fingers. At least, I don’t”; and she
laughed out like the merry school-girl that she had
only just ceased to be.

“ Joyce is so delighted with everything,” chimed in
the gentle, middle-aged mother. “ This is her first
visit to France, and I am afraid, when we go home,
she will find Dulwich very dull indeed.”

“Very dull, which it is,” echoed the brother, with
intention.

“Oh! please stop him, Mrs. Belmont ; he means
that for a pun, and when once he begins %

But Alma Belmont was at that moment giving a
little intimate nod of recognition to a big splendid
figure of a blue-eyed Englishman who was standing in
the doorway, stroking a pointed brown beard with an
unconscious, habitual gesture.

“'That’s the fellow who arrived yesterday, and a
fine chap too! I saw him for a few moments last
night in the smoke-room. Davenant, I think they
called him. But he’s an old acquaintance of yours, I
believe,” he went on, turning to Alma and following
her glance as the new-comer bowed to the group with
a slight comprehensive salutation.

“A very old acquaintance, Mrs. Marshall, and it
may interest you to know that he ‘stroked’ the
Brasenose eight over a dozen years ago, and could

38 CROSS CURRENTS

almost have stocked a silversmith’s shop with his cups
and racing prizes, for he was a runner as well as an
oarsman.”

“ Didn’t weigh fourteen stone then, I should think !
But you don’t mean to say he’s the Davenant ? Why,
he left traditions behind him, and I know a lot of
Brasenose fellows who would give their ears to have
a yarn with him. Being a Brasenose man myself,
naturally y

“Hush, Guy! for goodness’ sake don’t get so
excited !” interrupted Joyce Marshall. ‘That was
the last piece, and he’s coming our way.”

“We may as well go down to meet him,” suggested
her mother, and presently they had all joined him
and issued out together on the wide glass-covered
stone entrance, and then through the gardens down
the marble-paved port, Mrs. Marshall leading the
way with her daughter, and Alma following with her
double escort. When they had reached that windiest
of all corners, known to the English colony as
“ Merriman’s,” Mr. Davenant paused and wished
his companions good afternoon. He wanted to go
in for a look at the English papers before dinner,
he explained.

“See you in the smoke-room after dinner, I
suppose,” eagerly interpolated the young man, but
Mr. Davenant was afraid not; he had promised to
join a small whist party after dinner, at the Consul’s.

“Tn fact,” turning to Alma, “ when the dear old
man heard I was returning to London to-morrow, he
wanted me to stay on to dinner, and I could not get
off without promising at any rate to look in to-night.
He had kept me at the Consulate the whole afternoon

CROSS CURRENTS 39

until I strolled down just in time to find you all
leaving.”

“Perhaps you don’t know there’s a dance on at the
casino to-night,” said Joyce—“the last one too.
Couldn’t you get away by eleven, Mr. Davenant?”

“1 shouldn’t be any acquisition from a dancing
point of view, Miss Marshall, having long given up
such frivolities, and I hope to be getting some beauty
sleep by that time,” he concluded, raising his hat as
he stood on the doorstep of the library with a look
in his blue eyes that was half grave and_ half
quizzical.

Later in the evening, when the guests at the big
Hotel-Pension were mostly gathered in the drawing-
room after dinner, taking their coffee before sallying
out again, Alma Belmont was standing by a long
French window half-opened to the balcony, listening
attentively to a man who was leaning against it out-
side.

“Strange!” Hugh Davenant was saying, “that
after all these years we should both come back to the
home of our childhood, the wretched little French town
that we alternately abused and loved, and meet by
chance in this caravanserai, then only to find you
going about with a pack of uninteresting and common-
place people, and I hardly able to speak half a dozen
consecutive words with you! The same old game!
Well, History does repeat itself with a vengeance!”

“There are stranger things than that, Hugh!”

“ One of them being oye

‘That you should stil! care

“Still ?—always! Not that I was sure of it myself
until I saw you again yesterday. And then it seemed

”

40 CROSS CURRENTS

only the day before that I had gone back to Oxford
and heard of your marriage and departure for Australia,
and all the old pain and grief came back again with a
rush !”

“Tt seems a hundred years ago to me. Don’t let
us talk about it. Why in all these long years have you
never married, Hugh ?”

“ Fr tu brute!” You can ask me mow, now when
at last Iam in a position to speak, and you are once
more free, Alma ! ”

“Tf that is what you want to say, old friend, don’t
say it. My freedom is sweet to me, and I could never
marry again ; I was too unhappy.”

“ But I would so surround you with loving care and
devotion ; if you had only a spark of womanly pity
or common gratitude.—Pah! what drivel am I talk-
ing?” He checked himself suddenly, and she inter-
posed with a kind of strain in her sweet, clear voice.

“Had I any pity or gratitude in those old days,
Hugh, when your devotion must have won recognition
from any girl less ungrateful and selfish and heartless
than myself? I am no better now, rather a good deal
worse, but I have thought sometimes that my unhap-
piness was a kind of retribution. You were so patient
with me always, so kind and true, far more than I ever
deserved.”

“Tf you think so truly, Alma—and indeed I have
always given you the whole love of my heart—you can
more than repay me now. Only give me leave to
take back my old place at your side as more than
friend, more than brother, your unacknowledged lover
still if you will it so, but not altogether as then, hoping
against hope some day to obtain a dearer title! ”

CROSS CURRENTS 41

He spoke in low, concentrated accents, which could
have reached no other ears than those for which they
were intended; and while the tardy reply was lingering
on Alma’s lips, a voice near them broke in upon the
momentary silence.

“ Are you not going to put on your things, dear
Mrs. Belmont? Shall we wait, or go on and keep a
seat for you?”

Thank you, Mrs. Marshall, I am coming ; I won’t
keep you ten minutes.”

“Then you wil find us below in the courtyard.”
Alma turned back to the man on the balcony.

“‘ Hugh, dear old Hugh, don’t be vexed! I promise
you shall have an answer in the morning. Give me
a little time to think. Have patience with me!”

“Tam not quite as long-suffering as I used to be,
Alma,” he replied with a touch of bitterness. ‘“ One
gets tired of playing for ever the part of Jun
qui embrasse, while autre tend la joue—and not even
that, by Jove! Don’t dare to play with me,
Se ell

There was in his tone as much of menace as
entreaty. Never in his life had Hugh Davenant so
spoken to her ; ‘had he done so in “ the old days” their
lives might have been very different.

Now, like the woman that she was, her reply seemed
almost inconsequent.

“ Hugh ! If you only knew how I have longed fora
sight of your dear old face, for a grip of that great
brown paw!” ‘True affection looked out of her eyes
into his own, and his hand held hers for a moment in
a firm clasp.

Then she said in the clear, level tones that

42 CROSS CURRENTS

characterised her utterance, “ We both have our
engagements to keep. Good-night.”

“Tt will be for mea long night till the morning,”
he replied with gentleness; and not till he had watched
her pass out with her friends through the big gates into
the street did he leave the balcony that looked down
into the courtyard.

Alma had told Hugh Davenant that the old days of
which he spoke seemed to her asa hundred years ago,
and as she sat in the brilliantly-lighted, mirror-panelled
salle watching the dancers, all her youth passed in array
before her mental vision. She saw herself once more
a young, radiant, irresponsible creature, the centre of a
throng of flatterers and admirers, grudgingly bestowing
half a dance on one, unconcernedly sitting out half a
dozen dances with another, either surrounded by
Frenchmen, or discreetly left to a téte-a-téte with the
favourite ot the hour, and they were of all nationalities.
Girls had envied, married women had been jealous of
her, men had loved her to distraction ; she had gone
on her way smiling, intoxicated with her own fascina-
tions and triumphs, heedless of what might be said or
thought; and what had been the outcome of it all?
Satiety, discontent, a reckless, unhappy marriage, exile,
misery !

Absorbed in the past, her companion was unheeded
until the return of Joyce Marshall with her partner
recalled her to the present.

“Such a glorious waltz, dear Mrs. Belmont. How
can you sit out? Guy would be so awfully flattered
if you would take a turn with him, and Mr. Hume
was asking me if I thought you could possibly be
induced,”

CROSS CURRENTS 43

Both young men eagerly protested in unison that
they would be “so delighted,” “ honoured,” but Mrs.
Belmont was not to be persuaded, and they went off to
make up their set for the Lancers then forming.

Joyce was not going totake part in it, and Alma
announced her intention of going up to the terrace
while mother and daughter were together ; her head
ached, the lights and dancers worried her, the sea air
would do her good; they were not to take any notice
if she even did not return to the ball-room, as she might
possibly after a time stroll back quietly by herself while
it was still early.

In the general move of young people seeking or
claiming partners, she slipped out of the sa/le quietly
but not altogether unnoticed.

A man who had been watching her during the
evening without attracting her attention, had followed
her out of the ball-room and up the shallow polished
Staircase, then stepped into the empty reading-room
fora moment when she had reached an angle at which
she would otherwise have seen him. He had styled
her in his mind a harmony in ivory and grey. She
had kept on the white serge skirt she had worn in the
afternoon, with the substitution of a creamy befrilled
silk blouse for the jacket, and she carried a long grey
cloak over her arm. Her skin was the same dead
white as her dress, and her grey dark-lashed eyes were
ringed underneath with amethystine shadows.

When she reached the covered terrace looking out
to the sea, she drew a chair close up to the railing, and
was sitting down, when her cloak caught on some pro-
jection as she attempted to draw it around her ; almost
before she realised the obstacle it was deftly disengaged

44 CROSS CURRENTS

and placed round her shoulders, and a voice at her
elbow caused her to turnround and face the intruder
on her solitude.

“© Pardon,” he said with the languid drawl of a petit
maitre, “but this is not the first time by many that
I have been fortunate enough to render you this
trifling service, though not to Madame Belmont.”

“Nor is it the first time either that I could have
dispensed with the service, monsieur—in the past as
now.”

“ Unkind as ever, the same provoking Alma! Eh
bien, tant mieux!”

“Tmpertinent as ever, the same futile Fouligny !
Tant pis!”

The little Vicomte threw his head back and con-
templated Alma critically, as if he were appraising a
picture.

“¢ Parole d’honneur!”’ he broke out at last, “ you
have lost nothing, except—and I am not sure you
are not the more charming—your roses!”

“‘ And you—have gained nothing, except perhaps
—” and she looked at him through narrowed eyelids
—‘“a stomach ! ”

“ Méchante! My contemporaries are almost all
married men, and keep good cooks. Que voulez vous ?”

“And why have you not ‘ ranged’ yourself during
these fourteen years and married also?”

“ 4 quoi bon? My friends have mostly married
pretty or charming wives (which was very kind of
them), and I endeavour to show my appreciation,
hein?”

Alma gave a little contemptuous shrug of the
shoulders,

CROSS CURRENTS 45

3”

“You are an incorrigible, Monsieur de Fouligny !

“Ah, madame, why not have married that poor
de Bassompierre who adored you, and remained to
bse? 7?

“As one of the charming wives? I do not share
your regrets, M. de Fouligny. But jesting apart and
in sober truth, I should be glad if you would consider
this little entr’acte over. I am tired. I came here
to be quiet.”

“Tam mute, deaf, blind, whatever you would like
me to be. I take this chair beside you and look in
another direction till it suits you to recall me to life,
then you permit me to escort you to your domicile.
Is it not so?”

Alma made a movement of impatience.

“Vous magacez enfin! I need no escort; my
friends are waiting for me below. I wish you good-
night.”

** Now indeed, madame, one realises that you have
been amongst the savages. This is barbarity, but I
obey.”

Standing up, he drew his heels together in a low,
ceremonious bow, and was turning away when Alma
held out her hand with her charming smile and
gesture.

“Not half the mauvais sujet that you try to make
one believe, mon cher. Are you not tired of the old
pose? ‘Take my advice and study a new character.”

“If you were here to coach me in the part, gui
sait? Enfin bonsoir, madame.’ And Gontran de
Fouligny departed with a very creditable sigh, feeling
for his cigarette-case as he turned in the direction of
the smoking-room.

46 CROSS CURRENTS

His inopportune appearance had disconcerted Mrs.
Belmont, who had sought the solitude of the deserted
terrace, not to bandy words in an encounter of wits
with any frivolous Frenchman, but to dive down into
her own heart and make up her mind as to what
answer she should give Hugh Davenant in the morning.
But the fact of once more conversing in the old
familiar language had thrown her thoughts still further
back into the past. She saw again the dark, grave
face of the man who had been her girlish ideal, when,
at eighteen—in love with Love itself, she had first
met the man of thirty, who realised her every dream
of what a hero of romance should be. The gallant
soldier with an historic name, courted and beset by
women of the world, to whose advances he opposed
the shield of a calm indifference, had laid it down at
the shrine of this innocent, girlish worship, but even
he was powerless against the claims of /a famille, that
Juggernaut which can control the destinies and crush
out the hearts of the sons as well as the daughters of
France.

Alma loyally struggled against the flood of remem-
brance ; she had risen from her seat and was leaning
over the iron balustrade looking out to the moonlit
expanse of water ; the tide was high, and the swish of
the waves against the seawall was distinctly audible.
Suddenly, like the change of a slide in a magic-lantern,
a fresh picture impressed itself upon her mental retina.
In fancy, she was taken back to the shore of the
great Australian tidal river where she had encountered
Hilarion Bingham; they were together on the deck of
the steamer, they were walking in the tropical moon-
light of that enchanted Garden of Eden. His last words

CROSS CURRENTS 47

rang in her ears—“ Alma, soul of my soul, farewell !”
She cast a furtive glance around; so vivid was the
impression that she almost expected to see the speaker.
Then a feeling of anger with herself took possession of
her, and she began to pace restlessly up and down
until the recurrent sound of her own footsteps begat
a fresh irritation. With an idea that any change
might dispel the obsession of her reminiscent thoughts,
she began to descend the polished steps of the staircase,
and almost unconsciously found herself out on the
marble pavements of the port before she realised that
she had left the casino. The quays were deserted,
even the cafés and restaurants seemed silent. She
began to think that the hour must be much later than
she had imagined, and instinctively drew the folds of
her long cloak closer around her as if to efface her
personality. She quickened her pace as a stray passer-
by cast a glance in her direction, then she fancied she
heard following footsteps, but went on her way reso-
lutely looking straight before her. At Merriman’s
Corner a slight gust blew back the grey hood that
covered her dainty coiffure and slightly bared throat,
and as she was drawing it further over her head, the
flash of the diamonds on her ungloved hand suggested
a fresh cause for trepidation.

By the time she had reached the pension, her heart
was thumping in her breast, and her one thought was to
get in safe and unmolested. She had to pass the closed
gates of the courtyard and turn down the side street
in which her own quarters were located. When she
had first arrived at the pension earlier in the season,
it had been crowded, and a room had been assigned to
her in a house through which a communication had

48 CROSS CURRENTS

been opened with the main building. Single people
who did not care for large rooms, and those who
merely required the night’s lodging without board
were generally housed in the smaller building ; but
Alma had found her room comfortable, and had not
cared to change it later. Now, as she fumbled ner-
vously with her latch-key, she almost wished she had
rung the porter’s bell at the big gates, but while
debating as to going back round the corner and doing
so, the key suddenly turned in the lock, and closing
the door quickly, she fled down the long passage, up
the dimly-lighted staircase into her own room as she
imagined. She did not know that in her fright and
nervous agitation she had gone a flight beyond her
own landing until, on rushing in and hastily closing
the door behind her, she confronted a man who was
rising from a writing-table, and recognised Hilarion
Bingham.

Her trembling knees gave way beneath her, she
sank helplessly into the nearest chair, and could only
gaze at him without a word of explanation. His own
surprise also at first arrested speech or movement on
his part, but presently coming towards her, he laid a
hand on her arm with a gentle touch that reassured
instead of alarming her.

Speaking as if he had seen her but yesterday, ““ You
have been frightened, Alma,” he said kindly, as he
quietly stood before her, “sit still and compose
yourself, and then tell me if I can help you in
any way.”

His composure partly restored/her own.

“J thought I was being followed out of doors,”
she answered. “I came in and rushed upstairs in such

CROSS CURRENTS 49

haste that I must have passed my own landing—my
room is underneath. I must go down again.”

Her breath still came in short gasps as she spoke,
and she looked round with a scared expression.

“You had better wait,” he said, “till I make sure
there is no one about. I think every one is in except
an Englisnman I met to-night at the British Consul’s,
my father’s old friend, with whom I have been dining.
He said he would smoke a cigar on the leads before
turning in.”

Even as he spoke, footsteps resounded and stopped
at the end of a corridor running at right angles from
Hilarion’s; then they heard the closing of a door.

“Better wait a little longer. I will look out
presently,” he went on. “I am only passing through
myself on my way to Paris, where I have left my
wife,” he continued, looking steadily at Alma as he
spoke, ‘and shall be off early in the morning. ‘Tell
me something of yourself. How comes it you are
travelling apparently alone and unprotected ? ”

‘1 know every inch of the old place,” replied Alma,
with a slight note of protest in her voice, ‘ and—I
have been a widow for some years. Youare happy, I
trust, Hilarion. . Do you still live at ge

He answered almost before she had completed the
question.

“Yes. I succeeded to my father’s position when
he died. Coralie is a niece of my mother’s who came
out to us from the Mauritius, and who is a dear
daughter to her.”

“T am glad,” returned Alma simply. ‘Good-night,
Hilarion.” He looked out, and shut to the door for
a moment as he took her hand in both hisown. “Our

5,

50 CROSS CURRENTS

little daughter is named Alma. You see I did not
altogether forget. Goodbye; Dieu vous garde!

Once again in her own room and the light turned
up, Alma sat down at a table without removing her
cloak, and began to write rapidly. At last she stopped
to read what she had written :—

“ Dearest HuGu,—I married a man I did not love;
I have loved two men whom I did not marry. The
one love you know of—a sentiment, a romance bred
in a young girl’s imagination, heightened by obstacles,
opposition. ‘The other an infatuation that sprung up
in a night out of circumstance, surroundings, the revolt
of an unhappy woman !

‘These books of my life are closed. It you care to
inscribe your name on the third volume, I can still
offer you a fair white page, and perhaps even a fresh
heart. Quien sabe ?

“ALMA.”

She changed her walking shoes for slippers, still
keeping on her grey cloak, with the hood drawn around
her head and face; once more mounted to the second
landing, passed the doors guarded by pairs of boots on
each side of the corridor till she reached the one at the
end and thrust the note underneath it.

When she opened her eyes the next morning, the
smiling femme de chambre handed her a note with her
early roll and coffee. “The big Monsieur Anglais of
No. 20,” she said, “had given her the dz//et for madame.
Bel homme, ma foi! et pas fainéant! He was then
going out for a walk before the déjeiiner.”

Alma hardly waited for her to leave the room before

CROSS CURRENTS 51

opening it. The envelope contained a man’s visiting
card on which a few words had been scribbled in pencil,
and there was an interpolation that read thus :—
and Mrs. *
MR. HUGH DAVENANT.

University Ciub,
Pall Mall.

“Come down ready to go out immediately after
breakfast.”

“At last I have found my master!” she said to
herself, and sprang out of bed with a smile of
exceeding contentment.

EN OPEMBER< BAY
PAPAITONGA LAKE
BY THE HON. W. P. REEVES

AFE from the mountain tempest’s wild alarms,
Safe from the driving sea-wild’s bitter spray ;
Placid, enfolded in the forest’s arms
Lies Pember Bay.

Did some known lover in his fancy’s youth
Name thee in accents musically slow,

Soft Papaitonga, “ Beauty of the South”
Called long ago?

Midway between the mountains and the deep ;
Secure from upland cold, from salt winds keen,

Bathed in sweet air and sunshine, thou dost keep
A golden mean.

Dark clouds may brood on yonder peaks and spurs,
Chill winds may chase the sea foam, flake on
flake.
But here is peace. Nought ruffles, nothing stirs the
tranquil lake.

Be)

56 IN PEMBER BAY

Nought shakes the ferns, whose interlacing fronds,
Like sea-birds’ wings uplift their giant pinions ;
Nought stirs the brakes, whose creepers’ myriad

bonds

Guard green dominions.

Look, while the sunset clings to yonder range.
Look, while the lake gleams silver in its ray ;
And pray that though all beauty else may change,

This scene may stay.

Here the wild birds from ancient coverts pressed,
May seek asylum by this silent mere ;

And though no other glade or wave give rest,
May find it here.

Though in an hour the forest fire ends all
That nature can in patient ages build,
Though through the land the straight tall trees
must fall,
The birds be stilled,

Yet in this sacred wood no axe shall ring,
These winding shores will sanctuary give,

Where in cool thickets happy birds may sing
And verdure live,

Still for the singers be thy tree-girt edge
And isle leaf-canopied a shrine secure,

Still for the swimmers be thy fringing sedge
A refuge sure.

cee
Tae =

EMBER BAY

# POINT DESPAIR ae
“MEMORY OF THE GREAT MASSACRE

f
. 4,

BY H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON ene

Wey 3 ;
ce is = Y

aN re ti A
as Bees

POINT DESPAIR

A MEMORY OF THE GREAT MASSACRE
BY H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON

GENERATION has slipped away since the

Great Massacre, and even in this district in
which I live, scarcely a hundred miles from the
theatre of that abominable tragedy, the facts are
almost forgotten, at least blurred to a fading patch of
colour. It is remarkable how swiftly time passes ; and
what was yesterday a fear, to-morrow will become a
reminiscence somewhat agreeable to talk over. Yet
upon my mind are scored deeply the recollections of
that horrible scene.

In the year of the Great Massacre I was in my
eighth year, pretty sharp for a child, though somewhat
undersized. My escape came about in this way. I had
left Point Despair about eleven in the morning in the
company of a lad, somewhat over my own age, who
was returning to his people at Murimuru, some twelve
miles distant. The road was plain and easy, running
for some miles along the coast ; moreover, living alone
with my uncle, I maintained a certain licence in my

expeditions, Consequently I asked no leave to slip
61

62 POINT DESPAIR

forth and accompany this playmate a certain part of
his journey. It was a bright, warm day ; we had
some sandwiches in our pockets, and there was the
sea smiling with a thousand lures at our feet. The
suggestion was irresistible; we stripped to the skin,
half way to Murimuru, and idled most of the after-
noon in the water. It was not until my companion
was suddenly pricked by his tardy conscience, and
marched off, declaring he must make Murimuru with
all speed, that I turned to retrace my way to Point
Despair. “The road, as it reached the point, dipped
into a sparse piece of bush, through which it twisted
irregularly for a mile or more, and ere I had issued
from its shadows the dusk had fallen.

It was not at once that I was struck by the singular
quiet which ruled the flat, for I was occupied at the
moment with lively fears about my length of absence ;
but half way to the post-house some uneasy apprecia-
tion of the stillness brought me up, and almost simul-
taneously I noticed a column of thin smoke rising at
the back of Willis’s lean-to. With that the signifi-
cance of the silence went out of my mind ; there was
plainly a fire forward, a most unusual event in our
small settlement ; and, my anxiety forgotten, I broke
into a run, thrilling under the stimulus of a new
sensation. I had barely passed the lean-to in the dull
twilight when I stumbled and went sprawling over
something in the pathway. The thing gave under
me, shifting a little aslant, and I cannot tell you my
sensations when I perceived it to be a dead body.
The light was still sufficient to see by, and ere I
withdrew with a pant of alarm and terror I recognised
the face, which was now staring up at me, as that of

POINT DESPAIR 63

Willis himself. The spectacle was horrible. I carry
it still in my memory, as vivid and as ghastly as on
that evening thirty years back. God knows how
barbarously the wretch had been done to death, or
perhaps the innumerable and dreadful wounds had
been inflicted after the release of that poor spirit.
My mouth fell open, and my eyes watched the dead
man’s fearfully, drawn with a nameless attraction.
It was the first time I had ever encountered death,
and I had no power of motion in my limbs. My legs
shook, I stood transfixed ; the stare of those dead eyes
held and terrified me. But presently the tide of
reflection returned ; I took my gaze from the corpse
and let it go round the vicinity. I was alive now, on
wires of fear, ready to jump off at an instant’s sound.
But no noise came save the low, persistent murmur of
the sea upon the shingle. Even then I had not con-
ceived the fate which had fallen on the settlement.
The horror had been so extreme that it had dulled my
nerves, but as the blood flowed anew from my heart a
certain reaction set in, and I was able to gather my
wits together. I supposed that this Willis, who had
never been popular with me for a sourness of temper,
had met with an abominable accident, and that I was
the first to come upon the tragedy. The news,
shocking as it was in all the horrid circumstances of
its presentment, roused in me an alacrity, and I
hurried to be off. I turned from the still and stupid
body, which as it lay had somehow a look of obscene
importance, and I scuttled towards my home with all
speed.

As I did so the dark and moving shadows of the
column of smoke saluted my eyes once more. Vague

64 POINT DESPAIR

and distant in my mind was a restless wonder of this
appearance. I had a momentary presage of a wider
fear, unintelligible but colossal, and then I was
running for life with the terror of that defiled body
at my heels.

The house in which I kept my uncle company was
little more than a shanty, and lay about the middle
of the four-and-twenty houses which constituted the
township of Point Despair. The settlement held no
street ; it had not reached the dignity of order, and
few of the plots were enclosed. A kitchen-garden,
containing a handful of gooseberry-bushes, a few
currant-bushes, and rows on rows of cabbages and
potatoes, for the most part surrounded each dwelling-
place. Macfarlane’s house alone had the luxury of a
verandah, and was, in addition, fenced with posts and
rails, against which grew a hedge of pinus insignis.
Here it was that I stopped for the third time. For
the front door, flung wide, was squeaking in the
breeze, and a figure in a woman’s dress lay in a heap
on the verandah.

The sight sunk me back into my abject fears. I
would have fled past it on the feet of panic, had not
a horrible fascination mingled with my terror. I had
come direct from one corpse upon another. ‘The bare
fact of this sequence appalled and benumbed me, and
yet once more I was drawn insensibly to inspect this
second horror.

It was not so dark but I could make out every
particular of that mangled heap. I remember that I
pored over it stupidly, noting every ghastly detail,
but comprehending little. My imagination suffered
under a surfeit of the earlier horrors, and could digest

o>,

POINT DESPAIR ns

no more. She lay with an arm clutching at her side ;
it may be she kept some secret in that final moment,
or perhaps it was merely by an instinct of defence. I
could peer at the body so, but I should have shrieked
out to have touched it with a finger-tip. When I left
the verandah I had no proper sensations and no settled
thoughts save a desire to get home. So incapable was
I of further impressions that the body of a child in
the pathway conveyed no meaning to me, though I
was conscious that its name had been Sally. I merely
accepted it as a natural part of this strange and rather
terrible condition. I stepped over the child, backed
away from it cautiously, keeping my eyes upon it,
and then swiftly resumed my former gait. It might
perhaps have leaped upon me. I knew not what
would happen.

The smoke was rising from the ruins of the store,
which stcod only a few paces from my uncle’s cottage.
The flames had not worked much harm, as the fire
had been unskilfully kindled, for the roof alone had
been consumed, and the walls were still solid, but
smouldering. Even the windows, though they were
broken, showed still a few packages of grocery. The
sight of the store, filled, as I pictured it, with in-
numerable sweets and treasures, struck me with more
interest than the dead bodies, and for a moment I
awoke to a thrill of excitement. But it was only
mechanical, and I hardly paused to wonder as I dashed
through the patch of cabbages to the door of my
home. I had no thought of finding my uncle also
dead, but the image of the woman returned persis-
tently, and I glanced involuntarily about to see if
perchance the body lay here also. As I entered by

6

66 POINT DESPAIR

the door, which stood open, and my feet resounded
familiarly upon the wooden flooring, something of
comfort warmed me suddenly, and yet something of
trouble too. I went clattering through the rooms,
calling upon my uncle, a quaver in my tones.

The sound of my voice, solitary in the dusk, alarmed
me further. No uncle answered me: there was no
reassurance from the falling night. Indeed, the only
noise that reached me came from the shore a mile
away, where the waves of the Pacific moaned by day
and night perpetually. It inspired me now with fresh
terror to hear this melancholy sound, of which as a
rule I passed unconscious, save on nights of storm.
Inside the house it was more obscure than in the open
road, but in two rooms I could swear that there was
no sign of my uncle. One corner of the third was
wrapped in deeper darkness, and upon this I stared
with dilating eyes. I dared not enter and inquire there.
Somehow the conviction grew in me firmly that there
sat my uncle in the evil blackness of that corner with
a grin upon his face, and on his body all the gross
marks of those dead creatures I had seen.

I had ceased calling, and the silence frightened me
even more than my lonely voice. Terror crept over
me, at first gently, and then witha rush. It held my
face blanched and fixed towards the darkness, lest
something should spring from it upon me. ‘The
rickety table by which I stood shook under my
trembling hands, and the harsh grating and creaking
completed my horror. I yelled like a cat, and like a
cat fleeing from the room dashed out of the house,
down the garden and into the road.

I ran on heedless of my direction until my wind

POINT DESPAIR 67

was spent, and then, the original impulse of fear being
lost in breathless fatigue, I stopped, and found that I
was on the sandhills that filled the mile between the
sea and the houses of the Point. The air was warm,
and I was now all a-sweat from my running. I could
hear the water roaring louder than before upon the
beach. Inwards, where the bush lay black, in the
rear of the houses, was a dreadful quiet. Somewhere
across the dunes a weka called and was silent. The
moon came out and shone faintly, for the night had
already fallen as it is used to fall suddenly from southern
skies. I wasalive in a graveyard.

It was some time ere I was able to drag myself
back to the houses. Indeed, I think nothing short of
a new terror would have made me return. As I lay
crouching in the “scrub” of the dunes my ears and
eyes were preternaturally alert. The sand was
covered with thin, rough tussock-grass, which shook
and sighed in the wind. ‘These sounds again dis-
comfited me, and more particularly as the wind grew.
A first breath of trouble, as it seemed to me, stirred
through the long culms and set them gently whisper-
ing, as it had been the lamentation of a little child.
Then with a slowly growing volume of wailing the
reeds rocked and swayed in anguish, and it was as if
the groans of that whole company of dead were
expressed in my ears. The horrible tragedy, as I
now conceived it, was enacted before me in these
noises. As the wind rose I heard the shrieks of the
poor women barbarously handled, and the screams
and prayers of the dying returned to me; and as it
fell so I conceived again a silence to fall upon the
settlement, which was the final stillness of death.

68 POINT DESPAIR

This impression made such a mark upon me that the
beats of my heart quickened to a galop, and I began
to see life start from the inanimate bushes and creepers
about me. What nameless things I imagined were
haunting those trembling and invisible bushes I have
now no notion, nor indeed had I at the time. The
dunes were alive with crying ghosts, and I was alone
with them. I was stung once more into action, and
with despair in my heart I crept from the open sea-
ward space into the settlement again.

I took up my post now as distant from the houses
as ‘I could manage to be, without being actually
beyond the precincts of the township. A space, still
unoccupied, and the common playground of children,
spread out before the store, and upon a slope in this,
where the ground rolled up against a patch of bush,
I sat in a heap of furze and watched the night. Some
sparks of fire lingered in the beams of the store, and
broke out into flame from time to time, revealing
thick clouds of smoke that still rolled upwards to the
moon. I took a certain comfort in this companion-
ship, and after a time my terrors had so nearly subsided
that I began to feel hungry ; for I had eaten no food
since midday. “Though my spirit was returning, and
my fancies were gone, I still lacked the courage to
approach my uncle’s cottage, or even to explore the
store,in which I was sure to find some food. I
endured the pangs with fortitude rather than face the
unknown terrors across the threshold. But presently
I remembered the wild fuchsia-tree which grew in
the bush at my back, and with some of the kanini
berries I stayed my appetite. The scene was so
peaceful, and my refuge among the ferns was so warm

he

POINT DESPAIR 69

that I grew even cheerful, and was soon whistling
softly to myself; and when at last my extreme thirst
compelled me to make a journey to the creek, two
hundred yards away, Iset out upon the expedition
with scarcely any reluctance.

A house with a garden which in our wilderness had
always been held quite magnificent, stood upon the
verge of the creek. I had made the distance swiftly
and in a respectful silence, but having taken my drink
without accident I resumed something of my normal
ease and security, and strolled back more leisurely,
whistling the catch of a song. But at the gate of
the house I was brought suddenly to a halt, my heart
stood for a moment still, and I was rooted to the earth
with the fear of what saw. Something was moving
under the white light in the rude track before the
gate, crawling and crawling, as it seemed, towards me.
It was not until the clouds streamed from the moon
and the light grew clearer that I realised the cause
of my stupefaction. It was the body of a woman,
stirring feebly, and as soon as I had perceived this
my fright left me and I drew closer and looked down
upon it. I recognised her at once as Mrs. Stainton,
a young woman of comely appearance, who since her
advent to Point Despair three months before, with
her newly-married husband, had shown me much
kindness. She was still alive, and as I stood over her,
not knowing what to do, she groaned and opened her
eyes upon me. She lifted her hand and beckoned ‘to
me feebly ; but I was reluctant to approach, and eyed
her from a yard or two away. I saw her part her
lips and struggle for speech. Her body writhed, and
her features were contorted with her efforts. Her
uplifted arm shook and fell,

70 POINT DESPAIR

But still I held aloof. In truth, I feared to approach
lest she should take hold of me. She made a little
upward motion of her head three times, as though she
were striving to rise upon her elbow; but if it were
so, the attempt was vain; her body quivered and her
head sank back, and with a tiny sigh she was still.
I waited a moment and then bent over her.

“ Mrs, Stainton!” I called, “ Mrs. Stainton !”

She returned no sign, and with alarm I perceived
that her eyes were still open and were staring at me.
I got up and ran away from the spot hastily.

Once in my lair among the bracken I felt safe and
comfortable. The repugnance of the dead bodies
did not pursue me thither. I was covered up from
the eye of heaven in the long ferns, and in my warm
seclusion sheltered from the wind by the patch of
bush at my back. I soon began to nod. The walk
of the afternoon had tired me and the mental distur-
bance of the last two hours had added to my weariness.
I do not think I should have attached any importance
to the very presence of the murderers at their work,
if the tragedy had been re-enacted before me. Curled
up, with my knees to my chin, I passed gently to
sleep.

I awoke some hours later with a dismal squalling
in my ears. Isat up with a start in that sudden panic
that seizes on the dreamer while yet he is half-way to
his senses. My heart thumped and my eyes strained
through the cloud of darkness, Presently I recognised
the sound as the mewling of a cat hard by. It came
from the pines behind me, and drew gradually nearer ;
so that in a little while it had approached quite close
to my refuge, where it stood, as I could see now in

POINT DESPAIR 71

the twilight of the dawn, crying desolately. I jumped
to my feet and put out my hand.

“Puss! Puss!” I called softly.

The cat darted away, limping on three legs, and I
heard the sound of something trailing through the
grass. I followed still calling on it.

“Puss! Puss! Poor Puss!” I said in a condoling
whisper. It stopped forlornly before a heavy log of
wood which barred its way, and threw a scared glance
at me. I madea little rush forward, but the creature
spat passionately at me, and gathering itself together,
with an angry growl scrambled up the log, dragging
a broken leg. It vanished with a screech of pain
into the undergrowth.

I groped my way back towards the bracken dis-
consolately. My nest was difficult to discover, for I
was still drowsy, and I wandered for some minutes ere
I lighted upon it. I had scarce found the bush by
which it was marked when my foot stumbled upon
something, and being very stiff and sore from my hard
bed, I fell forward rather heavily. I put out my hands
to save myself, and they touched the cold flesh of a
dead body. I screamed and fled blindly, escaping into
my hiding-place, where I lay trembling. Those terrible
things had followed me even there; there was no
escape for me. [I listened for the footsteps. Would it
approach? The chill of something worse than death
struck to my heart as I heard a slight movement in the
grasses beyond the bush. I would have torn open the
earth with my hands to bury myself. I cried out,
calling on my uncle, who lay dead somewhere himself.
Then there came a swishing sound; a cracking
followed ; and then with a sibilation of the tussock

72 POINT DESPAIR

the Thing slipped out of the detaining grasses, ana
rolling with a soft thud from spot to spot, went down
the little slope. I heard it pause in the hollow below,
and silence once again prevailed.

The sun was far gone in the sky when I awoke
with the noise of horse-hoofs clattering in my ears.
From the rise I could command a view of the road
from the point where it ran into the bush ; and along
this a horseman was cantering leisurely towards me.
Save for the wounded cat and the last few moments of
that flickering spirit the night before, this was the
first live thing I had set eyes upon since my return ;
and, once assured that it was no marauding Maori
returning to his terrible work, I jumped to my feet,
and scampered to meet the rider. The body in the
hollow caused me a little gasp of fright as I passed it,
all but treading on it again in the long grass. But
even this reminder of my fears availed nothing against
my sudden burst of joy. I ran down the road and
met the horseman ere he turned the corner by the
first cottage.

“Mr. Stainton! Mr. Stainton!” I called in
excitement.

He threw a nod at me, but did not draw rein.

“That you, Johnny?” he said. ‘What brings
you up early like this?”

Even as he spoke and passed by, without waiting
for an answer, a nameless and delicate fear came over
me. I saw him now heading his horse for that.
house ; and outside that house I saw what was waiting
for him, beckoning me again with crooked fingers.
For a moment I stood paralysed behind him, and then,

POINT DESPAIR 73

a deeper instinct moving in my boyish mind, I ran at
the heels of his horse, shouting in a treble:

“Mr. Stainton! Mr, Stainton!”

He must not, I felt dimly, be suffered to come
wholly unprepared upon the remains of that tragedy.
But my cries were ineffectual ; he waved his riding-
whip as in greeting, without looking back, and
cantered on. I stood for a space of time, not knowing
what to do, whether to go forward or to retreat.
Then, broken by my doubts and the dreadful thing my
instinct scented, I took the latter course, and hid in
the bushes again. It must have been a quarter of an
hour later that I perceived Mr. Stainton coming back
from the creek. He was riding fast, and his horse
shied before the house with the verandah at something
in the path. When he came abreast of me I rushed
out, calling to him again:

“Mr. Stainton! Mr. Stainton

He turned his face towards me, and I saw that it
was stricken ghastly white. His fingers shook on his
bridle, and he stared at me, paying me no heed.

“Mr, Stainton, take me with you,” I moaned.
“’Take me with you.”

It was as if he saw me not. He went by like a
flash, unheeding, with his grey face evil with terror;
and down the road I ran, sobbing and crying after
him, till he had vanished into the bush and I was all
alone again.

Yet this desperate and unavailing act had accom-
plished one thing. I had passed in my flight the
limit of the township, and was now beyond the grave-
yard, Recognising this at last, I dashed into the bush,
and that lamentable flat became lost to my sight.

Cetera desunt,

{>

Ske CK. GOLD

A SKETCH

BY MARGARET THOMAS

we RUCK GOLD
4A SKETCH
BY MARGARET THOMAS

EARS ago, before the whistle of the steam-engine

had been heard in the land, or the pellucid waters

of the Yan Yean had been laid on to the dusty streets
of Melbourne, and long before Burke and Wills had
made that plucky dash across the mysterious continent
which cost them both their lives; when crowded ships
were landing their seething crowds of fortune-hunting
immigrants on the magnetic shores of Victoria, three
raw youths from Somersetshire also arrived in Hobson’s
Bay. Like all new chums in that now distant day,
they had come to make their pile in those golden
fields, for the fame of the recent discoveries at Ballarat
and Bendigo had reached even the wilds of the West
of England, and farmers and farm labourers were eager
to throw aside the spade and plough of old England
for the more money-making shovel and pick of distant
Australia. And big piles were made in those times,
made not by buying shares in great mines worked by
machinery and governed by a board of well-paid
directors sitting clothed in black cloth in luxurious

77

78 STRUCK GOLD

London offices, but by hard work of muscle and
sinew, by heavy labour, and sometimes even by
privation and suffering, of men in rags, under the
broad glare of the pitiless southern sun. It is a far
cry now to those picturesque and romantic days, and
the younger race of Australians, who are growing up
patriotically and justly proud of their native land,
read about them as they read about other matters of
history—the signing of Magna Charta, for example,
or the Indian Mutiny.

Of our three “Zomerzet” heroes, two differed in
no respect from the ordinary clodhopper one still
meets in the remote recesses of that agricultural
county; in a word, they were _pre-schoolboard
youths, and were, in the language of the virtuous
young man of the Adelphi dramas, “‘poor but honest.”
But the third came under another category. He
possessed both genius for art and the love of it ; and
in spite of want of opportunity, in face of many
discouragements and difficulties, he had, even at his
early age, made a name for himself in London as a
sculptor, and that seal of refinement which ever marks
the true artist was set upon his whole being. Unhappily,
too great devotion to his beloved studies had demanded
the usual penalty, and doctors had declared that if he
did not exchange the cold and fog of London for a
warmer and clearer atmosphere, he would be obliged
in a month or so to say goodbye to his models and
statues for ever.

So he proposed to his brothers that they should
accompany him in search of fortune to the wonderful
Eldorado of the south, with whose fame all the world
was ringing ; he even spent the last of his savings to

STRUCK GOLD 79

pay for their passages. Arrived in Melbourne, they
“humped their swags,” tramped to the diggings as the
fashion then was, happy if they got ever so short a lift
in a bullock-dray, and lost no time in pegging out a
claim at Poverty Reef.

Months passed; the brothers worked as hard as
diggers only know how, when a stroke of the pick may
perhaps suddenly reveal to them an enormous fortune.
Saving, however, the few small nuggets which they
exchanged at the only store in the camp for the bare
necessaries of life, no good luck came their way. Day
after day saw them at their heavy labour; night after
night saw them sitting weary and dispirited round the
fire outside their little tent. Their fate was not singular ;
hundreds around them were in the same case. When
one more lucky than his mates came across a pocket of
nuggets, or an extra big bit of gold, he gave them or the
notes he received for them to the landlord of the log
hut dignified by the name of “hotel,” where whisky was
sold for five-and-twenty shillings a bottle, and telling
mine host to “let him know when the money was
knocked down,” proceeded to drink till that event
came to pass, which it generally did pretty speedily.
The lucky man also invariably shouted for every comer
who cared to drain nobblers with him, till the diggers
didn’t know a cradle from a pick, and the stock-drivers
could scarcely touch a bullock with their, twelve-feet
whips, much less cut a piece out of its ear, as they
could do in soberer moments. When sick and heavy-
headed he recovered consciousness after his long booze,
the digger went to work again—but never a sadder, if
never a wiser man.

It was a cloudless night—one of those nights so

80 STRUCK GOLD

frequent in that land without mist or fog, when the
moonlight is so clear that every detail is revealed
instead of hidden, as they are in northern lands, and
colours may still be distinguished. The moon’s rays
glimmered on the sword-shaped leaves of the gigantic
old gum-trees, so that one might almost fancy they
were gemmed with dew; they slid along the strips
of bark which hung like rags from the rugged stems,
and rattled in the scorching sighs of a fiery wind,
which had now blown for nine days at least. In the
distance stretched the primeval forest — immense,
solitary, silent — the huge trees growing bluer and
bluer as they marched in long procession towards the
dim horizon, where a line of long low hills broke the
otherwise level outline of the earth.

The air was heavy with the scent of wattle-blossom,
mingled unfortunately with strong reminiscences of
sundry dead horses lying in the near gully which the
dingoes had not yet had time to devour ; strange wild
flowers—the creeping blue sarsaparilla, the red desert
pea ; curious orchids and heaths grew in the short dry
yellow grass, every colour distinct in the brilliant
moonlight, while here and there a sombre she-oak cast
a deeper spot of shadow on the ground than the more
feathery wattles and young gums could attain to. The
harsh shrieks of a few belated cockatoos and parrots
might still be heard in the bush, as the night fell quick
and sudden over the earth, palpitating with the still
nearly intolerable heat.

The camp was almost silent, the deep sleep of some
of the worn-out gold seekers undisturbed by the rude
shouting and laughter which denoted the whereabouts
of the drinking shanty.

“EAN ee

STRUCK GOLD 81

Two of the brothers, Jack and Will, came wearily
in from their labours—utterly down on their luck,
knee-booted, red-shirted, sunburnt, and mud-stained.
They now looked like old hands ; and as they threw
their implements on the ground with muttered curse
at their ill-luck, few would have recognised in these
bearded men the fair-faced country youths who stepped
on shore at Williamstown barely more than a year ago.

One of them proceeded to strike a match on the leg
of his corduroys, lighted a candle, and stuck it in an
empty bottle; theair, stagnant and warm, did not even
cause the flame to waver. A fire was then made, a
villy-full of water put on to boil, and Jack, taking some
flour from a scantily-provided sack, proceeded to make
the traditional damper, and put it in the hot ashes
under the pot to bake. A handful of tea was then
thrown in the bubbling water, the liquid poured into
pannikins, and having seasoned the draught with
coarse brown sugar, the brothers began their evening
meal. ‘Their funds did not run to mutton, so they
munched their damper alone, with the appetite which
youth and labour always appear to command.

“Where is Ned to-night?” said Will, cutting a
huge morsel from the smoking cake with his bowie
knife.

“Qh, loafing round, I suppose. Trying to see if
the clay hereabout is fit for making images,” responded
the other. ‘‘ Never saw such a chap for Art as he is.
He'll never make a digger.”

“What’s the use of digging?” returned Will.
“Here we've been working for months like niggers,
and we haven’t even a bit of tinned meat to put in our
mouths, let alone plum duff.”

‘4

82 STRUCK GOLD

“Take my word for it ; we shall strike gold soon,
and strike it rich,” said Jack. ‘The pipe-clay looked
uncommon like it to-day; but what with the heat, long
hours, and starvation fare, I couldn’t get on any further
to-day.”

“Tuck’s against us, mate,” said the despondent
Will.

At this moment in rushed Edward with a fragment
of newspaper in his hand. Opblivious to the fact that
he had eaten nothing since their early morning meal,
he cried, ‘‘ I’ve made up my mind to go down to Mel-
bourne at once. See here, they are advertising in the
Argus for a sculptor to do some work for the new
Government buildings, and I mean to go and try for
ites

“Don’t be a fool, lad,’ said the two brothers at
once. ‘Here we are almost within sight of the gold,
and you are going to chuck away your chance for the
sake of a beggarly statue or so !”

“<T don’t care about the money! It’s three years
since I have touched a bit of modelling clay, or a
block of marble, and I can’t stand it any longer.
Better starve at Art than live in luxury without it.
I’m off by daylight to-morrow morning.”

“You'll have to walk then. ‘There’s no shot in the
locker to pay for Cobb’s coach.”

“Yes, I know. I can walk to Melbourne in a
little over a week, and if I can get the jobI will” ; so
saying he set to work to finish the remains of the
damper and the nearly black tea.

Sunrise next morning saw the artist on his way, and
it may be added here that when he arrived in Mel-

ourne he got the commission for and executed the

STRUCK GOLD 83

work so dear to his soul. It was the commencement
of a busy and not unsuccessful artistic career.

But sunset that evening saw his brothers in a state
of frantic delight bordering on delirium. They had
finally struck gold, struck it in apparently inexhaustible
quantities ; lumps of the gleaming metal lay embedded
in the teeming soil where mother Nature had carefully
stored it up long centuries ago to supply the needs ot
her children in these latter days. As nugget after
nugget gleamed in the pale light of the miner’s lamp, a
sense of greed and arrogance sprang up in the hearts
of the young men, and when at night they staggered
to their tent under the heavy and dangerous burden of
their newly-acquired wealth, they sank to the ground
overpowered, with scarcely strength or sense enough
to bury it under their sleeping-places, yet determined it
should be theirs, and theirs alone.

And the two brothers became rich men, rich among
the richest men of a wealthy colony.

But the artist, who for the love of Art had left the
claim before gold was struck, had no share in their
prosperity, he reaped no reward for his long and
arduous labour in it. But he had that reward which is
greater than riches—success in the art he loved, a
career full of honour and glory; at his death his
adopted country mourned him greatly, and a monument
was erected to him in his native country, where his
name is still held in reverence, as it would not have
been had he merely “struck gold.”

A Te a ee ON ot oe ae nen

re a" ape “ i= : Pt. ~

BY E. W. HORNUNG

we aie |
—.

abd 60

Se ad ate

“gre eee

THE LARRIKIN OF DIAMOND
CREEK

BY E. W. HORNUNG

HE Reverend Charles Caradoc was tramping in
from Heidelberg: not the old-world German
city, but that pleasant Melbourne suburb which was
idyllic before it became a suburb at all. Then the line
was only talked about, and you had to walk home if
you missed the last bus. Caradoc had missed it with
his eyes open, and was revelling in the two hours’
penalty. Through the wintry starlight his face
beamed pink with good-humour and enthusiasm ; on
the hard, undulating road, his step was the tattoo of
health and strength, of infinite confidence and complete
youth.

Yet there were younger men, and even curates, as
there were thousands more prepossessing in appearance.
Caradoc was eight-and-twenty, and he wore a mous-
tache, which is seldom in its place upon a barrister, a
jockey, a man-servant, or a clergyman. This mous-
tache was reddish, and of the horse-shoe order, but not
heavy enough to hide the wearer’s good, but rather
prominent, front teeth. Caradoc had also very good

blue eyes, but these again were a little prominent.
87

88 DIAMOND CREEK

Altogether you will picture him no Apollo. He had,
however, a deep chin, a man’s mouth, and one of the
kindliest, most ingenuous, least self-conscious expres-
sions ever worn between a clerical collar and a soft felt
hat.

But he was a very new chum, having come out with
Archdeacon Huntley, who had been home to England
for a few months’ holiday after thirty years’ ministry
in the colony. Greedy for honest work, and impatient
of what went by that name in his country curacy,
Caradoc had fallen in with the Archdeacon at a garden
party, had confessed his discontent, and been promised
his heart’s desire if he would come to Melbourne. He
was getting it among the larrikins of Carlton and of
Fitzroy ; in the tide of riff-raff that flowed southward,
with thickening scum, to the confines of Little Bourke
Street itself.

So his head and his hands were full; so his heart
and his step were light; and the quick music of his
youth and energy had drummed through Ivanhoe and
Alphington, and was ringing down the hill to Diamond
Creek, when that happened which stopped it for the
moment, and changed it for the night. Curiously
enough, Caradoc was thinking ofa story told him that
afternoon by the driver of the omnibus, the story of a
man shot dead by a notorious bushranger at this same
Diamond Creek, when history flattered itself with a
weak repetition: a weedy figure flew out from the
shadows, and a revolver was presented at the curate’s
head.

“Bail up!” cried a nasal voice, hoarse with excite-
ment.

Caradoc stepped back, marking the lethal barrel.

DIAMOND CREEK 89

This was agreeably short, and the starlight scarcely
shimmered in its rust; moreover, it was not covering
him.

“ Bail up? What do you mean!”

“¢' Yer money or yer life!” came in the still older
formula and a still thicker voice.

“ My life,” said Caradoc, calmly—“ if you can hit
me from where you stand.”

“1 will—my word!”

©] don’t think your barrel’s long enough.”

The muzzle was spinning in circles like a midge.
The curate laughed as he stepped towards it.

“T’ll come nearer. Now try.”

And he fixed his good blue eyes on the hungry
brown ones of a pitiful stripling, seen more clearly
every instant in the starlight, and every instant a more
painful exhibition of insufficient effrontery and oozing
courage. The end was in keeping with the rest:
instead of being fired, the pistol was flung at Caradoc’s
head, whizzed over it, and went off like a squib as it
clattered in the road behind him. When he rose from
ducking, two bare feet flashing under the stars was all
he could see of his assailant. He gave chase in his
well-soled boots, and for a time the music was very
fast ; it rattled over the bridge across the creek, and
up-hill indomitably on the other side ; but towards the
top it stopped suddenly, then turned into a duet of gasps.

“ Am I to hang on to you,” panted the curate, “ or
do you give in?”

“Oh, Lord! I give yer best—I give yer best!”

“Then we go back to Melbourne together. I can
either twist your arm behind your back and force you
along 3

go DIAMOND CREEK

“Ow! ow!”

“Or we can go arm-in-arm as though we were old
friends. You prefer that, eh? Then come on!”

They went on without a word. Gradually their
hard breathing subsided, and the parson took out his
handkerchief and mopped his face; the captive did
much the same with the back of his sleeve, only it
was his eyes that required most attention.

“ Whimpering at the thought of gaol,” mused
Caradoc. ‘Let him whimper !”

On the outskirts of the city he hailed a cab,
pushed his prisoner into it, and told the man where to
drive in a voice inaudible within; not until they
stopped at his lodgings in Carlton did he hear that
nasal voice again.

“‘ Where are you bringin’ me!

“* Come out, and you'll see.”

Caradoc’s supper was laid in his room, for he had
only gone to Heidelberg to deliver a letter of introduc-
tion, and had said positively that he would be back ;
but he had reckoned without his kind colonial host,
and had fared sumptuously before leaving the farm.
Yet he rubbed his hands at sight of the cold sliced
mutton, the loaf and butter, the pickles and the cheese.

“Capital!” he cried. “I’ve had my supper, Mary,
but here’s a fellow who I fancy has not. It just fits
sui

”

And Mary withdrew without comment; for this
was not the first dilapidated visitor that the curate had
introduced during his short tenancy ; and he had given
fair warning that there would be more.

“Now,” continued Caradoc, “sit down and have at
rig iat

DIAMOND CREEK g!

Instead of doing so, the lad stood trembling like a
frightened colt ; his dark eyes big, and his brown skin
blanched, with a deeper and a keener fear than even
this coward had displayed on the road.

“ What are you givin’ us?” he gasped, in yet
another formula.

“ Mutton and damper, I believe you call it,” replied
the curate, looking for his pipe.

“ Ain’t you goin’ to gimme to the coppers?”

“That remains to be seen. Not till you’ve had
something to eat, at all events. Matches gone, as
usual ; got one about you, by any chance?”

=o.”

“Ah! Tve found ’em. Mind if I smoke while
you're eating :”

“ J ain’t agoin’ to eat.”

Caradoc took a single glance at the set and sullen
face ; then he struck a match, and answered as he lit
his pipe, with his back turned.

“Don’t be a young fool. (Puff, puff.) I know
very well why you stuck me up to-night. (Puff,
puff, puf-f-f-) Isn't that the expression? Or is it
that only when you’re a bushranger? If you're a
bushranger (puff) I’m disappointed in’em; but I
should be sorry to think you were one, for their sake
as well as yours. All I believe you are is a half-
starved larrikin ‘s

“ That’s all, so help me!”

“Then there’s your supper. Stow it away! But,
look here, if you turn on the waterworks, I will send
for the police—like a shot.”

An hour later, the curate and the larrikin were
seated at opposite sides of the fire. The curate was

g2 DIAMOND CREEK

in his third pipe ; the larrikin would not smoke ; and
though the pale brown face was almost serene in its
physical satisfaction, the dark brown eyes reached ever
furtively for the door.

Caradoc took his pipe from his teeth, catching the
glance.

“Must you go back to Diamond Creek to-night ?”

“ My word!”

“ You could have that sofa if you’d stop.”

The larrikin fidgeted, looked down in discomfort,
looked up in blunt inquiry.

“ But you was goin’ to get me run in?”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t.”

He must have known it ; he only sighed relief.

“Then you'll let me clear? The old man’d give
me hell if I didn’t go home!”

Caradoc took no notice of the word.

“So there’s an old man, and a home, too, eh?”

“Not much of one,” laughed the larrikin. “ Plucky
home !”

“Do you know that you haven’t told me the old
man’s name, or yours? ”

“ Wot’s the good, when he has so many ?”

“ But he must call you something,” remarked the
curate, smiling behind his red moustache.

“ He calls me things wot’d make your hair curl!”
replied the larrikin, and Caradoc showed those promi-
nent white teeth of his as he laughed outright in his
own despite. Next moment he was particularly
grave : as shyness wore off on the other side, it was
his habit to drop a certain familiarity which he had
found indispensable for putting the Melbourne larrikin
at his ease: so now he suddenly ceased smoking at

DIAMOND CREEK 93

two pipes and a half, and stood up stiffly on his hearth-
rug, with his long coat tails to the fire.

“If you like it better,” said he, rather loftily,
“what am I to call you?”

“ J don’t see as you'll have much chance of callin’
me anythink,” replied the other, with a snigger.

“Very good. Then you certainly shan’t clear out.
Now what’s your name?”

The reply was slow, sullen, and uncertain :

“Willyum.”

“William, eh? Well, William, you shall clear
out, as you call it, on certain hard-and-fast conditions
which you'll break at your peril. Refuse them, and I
give you in charge.”

He felt it a mean threat, an ignoble coercion; but
if any end could justify any means, surely it was the
end which he had in view. Nevertheless, when
William had accepted the inevitable, with a sudden
desperation following upon a frank reluctance, and
equally suggestive of sincerity, the master of the situa-
tion felt a genuine relief, and made haste to adopt a
less terrible tone.

“Know Lygon Street, William ?”

¢ My word |”

“ Know St. Cuthbert Zt Ay down?”

“ Outside,” said William, with a fine ungodliness.

“You shall know the aside. too, before I’ve done
with you,” the curate promised him. ‘But one thing
at atime. ‘here’s a mission-room alittle lower down
on the same side—a red-brick affair. You’ve got to
know the inside of that first: you’re to let me see you
there every Wednesday and Saturday evening, at eight
o'clock, till further orders ! ”

94 DIAMOND CREEK

William sighed.

“To-day’s Tuesday,” continued Caradoc ; “ you
begin to-morrow night ; and I don’t think you'll hate
it half as much as you think. ‘The other fellows
don’t. Lots come—lots of greater villains than you. I
shouldn’t care to be stuck up by some of them,
William —they wouldn’t mean it for a joke!” he
added, as the boy turned a warmer brown. “ But
they aren’t such bad fellows either; they come and
play bagatelle and draughts and dominoes; we let
them smoke, but kick them out if they swea.”

Caradoc was disappointed. He had hoped that the
programme — the Wednesday and Saturday evening
programme — the kindergarten class in elementary
decency—would appeal to this larrikin in the mere
prospect as it had done to others. He was mistaken.
William did not brighten; he had been brighter
before. All he did was to sit and stare into the fire,
crass and unattracted.

“‘T forgot,” said Caradoc. ‘ You don’t smoke, and
you won’t swear. Perhaps you read?”

“ My word!”

“Then you can read there to your heart’s content.
One end of the room’s for nothing else ; magazines,
books, papers, and no talking allowed.”

The effect was magical: it brought William to his
feet.

“ T’ll be there to-morrow night.”

“ You promise ?”

“ My oath.”

“Then that’s a bargain ; your hand on it, William
. . . And now there’s just one more thing I want to
know, and you shall go. I want a plain answer to a

DIAMOND CREEK 95

plain question ; you mustn’t be hurt. Supposing I’d
given you my money on the road—it’s the last time
Pll speak of it—would the old man have got it, or
would he not?”

The look was enough ; it was a look of swift, open-
eyed amazement at Caradoc’s insight. He smiled and
nodded, rather proud of it himself.

“7 thought as much. Sohe sends you out to make
money?”

© Day an’ night.”

“That way?”

“That’s my look-out.”

“He wouldn’t know, eh?”

“No, nor care!”

“T see,” said Caradoc, looking into the bright,
brown eyes, and disliking their moisture in a lad who
was almost a man. “J quite understand ; and there’s
nothing to take to heart so much as all that, my good
boy. It wasn’t your fault—I don’t blame you a bit.
But, I say, you’d better take some money back, hadn’t
you? Look here, you shall see what you'd have got.
. . . Lhree-and-seven, exactly—a noble haul! Take
it, my dear fellow, it’ll be better than nothing ; and
one of these, days you shall earn it honestly and pay me
back. We must put you in the way of earning some-
thing, of course ; but you shall come in to-morrow
night, and have another square meal to walk back on ;
and we'll talk it over then—if you won’t be such a
baby !”

And Caradoc stood impatiently on the landing while
the bare feet stumbled downstairs and over the linoleum;
when the front door slammed, he returned to his room
and refilled his pipe.

96 DIAMOND CREEK

”

“<Tf he wasn’t such an infernal baby!” he muttered
as he struck the match. Yet the baby grew on him
as he sat and smoked, and put up his feet on the empty
chair opposite.

The site had been bought, the room built, the
Mission started by Archdeacon Huntley’s sons—fine,
hearty fellows who did almost as much good in
Melbourne as that dear divine himself. It was the
young men who had gathered in the larrikins, and
the young men who had taught them to appreciate
their privileges by kicking them out again as often
as necessary. At first the necessity had been almost
nightly ; the character of the place very nearly non-
religious, as it still was on Wednesdays and Saturdays ;
but gradually it had become possible to establish a
specific ideal, to accentuate this as time went on, until
the mission-room could afford to avow its allegiance to
the church hard by. So the enterprise flourished, until
it grew beyond the surplus energies of mere laymen,
and Caradoc on landing found his work cut out for
him ; what was better, he might himself have been
cut out for the work. Good-humoured and yet firm
—but his qualities need no bush. Of the highest
order they were not; but for dealing with the
Melbourne larrikin they proved a well-nigh perfect
combination.

And yet a certain innate bluffness, which stood
Caradoc in stead with the ruck, did not always serve
him with the individual ; certainly it did not answer
with the half-hearted desperado who had attempted
to stick him up on the Heidelberg road. The lad
came regularly to the room, but Caradoc never knew

DIAMOND CREEK 97

how long he would continue coming. He did not
grow more manly on further acquaintance ; yet the
curate did not like him less. He was not popular
with the other boys: he was shrinking and self-con-
scious in their midst; yet Caradoc liked him well
enough to ask him sometimes to his rooms, to resent
his invariable refusals, to lend him his own books in-
stead, to set him on the way to Diamond Creek, to
feed his mind as they walked. And he seldom laid
himself out to feed the mere minds of the rest; all
his time was taken up in purifying their hearts.

So the short winter ended, and the long summer
began; but before the great heat a feast-day was
fixed, and the date announced by Caradoc to his
larrikins, amid astonishing enthusiasm ; for some of
them knew, though he did not, the kind of day that
it would be.

Quite in the bush, down the icin: line, Arch-
deacon Huntley had a twenty-acre selection, and a
wattle-and-dab hut to which he and his sons would
repair, now for hard, solitary work, now for complete
rest and change. It was only thirty miles by rail;
then there was a drive; and in a couple of hours all
told you were in the heart of the wilderness, amid
huge boulders and forest ferns, and trees taller than
any steeple in the southern hemisphere. Hither,
once a summer, Archdeacon Huntley brought his
choir-boys for the day; and here the larrikins had
their separate outing, with the Archdeacon and all
his available sons to keep them in order.

There was a sound repast on the grass behind the
hut ; there were games, competitions, tree-climbing,
stick-whittling, an organised exploration of the wilds ;

98 DIAMOND CREEK

and before tea, a general and compulsory bathe in the
big waterhole. ‘he young fellows acted as whips,
but their office was a sinecure: the difficulty was not
to persuade the boys to go in, but to induce them to
come out. Caradoc suggested a strict time - limit,
and stood watch in hand on an adjacent boulder,
christened the Tarpeian Rock by the classical Arch-
deacon, who stood beside him smiling benignly upon
the brown hands and faces and the white bodies of the
boys, wet and flashing in the sun. ‘But the curate
did not smile; he frowned; and his frown was
blackest when he closed his half-hunter with a vicious
snap.

“There’s one fellow cut it, after all!”

“Indeed!” said the Archdeacon. ‘ Which boy is
that?”

“ His name is William.”

“ William what ?”

“© Nobody knows ; he refused me his surname when
I first got hold of him, and I have never pressed him
for it.”

“So he is one of your boys?” said the Archdeacon,
kindly. “I hear there are so many of them already !
You are doing a very noble work, Caradoc ; it was a
good day for us all when I fell in with you.”

Neither the Archdeacon nor his sons knew under
what circumstances Caradoc had fallen in with the
missing larrikin.

“‘T fancy his father is a great villain,” continued the
curate, blushing at the praise. ‘Ihe lad himself is
all right, if only he were more of a sportsman. This
is so characteristic of him! Goodness knows where
he is! Iam sorry,” he added with less emphasis, and

DIAMOND CREEK 99

more to himself: “I have a soft corner for the fellow
in spite of it.”

Yes—in spite of the very faults he could least endure
—it was a softer corner than the curate could under-
stand. His own tolerance puzzled him. Another
skulker he had lashed with his contempt; another
muff he had tormented into manliness, long weeks
before this. It was as though the very badness of this
lad’s beginning, the abortive highway robbery, had
imbued the object of that outrage with a special
lenience towards him, less paradoxical than it might
appear, since anything short of crime must in him
henceforth assume a merit.

Not that Carradoc argued thus: he was one of the
least introspective of mortals. His subtlest feeling was
a slight impatience with himself, a naive wonder that
his day should be so easily spoilt. Yet he never hesi-
tated as to what he should do: when the boys were
finally in the brake, and the cheering at its height, it
was the curate who ran up last and hottest.

“‘ May I have one word, Mr. Archdeacon? I can’t
find that boy anywhere ! ”
~ “God bless my soul!”

“I fear something has happened to him ; or he’s run
away to avoid going back to town. But we can’t
allow that ; he must be found.”

“He must, indeed,” said the Archdeacon, looking
at his watch; ‘but we must also catch our train.
There is no other to-night. I think the best thing
will be for one of my sons ss

“If you will permit me, sir, I would much rather
stay myself. I know this lad; he has a peculiar dis-
position ; but I believe I can manage him. I should

100 DIAMOND CREEK

deem it such a kindness if you could spare me to find
him and to bring him back.”

So the brake waddled down the rough track, and
Caradoc was left behind, waving back to the waving
lads, and returning their cheers until the great trees
swallowed them ; then he ran back into the selection,
and mounted the Tarpeian Rock which was its
highest point.

The sun had long been among the trees, but then
the trees were so tall. It might be light for the better
part of another hour. Caradoc stood on the rock, the
golden glare showing the day’s dust upon his black
clothes, the day’s own coat of red upon his heated
face; the prominent white teeth were parted, the
prominent blue eyes filled with anxiety and distress.
And as he stood, the sounds of the bush, drowned all
day long by those of a city, broke upon him for the
first time: the whisper of leaves and grasses, the chit-
chat of parakeets, the guffaw of a laughing jackass,
the chirrup of locusts invisible, innumerable. But of
the sounds for which he listened—a timid hail, a
swishing of the ferns, the breaking of a branch—not
one fell upon his straining ear.

It was his very first day in the bush; but he had
met old bushmen in Melbourne, had visited them in
the parish, and got on terms by a genuine eagerness
to hear of the wilderness and all its ways. Now
something that he had heard came back to him ; he
was off the rock in an instant, and following the posts
and rails that enclosed the Archdeacon’s twenty acres.
If the fugitive had crossed the fence, he should find
the place, the trail; but he never did; nor was there
need,

via

DIAMOND CREEK 101

From a brake of ferns two glittering eyes drew his;
the green fronds rustled as in a sudden wind; the
hapless William was run to earth.

“Thank God ! ” gasped Caradoc, but with that cry
his tone changed. “Come out of it, you young idiot !
What the mischief do you mean ? ”

William showed his face—very brown and sullen,
and his shoulders—round with shame. But the brake
was breast-high, and he evinced no disposition to come
out.

“Why did you do it!” cried the curate. . “ Are you
so frightened of cold water :”

The dark head hung lower, and in the red-gold
glare there was a sudden glitter of tears, that fell like
great diamonds upon the greater emeralds of the sunlit
ferns.

‘Is there no manhood in you?” pursued Caradoc ;
but even as he spoke the scorn fell out of his voice,
and the question, that had broken from him as a harsh
taunt, died away a whispered question and nothing
more.

The answer was a wild covering of the hot, brown
face by the tremulous brown hands, a pitiful heaving
of the high shoulders, and such a storm of sobbing as
might have wrung the heart of a stone. Caradoc
stared and listened as though stone all over. And
the crimson killed the gold in the failing light ; and
it warmed the quivering fingers, and what of the wet
face they failed to hide, to the hue of burnished
copper.

So you have deceived me all these months

He was kept so long waiting that he was forced to
repeat the question, He repeated it in a sterner tone,

|»

102 DIAMOND CREEK

of which he felt instantly ashamed; but even this only
elicited a whisper, inaudible, incoherent.

“*T can’t hear,” said Caradoc gently ; “I’m sorry.
I'll come nearer.”

“Tt was all the old man,” the girl’s voice
whispered. “He didn’t care so long’s I brought
something home... there were worse ways...
he didn’t care!”

‘You shall never go back to him,” said Caradoc,
a tremor in his own firm voice.

“That was what I meant. That’s why I bolted
—that and %

“J know. Know, by Jove? I understand—
everything ! ”

“What do you think you understand?” #

And at last the brown eyes met his, drowned in
their shame, but so keenly inquisitive that, to the
male mind, their look was a confirmation in itself.

“1 understand,” he said, “why I’ve liked you so
much in spite of your unmanliness. It was because
of it—all the time!”

“But you won’t like me any more!”

“Won't I?” And the bracken broke before his
stride—broke louder than his hurried, whispered
words.

“What are you givin’ us?” There spoke the
larrikin of old days. “It ain’t true!”

“ But it is; it must have been true all along,
without my knowing it. I swear it is now.”

“Tell dish you up!”

“J don’t think it. The Archdeacon will forgive
me; he’s a man himself, the most sympathetic of
men. Besides, I needn’t go back to him; there are

DIAMOND CREEK 103

other fields. But—you? Is it—isn’t it—true of
yout”

The answer came with the last red beams of the
dying day, in the first hush of the twilight forest :

“ My word!”

And now all that remains of that romance is a
genial rector in the Old Country, with a wife who is
not the less popular for being considered just a little

Colonial by the County.

~©

THE MAN FROM BOT NY;

THE QUANDARY OF A COLONIAL 3
g| HISORIAN ‘

BY ARTHUR PATCHETT MARTIN

105

PHE MAN FROM BOT NY:

OF THE QUANDARY OF A COLONIAL
HISTORIAN

BY ARTHUR PATCHETT MARTIN

[Whilst engaged on the “ Life” of Robert Lowe, Lord Sherbrooke, and
on a “‘ Memoir” of his early New South Wales rival, William Charles
Wentworth, “ the Australian Patriot,’ I attempted to check the blunders of
the printed records by the living witness of some old colonial Pioneer,
who might haply recall the scenes of the old Sydney Legislative Council of
1843-1850. After weary years of vain searching, I at last found him. |

3 ELL ! I tells yer,” said he, “I knowed ’em
both,”
(As he lolled in my study chair.)
“There wos Bill wot squinted, and rapped out an
oath,
And Bob, with his snow-white hair.”

Ho! ho! I chuckled, and brimmed up his can,
And passed him my best clay pipe :

’ye found him all right, the identical man—
The last of the old Bush type !

And I murmured—“ O ! Bushman of aspect weird,
With your tales of the long, long ago,

Td fall down and worship your chest-sweeping beard,
If you tell me of Wentworth and Lowe! ”

107

108 THE MAN FROM BOT’NY

“« Ah, Sonny,” said he, “ they wos two good men,
And I misses their company still !

Bob was a brother— But pass me the pen,
And [ll reel off a hepic on Bill!”

(And [ thought all the while, how Freeman or Froude
Would have dubbed it a wild burlesque,

Had he seen my “ Authority,” slangy and crude,
With his boots on the top of my desk.)

“As to white-headed Bob—which his name were
Lowe,
Why, they went and made him a Dook,
Or a Hearl, or a summut—leastways, I know
They changed him inter Sher—brooke.

“ But Bill, with his squint, were a diff’rent bloke,
As this story will give you a hint.”

Then he poured forth an ancient and fish-like joke
No Editor living could print !

“ Lord love yer,” said he, as he emptied his can,
‘1 could fill up your book with them tales.
—T’m the Downright Genu-wine, Sunburnt Man
From Bot’ny, wots now Noo South Wales.”

When he’d finished his pipe, and likewise more beer,
I turned to my notes with a sob :

For I found that this garrulous Bush pioneer
Knew zothing of “ Bill” or of “ Bob!”

-

Pets PUCKY

BY LALA FISHER

log

\\

HIS. “LUCK
BY LALA FISHER

HE thermometer registered 110° in the shade

on the day that Eric Dowling left Rockhamp-
ton for Wanteroo, which station, with its two artesian
bores and immense run belonged to his wealthy uncle,
Jackson Belville. But, as he swung along in an easy
canter, his mind and heart were too full of happy
thoughts to allow so small a trifle as the heat to
trouble him. He was engaged to his cousin Helen
Belville, and he was on his way to the station because
his uncle had given him the managership of it. For
three days he rode on, stopping at the different stations
for the nights’ rests, until, at about dusk on the third
evening, he judged he was within ten miles of
Wanteroo. His ‘horse was almost done, and it needed
his utmost efforts to make it keep going at any pace
quicker than a walk. The country through which
he was now travelling was very densely timbered, and
as the darkness gathered round him, he found it
necessary to guide his horse most cautiously between
the trees, and to constantly stretch forth his hand to
intercept any treacherous vine which, creeping from

one tree to another, would, if not put aside, probably
Ill

112 SFIS LUCE =

unseat him. He journeyed slowly on, a misgiving
gradually strengthening in his heart that he had lost
his way, when suddenly he saw a faint light flickering
in the distance. He gave vent to a sharp exclamation
of relief, and hurried his jaded nag towards it. He
saw that it was only a small house—probably a
boundary rider’s hut. The light which had attracted
him shone through a large uncovered window. Eric
drew rein and listened, but could hear no sound
within. Drawing nearer, he dismounted and walked
up to the window. Inside, on a square slab table, a
slush lamp was burning, and by the side of a huge
fireplace, in whose centre lay a few hot cinders, a
man was sitting, his face hidden dejectedly in his
hand. He was evidently the sole occupant of the
hut, for a single tin plate and pannikin were lying
upon the bunk at his right-hand side. This bunk
was an immense one, indeed, it was twice the size or
an ordinary double bedstead. It was covered with a
pair of coarse grey Government blankets, and at
the head were three pillows encased in sacking. The
chair on which the man sat, the table, and this bunk,
formed the only furniture in the house, with the
exception of a little three-legged stool, overturned in
the far corner. After two or three searching glances
all round the room, during which the occupant never
moved, Eric called out, and without waiting for a
reply he strode to the door and entered. ‘The man’s
head was suddenly raised. The face, which was that
of quite a young man, was deathly white, with what
Eric believed to be mortal fear. One hand was out-
stretched as though in pleading—or was it warning ?
‘Don’t be startled,” Eric said. “It’s only a poor

is, LUCK” 113

devil who’s bushed,” and he walked towards him.
The man half rose and seemed about to speak, but the
words died in his throat, and he settled into his seat
again, and Eric continued, “ Can you tell me how far
it is to * WVanteroo” andin which direction? I reckon
it’s about ten miles off, but somehow I can’t make out
the lay of the land.” The man seemed again about
to answer, but changed his mind and kept silence,
looking Eric slowly over from head to foot.

“ How far is it?” Eric repeated a little irritably.
“Are you deaf, mate?”

At last an answer was spoken in a voice singularly
rich and well-cultivated.

“You are very far out of your road, lad. It’s a
matter of thirty miles to the station, and it lies to the
west from here.”

“ Thirty miles!” Eric echoed in dismay. “Then
I suppose I must camp here ; I am dead beat, and so’s
my horse. I'll go out and let him go.” So saying,
Eric turned away to unsaddle and hopple his horse.
When he returned the “hatter,” as he mentally
termed him, was gazing into the red ashes in an
abstracted manner.

“Some poor wretch of a shepherd,” Eric thought.
“Evidently a bit off his chump. No matter, I
couldn’t have ridden further. What a fool I was
to miss the way. Got anything to eat?” he con-
tinued aloud. “I’ve ridden some sixty miles since
daybreak, and I’m famished.”

The man pointed to a shelf high up on the wall.
There Eric found a collection of groceries, a large
junk of salt beef, some damper, flour, jam, three
bottles of pickles, a small calico bag of sugar, and the

9

114 “HIS/LUCK

same of tea, a large tin fire-blackened billy, and a
small tin dish. He took down the billy, which he
found was half full of cold sweetened tea. He cut
off a large slice of salt beef, which he placed between
two thick slices of damper. He took the pannikin
from the bunk and filled it from the billy, and then,
catching up the three-legged stool for a seat near the
smouldering embers, he began his meal.

Neither man spoke for some time, Eric being fully
engaged in satisfying his hunger, and his companion
gazing moodily into space. When he had finished,
Eric rose and went to the window. The light
breeze had freshened and bore promise of coming rain.
“Going to be a storm,” he remarked. ‘ There’s
very heavy lightning about three miles off.”

The man rose slowly to his feet and joined Eric,
who now for the first time perceived that he had but
one arm, the right coat-sleeve hanging limply from
the shoulder.

“The first for months,” he answered. “It’s
badly wanted ; the creek is getting low,” and then his
voice dropped into the most mournful and intensely
sad cadence that Eric had ever heard. ‘ God! how
I /ve a storm. It takes my thoughts out of this
world, which is hell unutterable, and it speaks of rest
after fury, of peace after pain, in other words, of the
heaven in which I cannot believe.” He spoke
bitterly and sadly, and Eric gazed at him with a new
interest. “They stood chatting for an hour on every
conceivable subject, on most of which Eric found the
stranger remarkably well-informed. ‘Then from one
thing to another the subject of murder cropped up.
They argued about capital punishment for this offence

Siig. PIC. 115

for some moments and then, “I want to hear your
opinion of the worst murder you think possible,”
Eric’s companion asked. “Is it the more murder to
slay a creature in hot blood ; to shoot a man for the
money that is about his person and you are starving ;
to kill a woman for love, for jealousy ; to stab a man
for betraying one’s sister, one’s wife ; or to frame laws
that banish a man from the face of civilisation, that
hunt him from his kindred, and that embitter his
wretched life with a relentless cruelty and a never-
ending persecution—a// this through no fault of his
own. Which of these is the foulest murder, think
you? To killa man at once mercifully with bullet or
knife, or to kill him by inches, first blighting every
good that is in him—his heart, his belief, and his
intellect ? ”

The words raced from the man’s lips in a torrent
of passionate excitement, even in a tone of accusation ;
but the storm, which had been working gradually
nearer, now burst and effectually prevented Eric’s
reply to his extraordinary outburst. ‘The lightning
was blindingly vivid and the heavy clashes of thunder
made conversation a matter of impossibility. As they
stood silent, the man with a sudden, unexpected move-
ment placed his one hand on Eric’s shoulder. Eric’s
blood ran cold, and he turned and looked into his
companion’s face, made visible only by the lightning
flashes, for the slush lamp had long ago been blown
out by the wind. ‘“ Mad” was his first thought, and
he involuntarily clenched his fists to protect himself.
“ Mad ”—for the man’s face was ghastly, his splendid
dark eyes glowing like flame with some unnamable
pain, and his lips working as though to speak, as

116 “HS Luce

though there was something that he must say. But
as at first, the words never passed his lips. He
conguered his impulse with an evident and mighty
effort, dropped his hand, turned heavily away, and sat
down by the lifeless ashes again.

“ Before I turn in,” Eric said presently, concluding
that the poor wretch was either ill or harmlessly mad,
“I’m going to have a smoke. Will you take a fill?
Have you a pipe?”

The man pulled a short old briarwood from a niche
above one of the boards.

“Tt’s a long time since I had a smoke,” he said,

with a sad half smile. ‘“ Thank you, I think I will.”

Eric finished cutting himself a fill and then passed
the stick of tobacco to his mate, who had risen and
was now lying on the outside of the bunk, and soon
the hut was full of fragrant smoke.

Outside the rain was falling in torrents, steadily and
hard, and seemed likely to continue for hours. After
half an hour’s silence between the two men, Eric’s
smoke was over and he went to get into bed. He
found his new mate already asleep and he, tired and
worn out, tumbled over the other side of the great
bunk, and was soon lulled by the rain into a deep and
peaceful sleep. When he awoke the dawn was just
breaking. He rose hurriedly, not waking his bed-
fellow, and caught and saddled his horse. Entering
the hut again, he left, contrary to all bush etiquette,
a couple of sticks of tobacco and two sovereigns on
the bunk next his companion’s hand, which gleamed
strangely white in the half light, had he noticed it.
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote upon
it, “ From one whose luck is in,” and placed it care-

“HIS LUCK” 117

fully beside the other things; and then he left for
Weanteroo,in the direction the man had the night
before indicated.

On the evening of the fourth day after his arrival,
his uncle and he were sitting chatting and smoking
on the verandah, when a stockman came up the steps
and clanked along to Mr. Beville’s chair, saying some-
thing to him in a low voice.

“Speak out man,” said the squatter. “Tell me
what’s the matter.”

“A stockman has just brought the intelligence
that a man is dead on the outskirts of the run.”

“ Tut,” said Mr. Beville. ‘Don’t look so scared,
man. He won’t come here asa ghost.” Then, asa
sudden thought struck him, he too turned pale. “ Send
the man who brought the news to me at once,” he
said hastily. Presently a young man entered.

“Come here, Newnham. Is it true that the man
is dead?”

“ Yess-ir,” Newnham answered. “I haven’t ridden
near there for nearly a month, but to-day I took the
month’s provisions to him. I could not make him
hear from a distance, and so I thought I would go and
see from the outside window whether anything was
worse. He was lying on the bunk, and from all
appearance he had been dead some days. There
were two sticks of tobacco and some shining money
at the side of his hand. I was very much scared at
this, sir, as you may guess. I wondered who could
have been there, and I rode straight home to tell you
about it.”

“Well, well, it’s very sudden,” Mr, Beville said in
relieved tone; “but I’m glad the man is dead, It’s

118 “HIS LUCK”

better for him and safer for me. I hid him success-
fully for some time, but sooner or later the police
were bound to find the poor wretch out. Very well,
Newnham, you may go. I'll see to it myself that
the hut, man, and ali contents are carefully burned.”

Eric’s heart had almost stopped beating as the two
men held this conversation. Why, horrible! his bed-
fellow was dead when he left him; but why were
they all glad of his death? Eric asked his uncle
about it in a voice so troubled as to be scarcely
audible.

“Oh! its a secret, Eric—known only to a few of
the station hands; but I will have no secrets from
you. The poor devil came here nearly five months
ago, hunted like a wild beast. He had escaped from
an inclosure where he was being kept for a few days
preparatory to being sent to Friday Island, and im-
plored me to put a bullet into him rather than give
him up. And so, after much thought and conscience
trouble, I gave him that boundary rider’s hut. Thirty
miles from anywhere it is on my run, and out of the
track, and I forbade any one to go within ten miles
of it unless I sent them.”

“ But why all this precaution” Eric asked, in the
hoarse whisper of one who fears the worst.

“My dear boy, don’t you understand? ‘The poor
fellow was a leper.”

|
.

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

BY HUME NISBET

IIg

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS
BY HUME NISBET

IVING amongst the long silky grasses, with the
rustling tatters of shed banana leaves inter-
mixing, within the gardens of Kerepuna, the native
coast capital of New Guinea, it is an easy transition of
the mind to let centuries slip away in this equatorial
home of unobstructed nature, as we have already
allowed the many thousands of miles to go from us
and the bustle and roar of that vast throbbing heart of
civilisation, London.

Here I rest, afar from smoke and turmoil and all
nerve-torturing inventions, on this winter afternoon of
August—if it can be called winter, in this land of
perpetual heat and glowing sun—under the deep
shadow of a broad-leafed mammy-apple tree, which
is again overshadowed by the lofty up-shooting,
feathery topped betel and cocoa-nut palms that rub
their bleached grey trunks against one another, and
mingle their sap-green and sienna-tinted fronds together
with a soft rustling whisper indescribably soothing,
‘when it is joined to the distant murmuring of the
ocean constantly fretting against the great barrier

walls of coral.

122 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

The frayed ribbons of the nearly ripe bananas wave
in front of me, and as they dip into the tall grasses and
croton leaves, form delicious intersections of trellis
work through which I can look towards the workers
and loungers outside, some in cool shadow and others
basking in the fierce golden lustre of those fiery
beams.

It is a working day at Kerepuna; and as I walked
along the streets, deserted by all save the young
mothers nursing their dogs, pigs, and babies—for they
are very impartial in their maternal duties, the sucking
pigs and blind puppies getting equal share with the
bronzy little cupids and cherubs ; the very old females
preparing the yams and taro for the home-coming of
the workers ; and here and there, within small sheds,
mourners, all blackened over with plumbago, waiting
with appalling patience over the thinly-covered remains
of the dead relative, and guarding it from the attacks
of the older village pets, as they wander about sniffing
or grunting aimlessly amongst a perfect dog-and-pig
elysium of perfumes, until attracted by some odour
more particularly powerful and grateful to their
nostrils ; overhead, within the shadow of the eaves,
the tame cockatoos perch like specs of snow, white
upon the ivory tones of bleeching skulls—trophies of
fierce battles and mementoes of more sickening feasts,
there they hang over the doorways—of bistre shadows,
while the birds chatter and break the general silence
with the language they have acquired or their own
original harsh screamings.

I feel glad to leave this almost deserted native city,
with its five lofty spires and its picturesque, pile-raised
huts, quaint though it is, for the groves where the

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 123

workers are, and exchange the mortality-laden air for
the heavy yet sweet atmosphere of the gardens—glad
to fling myself down amongst the moist verdure after
my hot walk over the burning sands and imagine
myself two thousand years younger than I really am,
if there be any truth in the creed of Buddha, and
surrounded by the originals of those splendid antiques
which the Greeks have left us as a constant reminder
and reproach of our own physical degeneracy.

Here I find the gods all represented in the dusky
crowd who have gathered about me, leaving their
work, to inspect the stranger and compare the un-
wholesome colour of his skin with their own rich and
satin limbs, completely nude gods, and nearly nude
goddesses poising in unstudied and graceful attitudes,
like perfect works of art freshly cast in bronze.

I can see Hercules, leaning upon his club, in the
form of a Kerepuna brave nearly seven feet high, with
limbs splendidly developed, and rounded shoulders, as
he carelessly slouched with his mighty weight supported
by a huge gnarled branch of gleaming cotton-tree, and
his grave, good-tempered face, surmounted by cluster-
ing locks, bent forward. As he lazily examines me,
an amused light smoulders in his dark brown eyes,
while a humorous smile parts his finely curved lips,
and reveals the only defect which I can perceive
about him (though to him a special mark of attrac-
tion), teeth blackened by the habit of lime and betel
chewing.

Apollo Belvidere, minus his mantle, leans with a
wanton abandonment against a palm trunk, a boy of
about sixteen, his carefully frizzled hair standing out a
foot round his comely face like a golden frame—the

124 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

dandies dye their dark tresses yellow, and wreathe them
with scarlet blossoms of the hibiscus. He is ornamented
with finely woven hair armlets, a necklet formed of
polished human teeth, and a breast ornament made
from carved black palm wood and decorated with
boars’ tusks, red beads, coral, and small shells, with an
appendage fashioned like a fringe made from brown
native-spun cloth, and the paradise bird feathers gathered
at the base with links of minute shells. It is held
round his neck by a braided and twisted hair band
linked at regular intervals by the same shells, and
with hollow nuts, which dangle from the ends and
rattle as he moves. ‘This ornament signifies him to be
a lover or on the hunt for a wife, a priceless breast-
plate which, as he lifts up the feather fringe and
laughs to some young maiden while he reveals the
tiny pocket behind, makes the brown cheeks glow
with sudden crimson as she also laughs before darting
away.

Young Apollo, I found out afterwards, has not fixed
upon his wife, and is considered as bold and dissolute
as he is beautiful; the maidens like to look at him,
but the parents watch his movements with jealous
eyes, and he was at the moment that I lay admiring his
subtle, lithe grace, impudently abusing the privilege of
his love symbol. I thought there seemed more of
subdued mischief than mildness or love in the lustrous
long-lash shaded eyes.

Pan is also represented with his reed-pipes in the
form of a middle-aged and somewhat undersized
musician—that is, undersized when I left my own
proportions out of the question, and compared him
with the models beside him. He was half-hidden by

ee

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 125

the long grass, for he was a cripple, holding the pipes
in one hand, while the other rested a stick on the
iguana-covered top of a native drum ; but he was not
then playing, for he, like the others, had paused to
watch what my audacity would do next. I bought the
reeds from him afterwards, with much tobacco, but the
drum he would not part with.

I did not examine the female portion too closely, for
jealous glances followed mine when they hovered near
the vicinity of the “raumaus,” or grass petticoats.
The maidens were free enough of themselves, and did
not limit their curiosity to distant glances, but gathered
about me, and some even ventured to touch my arms
and face with the tips of their fingers, after the fashion
that we sometimes see ladies touch the leg of mutton
or rib of roast which they are pricing, and this the
fathers and brothers did not appear to mind so long as
I lay carelessly looking skywards or at the warriors ;
but if ata bolder touch I turned about to see the face
belonging to the fingers, then I observed a clutch made
at clubs and spears, and a sudden wrinkling of brows
which warned me, as I valued the juxtaposition of
flesh and bones as they had been originally bequeathed
to me, that I had better confine my attentions to the
male portion only ; yet I caught sufficient between
these spear-clutchings and brow-bendings to satisfy
myself that the women so jealously guarded, although
possessing features and figures comely enough, are not
to be compared to the exquisite proportions of their
guardians. They are small, and tattoo their bodies
from the neck to the waist with so close a pattern
that they appear as it clad in a tight-fitting jersey
woven in blue and brown, while their bunchy double

126 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

raumaus, worn about the hips like a kilt, entirely spoils
the contour of their lines.) The nose ornaments, too,
and the lobes of their ears weighed down nearly to the
shoulders by heavy earrings of shells, require living up
to from a New Guinea standpoint to regard as attractive.
But they are lively and merry in their ways, when the
first reserve has worn off, and leave all the decorum to
their men folks, who appear to be well under their
control.

As I cool down after my walk, we are becoming
friendly, and by signs introducing ourselves, so that, by
the time I have studied the group in detail, and they
have satisfied their curiosity regarding me and become
content as to my intentions, Hercules is by my side
with his massive arm encircling my neck, while the
others are treating me like a friend and brother instead
of having me trussed for the pot—offering me the
betel nut and the lime from their calabashes, which I
chew with the gravity the occasion demands, while
some of the dandy friends of Apollo get ready the
““bau-bau,” or native pipe, as the workers go back to
their earth-scratching and taro-gathering, and we all
prepare to spend a pleasant afternoon.

One youth spreads out a piece of native worked
matting for my inspection, and as we trade for it with
koko (tobacco), I cannot help admiring the variety and
precision of the designs upon it as well as upon the
lime calabashes and bau-baus—delicate designs and
correct lines, over which great skill and true art taste
is shown, as well as on the rich carvings of their canoe
prows, paddles, wooden maces, swords, arrows, and
axe handles ; and I marvel where this nation of naked
and savage cannibals can have acquired their art educa-

Sirsa

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 127

tion. These carvings are cut out entirely with
sharpened flints and broken shells, for they have no
iron instruments, or, at least, had none before the
European traders ventured amongst them, and still
prefer for ornamental work their original tools. I
discover, as we become better able to understand each
other, that great patience as well as great skill is
required for the work. A vast amount of loving care
is expended upon those weapons, and particularly their
war implements ; the arrows, which are poisoned, being
elaborated two or three feet from the fish or human
bone tip. One bundle of arrows which I purchased
from them, and which they carefully wrapped up for
me so that I might not be scratched, were wonderful
in variety, no two alike in design—dangerous treasures
of savage art, as the poison is so virulent that the
slightest piercing of the skin will cause a most painful
and lingering death if not cauterised immediately.
The poison with which they anoint the tips is pro-
cured from a decomposed corpse already poisoned,
into which they dip their spears and arrows, while the
idea for their designs is taken from animals or flowers,
as theancients did. ‘This, with the happy knack which
they have of seizing chance effects, such as a twist or
knuckle in the’ wood, and turning it adroitly into
some object to which they may fancy it bears a slight
resemblance, gives the infinite variety, and reveals
them to be possessed in a very high degree of the
gift of imagination and poetry, as well as artistic power
of adaptation and imitation.

Some of the arrows which I brought to England
have a natural bend ard projection ; these, when the
signs are studied, present in some cases a hunchback,

128 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

or a figure carrying a load, or, it may be, a pregnant
female, or a figure with arms akimbo or crossed, as the
natural formation seized the artist’s fancy or sense of
the humorous or ridiculous. Some represent snakes
with the markings of the body freely translated into
ornamental scroll-work ; the face and human figure
are represented in a series of scrolls; the eyes, nose,
mouth, nipples, knees, &c., so many points and
terminations. There are no rude or grotesque imita-
tions as we see in other savage carvings, but an idea
caught and elevated, or mystified, to bring out a hidden
and significant meaning which may be read only by
the initiated : and all this is the more to be admired
in a nation of so-called savages, who prefer, while
capable of ornamenting so highly and weaving so
skilfully, to go entirely nude. They will not trade
for the gaudy clothes which seem to attract the
untutored eyes of other savage tribes, and make no
attempt to cover themselves in any manner, except by
ornament, and only seem to disfigure their women
through the spirit of jealousy, which they are more
susceptible to than any other nation with whom I
have mixed. The male portions decorate their heads,
and at times their arms and necks, most lavishly, so
that a full-dressed warrior with his ornamental hair-
comb, flower-wreath, necklace, nose-bar, armlets, and
cassowary tufts, is both a splendid and formidable
spectacle ; whereas the divine form of the woman is
obscured by the tattooing, and rendered dispropor-
tionate by her bulging skirts. They also cut the
tresses of the women close to the head, whereas the
men are shown in the full perfection of nature, uncon-
cealed and uncurbed. In their courtships beauty is

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 129

not a question where the woman is concerned, but
the man in that respect must be above reproach. He
buys his wife only after she has chosen him, it may
be from a dozen or two of other claimants, for though
he may have wealth enough to satisfy the parents, if
he has not beauty enough to please her he has no
chance of succeeding ; and where the courted damsel
can look for herself, and the suitor has no tailor to fall
back upon for aid to conquer, her choice is no lottery
ticket but a substantial reality.

I find also, as in the case of the matting, that the
inspiration was drawn from the cloud forms. They
look about them for an idea and, failing earth sub-
jects, they will seize upon the curve of a passing cloud
and idealise it to suit the symbols they are working
out ; for in all they do they have grades, hidden
meanings, or tales to tell; and they will not tell them
more openly than they can avoid. If their meaning
is significant enough to those whom they address they
are content, but they strive very keenly after originality
of treatment. I find also that their taste in colouring
is subdued and refined on their houses, canoes, and
other articles. I saw no discordant or gaudy contrasts ;
red not too glaring is a favourite colour, red inclining
to brown or crimson, never raw; black and white
with perhaps touches of yellow. I saw no blue at
all, and no green except the unavoidable bluish shade
which the tattoo markings leave upon the skin—this,
with the rich copper-tint, makes a most harmonious
contrast in low tones. Grey I find to be the general
tone over all—houses, grasses, and foliage.

For the carvings upon their lime calabashes, war-

shields, bau-baus, canoe prows, and latokoes they use
10

130 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

a pointed firebrand, burning in the design when the
calabashes are green, and drying them afterwards.
Their matting they indent with a simple sharp-pointed
stick while the moisture is still in the fibre, by which
operation after it dries it becomes arabesqued and
embossed, the indented portions drying a shade darker
or lighter as the ray falls upon them.

It seems to be a curious circumstance that they
should spend so much labour on the arrows, which
they poison and only make use of on the rare occa-
sions when the enemy is beyond their capture, and
when, as a last resource, they throw those highly
decorated shafts away without a hope of recovery.
Certainly revenge is a passion which we weak mortals
are apt to cherish as carefully as love, indeed, in many
cases the passion lasts longer, and instead of abating
with the gratification seems rather to increase in
strength the longer it is cherished and the more it is
fed, ‘This may,be some explanation; another may be
that these decorations mean curses indelibly carved in
the black wood and picked out with white. From
what I know of the character of these natives, I
incline to the opinion that where the figure of a
man is designed it carries with it the anathema of
the shooter and the doom of the receiver portrayed
upon it; and where a snake is represented, as it is
always depicted having its mouth open and the point
emerging like a fang, it is a symbol of death ; at any
rate, with the deadly fluid with which it is anointed
there can be no question as to the intention of its
mission.

When they go out on an ordinary fighting expe-
dition it is much in the same spirit as did our Border

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 131

barons in the olden times—partly to avenge a death
or return a raid from the rival tribe, and partly when
their trading vessels come home unsuccessful, and they
find their larder getting low. I dare say, to outsiders
the idea of a cannibal is inexpressibly shocking and
revolting ; but after living amongst them and discover-
ing in them the same traits of honesty, honour, even
chivalry, as might have been found in the beef-and-
mutton-eating knights of old, this feeling of horror
dies away ; and we can understand how a people may
be cannibal through long custom and tradition without
being innately more ferocious than the peaceful citizen
who buys his steak or chop of the humane-looking,
good-tempered butcher round the corner. Personally,
although out of a purely disinterested friendship, I
have been offered a piece of human broil, I never
tasted it, but this I regarded as prejudice bred from
custom entirely. As I might pause before I attempted
beetle-pie, however delicately dressed up, also, if I
could overcome this early prejudice, 1 would not, any
more than the Papuan native cares to do, be induced
to taste a European, knowing them and their failings
asI do. Yet, except from that early prejudice, which
will not be overcome, I do not know of any more
reasonable objections which can be set up against a
good, simple-living, moral, and healthy-fed savage, or
even an opium-flavoured Chinaman (which, they tell
me, is very sweet) than can be set up by vegetarians
against the flesh of the ox, sheep, or pig. Of course,
when it comes to the taking of life, then the same
objection applies all round, and that is about the only
philosophical objection which we can raise on the
subject.

“132 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

The New Guinea native in his hours of peace and
friendship is all that can be desired—faithful, humane,
courteous ; in his hours of wrath and revenge he is no
more a demon than you will meet any day in civilised
England. When he sets out on these expeditions of
revenge and food-providing, he goes with the Border
chief’s set object of not risking more than he can
avoid ; he sets out on the war-trail secretly and silently,
watches for his opportunity when he may find the
enemy unprepared, then he pounces upon him, pithing
him with his man-trap, plunging his spear into him,
and felling him with his club, and afterwards, like a
prudent hunter, cuts him up into serviceable pieces,
and carries him straightway home to utilise. If they
are forced into battle they will fight boldly and fiercely;
there is no giving way or surrender, the termination
of the battle meaning that he either will have food,
or be food; his poisoned spears or arrows are not used
here ; the hunting weapons, ordinary arrows, clubs,
axes, spears, and man-traps, and both sides fight on
equal terms, and with similar intentions. After a
man has lived amongst them for a time he begins to
think it rather a compliment to be considered good
enough to eat. I did not feel very highly flattered
when, after asking a native who was leisurely feeling
my muscles if I was good ki-ki (food), he replied with
rather a wry face: “No, no; too salt; no good.
Chinaman very good.”

Although very patient in their art labour, and
showing no object of ornament as being too trivial
for their care, upon their latokoes, or trading vessels,
they lavish their very choicest workmanship.

These latokoes, or large trading vessels, represent

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3
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4

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 133

what man-of-war frigates do with us, or what an East
Indiaman of the olden times was when there were
pirates to be guarded against, as well as storms to
encounter. For ordinary purposes, such as fishing,
&c., they use single, mat-sailed canoes, each family
possessing one and sometimes more, as they are great
sailors and fishermen, as well as industrious in their
gardens ; and these everyday canoes or catamarans,
are fashioned as simply as is consistent with utility :
a tree-trunk adzed-out and without riggers, composed
of branches roped together, with a straight branch for
the mast, and the matting stretched on to a frame of
bamboo, and only a few fringes of dried palm fronds
by way of streamers. The shape of these sails varies
according to the particular fancy of each tribe—
square-shaped, or on the upper edge, crescent-cut,
with pointed horns. With these they can dash along
at a great rate and with perfect safety, without danger
of capsizing, even although appearing top-heavy, sup-
ported and held on to the water as they are by those
wide-spreading out-riggers. The sail, being a’ fixture
to the framework, has to be shifted bodily round when
they want to tack, but this they manage with great
dexterity.

But the latokoe is the property of the tribe,
over the building of which years are spent, each
individual carpenter contributing his labour, and all
lavishly assisting to embellish and enrich. When
not required it is safely placed high and dry in the
most sheltered and shady spot, and carefully covered
with matting. It is only brought out once a year,
when the harvest is over and the long voyage
westward is to be made for trading purposes ; and

134 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

when that time comes it is the excitement of the
village.

These latokoes are very large, the most stately being
at times one hundred or two hundred feet long, with
lofty platforms above the hull, where the steersman
can sit high and dry, and the cargo may be carried
securely. They have three sails, the tops being cut
like a divided swallow-tail, and the bottom termi-
nating in a sharp point, while from the edges stream
long ribbons of palm fronds, and hair-made ropes,
from which swing human and dog skulls, shells and
tufts of the dark cassowary, or gayer plumage of the
parrots, kingfishers, and paradise-bird tails. These
sails, although so immense as to spread, they are able
to shift and veer about with the greatest rapidity, now
upright, now broadways or upside down, as they wish
to catch or avoid the passing air-currents.

Along the upper edge of the hull is a line of rich
carving of about two feet in width, almost covered
when they are sailing by fringes of shells and feathers,
and the railings which they fasten to the frame of the
outrigger, and to which they attach their cargo of
taros, yams, bananas, cocoa-nuts, prepared fish, oyster-
shells, skull trophies, carvings, and earthenware, the
preparation and produce of a year, which they carry
westward to the flat lands to barter for rice and sago.

At both ends of the ship are raised, highly-decorated
prows, with flagstafts and plume-sticks attached, which
project boldly into the air above the upper deck.
They have also sharp prongs running out from narrow
platforms beyond the prows, with hand-rails fastened
round these prongs to transfix the vessel they wish to
board, and the narrow platform to be the gangway for

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 135

the boarders. A complete latokoe is capable of holding
two or three hundred passengers ; and when they go to
sea the best fighting men are aboard, dressed in all
their war accoutrements.

A brave sight it is when the sailing season has
arrived, and the vessels from east and south capes,
who are friendly with those of Kerepuna, come
dashing through the reefs, and wait to pick up their
consorts as they go along. Then there is to be seen
some daring feats of seamanship and great competition
in the get-up of the adventurers, while they show off
their skill ashore with shooting and spear-throwing,
engaging in friendly contests of wrestling on the
sands, while the young women and old men look on
and applaud or deride, the old women being too busily
engaged cooking for the visitors to lift their eyes
from the yam-plates.

Then the camp fires flare out at night and scare
away the evil spirits, who fly back to the darkness of
the close thickets, and the spirit mediums do a thriving
trade with their grotesque masks and eerie perform-
ances ; and young girls utter shrieks of pretended fright
(for they don’t believe a bit in these spirit mani-
festations), and rush into the shady by-lanes, with the
young braves after them, getting mixed up and lost
amidst the dewy leafage, much after the same un-
sophisticated manner that country nymphs are apt to
do at the shows and fairs of Old England.

Next morning they are off by daybreak, with the
loudly-expressed well-wishes of those left behind fol-
lowing after them, their sharp points dashing the
snowy foam on either side, and the flying fish and
dolphins leading the way along the intersections of

136 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

deep water between the coral reefs, their dark figures
crowding the decks and platforms, some fishing with
their many-pronged fishing spears and nets as they go
along, while others attend to the cargo or get ready
their weapons for the chance enemy.

With eyes sharp as eagles, few of the sea denziens
who venture near the barges escape; a sudden jab
downwards of the prongs as the fishes hang over the
sides and up comes the wriggling fish, to be quickly
pitched on the embers of their pot-fires, broiled and
devoured by those who are hungry. It is all a series
of change, mirth, and excitement, the swinging about
of sails and sea manoeuvres, the creeking of grass
cordage, beating of the drums, and whistling of the reed
pipes. ‘Time is not much object, for they know exactly
how long it takes to travel, and how long that eastern
simoon will last, so that as they pass along the shores
they will bring to anchor anywhere that they see the
volumes of smoke rising from behind the mangroves,
to join in the walloby hunt if the natives are friends,
or to challenge and fight the tribe who they think
may be weakened by the absence of their warriors.

It is a freebooting expedition, a mercantile adven-
ture, and a pleasure trip all combined, and their
lusty spirits are boisterous and ready for any feat.
Past the lofty mountains of Cloudy bay—the Astro-
labe ranges, and the Owen Stanley giants, who rear
up fourteen thousand feet among the clouds, like the
Sierra Nevada mountains in summer, softly blue-grey,
like a cobolt and Indian ink wash, with white clusters
of vapour cumulus all about its precipitous sides, and
breaking the harshness of the outlines with the nearer
ranges, dim, purple, and deliciously cool in colour and

—

PY

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 137

soft in aérial effect; villages nestling on the sands
with valleys of shadow behind, and deep gorges down
which watercourses and the torrents pour in the rainy
season—now dry and velvety with the heat fumes,
and broken sharply upon by the waving palm-groves.

From these villages dart vessels to join the fleet
passing outside, gliding over waters only enough
ruied to blur the reflections of the hills, and blend
them with the whites and purples of the clouds above,
transparent water through which the dazzling white
and amber coral gleams emerald and brown, with the
rose tints sparkling like amethyst under the piercing
sun-shafts — such a scene of prismatic flashes and
movement as might have maddened Turner in his
latter days, when his soul grew blind to all else in
its frantic desire to create a pigment from light; a
scene where the pulses throb with fierce pleasure, and
the blood courses through the veins as if electric-
charged, while we feel the necessity either to shout
out or else find an adversary to fight with. We
cannot wait on the phlegmatic tenour of dull hatred ;
the spirits are too high, we can only close in and
wrestle out of pure combative joyance.

On past Kapa-Kapa, Round Head, and Basilisk
bay the fleet rushes, anchoring when and where they
like, past Yule mountains, abrupt and table-topped ;
looking in for a night to exchange greetings with their
friends at Arora Aremma, and get intelligence of the
enemies who have passed ; past Oiapu, Jokie, Lese,
Deception bay, to Motu-Motu, and so on to the rice
fields of the west, where they are expected, and where
the foe lies sullenly at anchor, waiting for them until
they discharge, re-load, and get once more to sea,

138 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

with the stormy western monsoon behind and a
favourable opportunity to attack and rob them of
their cargo.

Oh, those olden sea-fights! Again revived, before
steam took the poetry from them, and the belching of
guns covered them up and transformed them into
mere thunderstorms, when the Greeks rushed with
sharp prows into the hulls of the clumsy Persians,
and the sun went down with a red eye glaring on an
ocean covered with wreckage; the moon half obscured
behind banks of clouds, till it seems like a bleary
watcher, looking on the latokoes rushing, foam-mantled,
past the canoe-inverted like houses of Motu-Motu, to
join in the conflict waging in the solemn silence of
the swiftly-gathering twilight, out in the rough waters
of the Papuan gulf.

The battle is going on fiercely there in the open
sea, with the bars of gold and fragments of purple
clouds hurrying on above ; showers of arrows raining
from one deck to the other as the vessels rush along,
clutching each other with their graplings, and the
flecks of froth leaping up and smiting the bare,
brawny chests recklessly exposed to the flying shafts ;
the sacks of sago and rice are drinking in the red
flood which pours from gaping mouths as the
wounded and the dead lie supinely upon them, while
their brothers use their bodies as a platform or barri-
cade, and with awful yells of defiance stab with the
spear and bend the bow.

So the darkness gathers them in, and amidst the

whistling of winging shafts, blowing of conch shells,

creaking of massive sails, rustling of streamers,
swishing of waters, and cracking of rails, the

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 139

shrieks of agony, or yells ot rage, and moans of
pain mingle as the chained ships fly like huge
struggling birds out of on

After all ae It is Bees to Be lying this golden
afternoon under the shadow of fruit trees than to be
upon the latokoes out there in the open, with Hercules
and Apollo both waiting upon me, and the lame god
Pan tuning his pipes to the monotonous accompaniment
of the drum,

Better to be lying backwards and watching the
thin wreathes of smoke from my own pipe, and the
apertures of the bau-bau as they floated softly upward
and spread like fine gossamer over the lush, broad
leaves above me, while every now and then, as the palm
fringes move aside before the soft upper air-stream, a
sun-ray darts in between the intersections and makes
a splash of vivid colour, like a brilliant green-winged
butterfly within the shadows.

Pleasant to lie with the crumpled, reed-like grasses
for our pillow, and listen to those sounds of rustling
eaves and distant surf-breaking, with the soothing
sense that civilisation and all its vapid ceremonies are
left behind, as we look upon our silent companions,
for they do not keep up the art of conversation in
these parts, but talk only when the spirit moves them,
and sit, when not disposed for conversation, in that
delightful ease of silence which refreshes like slumber
—savage companions whose presence we do not feel,
who do not seek either to amuse or be amused, and
therefore who never bore. My giant friend pats me
gently on the back now and then, with a tender touch
that is infinitely soothing, while Apollo softly kicks up

1440 MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

his heels as they both wait (with the rare patience
which ennui cannot lay hold of) upon my inclination.

Outside in the clear spaces I can see the women
bending down as they dig or hoe with their primitive
tools, their lower limbs half-hidden in the debris which
they are casting about them as they labour, with their
baskets standing near at hand, empty or being filled.
The nude figures of the men glisten like satin where
the sun-lustre strikes their limbs—smooth, soft, and
polished through constant bathing, as they move about
helping the females, who appear to have more reality
of purpose in their efforts than their assistants. To
one of the cocoa-nut tree trunks I see a young man
clinging, as he swiftly raises himself, with feet tied at
the ankles, and embracing arms, to the laden top. He
is climbing up to get me a young cocoa-nut, that I
may drink. Behind the open patch, where the
workers are filling in the afternoon with just suff-
cient exertions to make time pass pleasantly, spreads a
sun-lighted intricacy of leafage and white trunks of
palms. I look out from the shadow into the bewilder-
ing confusion of dancing lights, butterflies on the wing
of every hue, like bright flowers ; floating insects with
transparent pinions, catching on their translucent,
delicately-veined surfaces the slanting ray in prismatic
scintillations ; crotons with their speckled or varied
striped leaves, orchids'clinging to the dead branches of
the eucalyptus and cotton trees, and flinging out lovely
strange shapes and colours too delicate to be observed
in the general glare, except by the observant eye, some
of them shedding subtle perfumes as they wave to and
fro—tender suggestions of perfumes to which we can
fix no name,

See ee ee gre

—
Sa

e's

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 141

The figures of workers and idlers pass before me
like the creatures of a dream as I look with half-closed
eyes upon them—women stooping under loaded kits,
departing slowly, while. some come forward with
jaunty steps and deposit their emptied baskets on
the ground which the others have abandoned ; men
pretending to help, yet ever pausing to prepare the
pipe, or being attracted by some other aim; young
girls with their water-pots going to the pond or wells,
with the boy dandies strutting about them.

I have rested enough, and rise to return, for the sun
rays have already begun to grow mellow, and the air
feels cooler. My two friends rise as I do, and the giant,
pointing to his back, lays hold of me as a boy might
do a favourite kitten to hoist me up; there is no
use refusing this kindly offer, as before I can object I
find myself sitting lady-fashion on the shoulder as
comfortably as if 1 was on an easy chair, and then we
set off towards the village, of which I now get an
elevated view, with a dark-skinned, laughing crowd
around us.

He slouches along leisurely, leaning on his club as if
he had no weight upon his shoulders, and throwing a
great shadow, like a hunchbacked Titan, far behind,
with the young dandies following after, and the basket
and water-jar laden women and girls in the rear, along
the long, narrow lanes with the high bamboo and
twig-wickered pallisades which divide the different
gardens from the unredeemed woods, where the dry
tendrils interlace so closely that there is no getting
through, except by the tunnels made by the wild boar
when he comes from his darkened lair. Over beyond

-the sands that divide the town from the thickets, I can

1442, MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS

see the dark blue line of turbulent ocean outside the
reefs, with the unbroken fringe of foam, giving the
distinct line of demarcation between fathomless depths
and shallow beds where one may bathe without fear
of the sharks, who cannot leap over that mighty,
insect-built wall.

The sun is hanging in the west like a great orange-
tinted Chinese lantern in a coloured space, seeming to
be sucking back the light floods which he has so
lavishly poured out all day, and the sand streets are
grey with the shadow from the houses; but between
the dark piles at the far end are glimpses of bright
gold, and where an opening occurs wide enough
between the houses, a broad line of the same glit-
tering metal seems to be laid upon that violet-grey
sand surface. The fishing-boats have come in with
their freight, and are now lying high on the beach,
fastened to the tall boats which rear above the thatch-
covered roofs. On the platforms and verandahs tired
figures recline, and carry on disjointed conversations
with some neighbours across the streets. From many
fires in front of the houses, where the food is being
cooked, softly ascend volumes of purple vapours, which
mix with the dim of the horizon and orange-crimson
of the sun, the lemon-tinted flames sharpened from the
contrast of the piles behind and the crouching figures
who squat in front.

A rare confusion of figures, posts, flagstaffs, and
streamers of palm-fronds greet my eyes as we approach :
steeples bending at angles and rising sixty to two hun-
dred feet from base to spire, with projecting bars and
fluttering ribbons breaking the lines, till the scene
looks like a gala day at home. Then, as I look, Iam

MY FRIENDS THE CANNIBALS 143

gently deposited on the high platform of the chief
abode, and my two friends are explaining to a chat-
tering mob that I am their guest and not a prize of
war, while I wait upon the termination of the talk,
speculating (as I see at my feet dark reddish stains on
the silver-grey boards) what the last deposit has been
here, whether trophies of the chase or prizes of
revenge.

LENCHEN

CAFFYN

BY MRS.

LENCHEN

BY MRS. CAFFYN
sf H!” she said at last, so soft and slow it might
almost have been a sigh.

He looked down at her anxiously. The little note
of pain in her voice chilled him. It went jarringly
with the green delight of the woods, the stream’s
murmur, his fearless heart singing for joy.

“ Lenchen, what is it?” he cried. ‘ What is it,
darling ?”

She lifted her delicate, proud little face from the
thymy bank to smile up at him.

But the courage just born in her smile chilled him
further.

He resented it oddly. It was alien to his emotions ;
to the situation ; to her sweet promise warm upon his
lips, thrilling in his heart.

Courage in her at such a moment! It was a dis-
turbing, unnecessary sort of interruption. It troubled
his highest ego. It discomposed his manhood,

In this golden hour it should be all joy with her, all
splendid, unconditional, abounding joy, even as it was
with him.

“TLenchen! Lenchen, mine!”

147

148 LENCHEN

* Albrecht !”” she laughed softly, “ poor Albrecht !”
She looked up into his kind, strong face, and with her
gentle gaze pierced straight to the trouble in his honest
man’s heart, as likewise to the ruffling of the equally
virile spirit. And the causes of both, although to him
as indefinable as they were incomprehensible, were to
her quite crystal-clear. For the key to them lay ina
subtle power of true vision, passed on to her through
many a mother.

“Well, if you will, you will,” said she, obeying
through sheer force of habit the entreaty in his eyes.
Then for one little second she paused to hold his hand
tight to her heart.

“But words,” she said, “are little fretting things;
sometimes silence is better.”

“Tell me, Lenchen, mine.”

“Ach, Albrecht, what a man you are!” She laid
her hands upon his arms, drew herself up by them, and
stood beside him, slender, sweet, and fine. His blue
eyes noted the majesty that made of her simple girl-
hood so rare a thing, and they flashed like proud male
sapphires.

She saw the flash, and again she laughed; but her
laugh died at birth, and a sudden wistfulness quenched
the little hint of mockery in her grey eyes.

“‘T was wondering how it would be to be always on .
the edge of life,” said she.

“ But—but—Heart’s beloved. How?”

“Can’t you see? Oh, Albrecht, can’t you see?”
She stopped to read his perplexed face, to wonder at
man, to realise the folly of words, yet, woman-like, to
speak them. “ You—you will plunge right into every-
thing. You will see and know all things. You will

o
.
:

—

LENCHEN 149

also be seen and known by all.” Here Albrecht per-
ceptibly winced. “While I? Why I shall just wait
here until you come back, to hear your report upon it;
to have it translated for me. Also,” she added with
brilliant eyes, “also a little transposed !”

“But,” he cried, “you will be with me in spirit,
dear Heart’s delight.”

“Oh, yes! Iwas then wondering how the poor
body would like that.”

He watched her surprised.

“¢ First-hand knowledge is delightful,” she sighed.

She looked out into the twilight deepening to night
in the dim shadow-land of the woods across the waters.
She looked up at the little brown birds sailing in sleepy
pairs to their scented homes. She leant her golden
head against the silken silver bark of a young birch
and bent her eyes to hide from them the confused
dumb pain in Albrecht’s.

“Tt was the wood that set me thinking,” she pleaded.
“To-day, when we went together into the heart of it,
it seemed strange to think that only next week you
will disappear into that other great wood of the world,
alone ; into all its delights, and depths, and hidden
mysteries. And I shall just wait outside to see you go
and come again.”

“Tsn’t love enough, then?” he protested tenderly.

“‘ Haven’t I proved my faith in it?” said she.

But Albrecht still looked hurt. “And honour?
That is satisfied.”

He lifted his proud head, and bit his little beautiful
moustache.

“That too! Between us, we being we, only that
was possible.”

150 LENCHEN

“Your mother was wholly content and glad.”

“So she was! My mother is a saint who has seen
her full. She has also been seen her full.”

‘The world,” he cried, at his wits’ end. “That
other great wood of the world, as you call it, is full of
dangers, of fears, of unutterable hideousness.”

“The crowning delight of the wood,” she murmured,
“Cis the boar with the grizzly tusks that we know lies
hid in it.”

For a moment Albrecht stood stricken. So gentle,
so sweet, so child-like, and such an utterance !

“Tenchen. Heart’s dearest!” at last he faltered,
his voice sounding stifled because of his keen pain.
“ Are you sorry? Do you indeed regret ?”

The bride of twenty days looked once more towards
the woods, longingly. Then her eyes returned to his
face slowly, and rested there, as though they had found
home. ‘Then she laughed out clear and radiant.

“No; I am glad, I am glad. It’s worth it,” she
cried ; “it’s worth it all!”

But by this time she had taken her lesson in man in
an intelligent spirit, and knew pretty well how much
he could stand. She laid her soft pink cheek against
Albrecht’s breast, and made a little silent vow. Had
he seen the recurrence of that misdirected courage in
her smile as she did so, Albrecht would, no doubt, have
suffered another little shiver. He perceived nothing,
however, but a red ray of sun upon the gold of her
hair, and the delicate round bend of her neck—utterly
feminine combinations both, and soothing—the very
sign and seal of her womanhood,

As they went home across the sleeping shadows,
through the scents, fresh washed by the dew, and the

LENCHEN 151

songs which the hour made more tender—and the
scents and the songs for them alone of all the world—
Albrecht was thanking the Infinities, vague Teuton
Infinities, their immensity veiled oddly under their
homely swaddling clothes of sentiment, for the in-
comparable frail creature committed to his keeping.

He would prove himself worthy of all trust. He
would guard his treasure as befitted his own honour,
and her priceless worth.

It was a divine reflection. The heart of Albrecht
swelled like a young god’s. His face shone.

Then impish fancy strayed back to the ill-timed
courage in that singular smile. The young man grew
sedate and pondered. His child-bride was now and
then a little discomposing.

Sweet, yielding, uncritical, true woman to her pure
heart’s core, yet could her eyes see oddly keen and far.

Albrecht’s ideals hitherto had gone with half-closed
lids—an attitude exceeding lovely and pleasant. What
need for piercing vision with a man’s trained eyes at
beck and call? Wherefore any cry for strength, with -
an experienced arm in its proper position supporting
weakness ?

The thing was out of order.

At the last stiff climb up the sheer precipice that led
to the old wood-embosomed castle on the crag, the
spirits of Albrecht flowed back in full measure.

In the matter of climbing, Lenchen was ideal
through and through. She now clung to him pre-
cisely as she ought to do always. A little trustful,
swaying, panting, pathetic feather-weight.

Albrecht’s kiss as he clasped her trembled with a
new tenderness.

152 LENCHEN

As for Lenchen, until the climb had absorbed the
whole of her, she had been wondering how on earth
she could ever manage to keep the vow she had
imposed upon herself. And with each thought the
proposed task grew but the more difficult.

Silence is good no doubt, and a discipline. But for
herself Lenchen preferred speech. It was more simple
and natural, and she was essentially a spontaneous girl
this Lenchen.

Besides being of the blood royal, hereditary high-
nesses in their own right, the family of Albrecht—a
stoical race—had for untold generations married into
other hereditary highnesses of the blood unblendingly.
An incredible number of quarterings, therefore, graced
Albrecht’s shield, and he had many responsibilities.
These he took seriously and in order, and with
unmurmuring fortitude attacked each in its kind.

He married, when twenty, another hereditary high-
ness, with freckles and an uneven temper, and secured
the succession.

Having drawn a hard breath or two, he then put
aside morbidity, re-ordered his points of view, and re-
maining faithful to his wife, tried his best to endure her
gracefully ; also when a merciful consumption brought
peace, to experience a reasonable degree of sorrow.

The boy inherited many of the attributes of his
mother, and was hardly a son wholly to fill the heart
of a father of six-and-twenty.

Having regard to this fact, the relatives of Albrecht
_ being, despite their exalted ae but human, made a
plentiful provision of marriageable nerceaee high-
nesses, as good-looking as was at the moment possible,
wherewith they hemmed him in on every side.

LENCHEN 153

Possibly they overdid it.

At any rate, Albrecht broke loose one day, and
showed a disposition to seek solace amongst less
exalted ladies.

The relaxation was but of short duration. For one

summer’s day he met Lenchen. And after that he
respected all women, and loved one.
_ Lenchen was the daughter of a petty baron, with
only a trifle of seven quarterings to his shield. “There
was not a trace of hereditary highness anywhere about
her. And this was unfortunate, for in her heart she
was a queen, pure and simple, and she looked it.

But what availed that with the blood royal in the
way?

‘There are means, however, to circumvent even the
blood royal, and a man’s left hand may be as sure a
shield and defence as his right, if only his heart be true.
The thing is done daily, and custom makes morality.

Thus Albrecht felt no less chivalrous than usual,
when, in a flood of harvest moonlight, he made a
fervent and poetic offering of the wrong hand to his
heart’s beloved.

As for Lenchen, she hardly knew, so dearly did she
love Albrecht, how the slight anomaly in the trans-
action struck her.

The old baron and his saintly wife had already, with
a sagacity and swiftness almost miraculous, recognised
the truth that lay in Albrecht, the Hereditary Prince
of Schwallenberg. ‘This fact, combined with their
profound and pious belief in the blood, carried them
over the fence gallantly. It is indeed doubtful, so
high soared the paternal emotions, if they were con-
scious of any fence to be crossed.

5

154 LENCHEN

They wept certainly at the wedding freely. Given
their age and atmosphere, they could not well have
done otherwise. But no trace of misgiving, still less
of shame, did there enter into these tears to interfere
with their restful balm.

Lenchen went forth from the home of her ancestors
crowned with pious blessings.

The leanness of sorrow brings thought to the host ;
the fulness of joy to a little handful.

Lenchen found it one day when her delight had
grown so keen that it hurt her.

She was tired a little after all those long hot, lovely
days with Albrecht beside the waters, amidst the
woods. And so, when he was called away to meet
a messenger from the outer world, she stayed in her
place to think of her happiness.

This was to hazard a great deal; for happiness
is too delicate and shy a thing to be dissected. The
touches of women upon their own affairs, however
tender, partake always a little of the scalpel-knife,
and happiness being a fine, timid thing, is easily
startled.

Also to be alone amidst green trees, beside running
waters, brings truth too close.

Presently the beckoning mystery of the woods and
the beckoning mystery of the world got curiously
jumbled in Lenchen’s brain ; while, with Albrecht’s
out of the way, it grew quite an easy matter to believe
in the reality of her own divine rights and his asser-
tions concerning them. For the first time in her short
life, Lenchen was clearly conscious that she too had
been made to reign.

She was aware of herself. She was quite wide-awake.

LENCHEN 158

A thousand new points of view sprang up like live
flames in the rich young heart of the girl.

Albrecht was as sensitive as he was proud, and all
that scented morning he had been telling his young
wife of all the beautiful arrangements he had been
making on her behalf. And so long as her head
had lain upon his breast, just so long had his intense
masculinity carried her with it.

His superb sense of responsibility had touched and
thrilled her exquisitely. She felt as she always did
when half-way up the precipice, ready to throw herself
joyously upon his strength.

And indeed nothing could have sounded more allur-
ing than did Albrecht’s plans. And his voice could
any day transform an Amazon into a slave. He had
a gift in that direction.

He was so thorough too, no smallest detail had been
forgotten ; while in the great things his generosity
shone resplendent.

That very hour had he presented her with the title-

eeds of the Schloss Rehberg. The yellow roll of
parchment lay even now across her feet.

Rehberg should be their home. Amongst its
woods, beside its waters, would they garner every
joy of heaven, and with a touch of earth make
each endurable.

‘Together in these terraced gardens, under the white
guelder roses, would they learn of all wisdom ; Albrecht
keeping one little step in advance in order to sweep
from her path any dross unsuitable to the feminine
understanding.

Albrecht’s manner of putting these delicate matters
was inimitable.

156 LENCHEN

Never should the base world come nearer to disturb
their ecstacy than the little red roofs of Bayreuth
twinkling out through their green trees, just visible
from the grassed steps that led to the rose garden.
Rehberg was from henceforth to be for Albrecht
home and hope and love and peace, the heart of
life the centre of growth.

There were certain official hours, however, which
must be won through worthily elsewhere ; likewise
a little unloved son to be tenderly entreated and made
one day into a man and a king. These things also
must take place elsewhere.

Here Albrecht had looked at his young wife and
sighed. He was thinking of the sweet untried
mother’s heart, so ready to throb for that little son
and sterilise the alien blood in him. But remembering
its degree, when just upon the verge of cursing it,
Albrecht paused and felt surprised at his impious
lapse.

As he returned from his official audience Albrecht
was re-ordering his wild imaginings and making
a thousand tender, yet reasonable, resolves. In his
new sketch of life there was to be no tampering with
the right. Noblesse oblige was the motto of his: tribe.
A guide as sure as it was unflinching, and unswery-
ingly would he follow it. Yes! For all the years to
come must he parcel out his hours with mathematical
conscientiousness, must seek heaven in one Schloss,
suffer earth in the other.

Above all he must guard his Lenchen as befitted his
manhood. At all costs must he spare her any breath
of misapprehension; keep her unspotted from the
world. True, it was not every man that took his

LENCHEN 157

morganatic wife or her position thus seriously. But
then Albrecht was not as other men. He came,
moreover, of a family of high ideals ; moré especially
in regard to the treatment of interlopers within their
ranks.

And a woman’s guarded life! In good sooth it was
a beautiful thing to contemplate. It thrilled and
developed the highest and best ina man. Merely to
think of it was a liberal education.

At this moment Lenchen stood up to meet him,
with all the prickings of a queen in her.

But since the first-fruits of her sovereign power was
a budding knowledge of Man, after her one little
vague protest, she kept her vow faithfully.

And if there did come faltering moments in
Albrecht’s triumphant life wherein he caught glimpses
of some disturbing note of interrogation somewhere,
being, for a man, happily constituted, he seemed
always able to cast it out upon the heap of other
world-tainted interruptions he laid down always out-
side the threshold of home.

And so Albrecht came and went. He came to rest
and refresh himself. He came to grow and learn.
But of this he was happily unconscious. It were
indeed a hard and bitter Providence that had made it
quite clear to Albrecht patiently cultivating Lenchen’s
simple mind that the kingliness that grew in him with
each year, the high purpose and resolve, the splendid
potency and the gentle heart, were gathered mostly in
the old terraced gardens beside his morganatic wife.

Perhaps the only good seed that sprouted but faintly

158 LENCHEN

in Albrecht was his sense of humour. ‘That possibly
was Lenchen’s fault, for she neglected to water it—at
first because she was herself too sad and foolish to
recognise any need for watering; and afterwards,
when she had grown wiser, she stayed her hand lest
Albrecht, when now too late, should see wherein and
how much he had hurt her.

And always when he went forth from her, although
her conquering spirit went with him, yet did her poor
little defeated body like the permanency of its stay at
home each day the less.

For, womanlike, the farther power made manifest
receded from her, only the dearer did it grow.

Meanwhile, in her beautiful retreat the years forgot
to touch her, and by her ever-fresh and fragrant youth
Albrecht knew that he had done well.

The odd thing was that although kept so lonely .
and apart in loveliest seclusion, as the years passed
Lenchen’s name became one to conjure with. Al-
brecht put this down to the adorable aloofness in her
position. Familiarity is the death of reverence.

There was always a fine, severe simplicity about
Albrecht’s thoughts as applied to women,

But there were other causes at work in Lenchen’s
canonisation. For it was nothing more exalted or
esoteric than her own little human hands and touches
while gathered to her the hearts of Albrecht’s poor.
And it is always from out the hearts and mouths of
the poor that saints grow.

Not indeed that Lenchen experienced any conscious
hankerings after sainthood. An early and intimate
connection with the state had complicated life for her
somewhat too confusingly. But her heart was so big

LENCHEN 159

that it could not be cramped half idle into any terraced
garden permanently.

And as her own little babies were caught away from
her one by one, each leaving behind it, for a token, its
little lesson of pain and sweetness, and a more bitter
ache for that other little creature who, being
Albrecht’s, was hers also, now being taught manners by
his serene and hereditary kinsfolk, so unbearable grew
the loneliness at last, and so difficult to conceal from
Albrecht, that one day she paused to consider. And
from fear grown meeker, she listened at last to the
whisperings of God in her heart, and followed whither
the whisper led.

For, given a woman who is in the soul of her a true
queen, one day the call will come, and she must forth
to find her kingdom.

Lenchen found hers in the hearts of Albrecht’s
poor.

Still the years went on and Albrecht’s son learnt
many courtly graces. He seemed, however, powerless
to unlearn the quality of his mother. To thaw that
out of him it needed the enduring warmth of sheltering
love.

Perhaps the one inextinguishable sorrow of Al-
brecht’s life was his son; an abiding mute sorrow
that breaks the life in a man.

And he had to bear it alone. It was hardly
Lenchen’s hand that could soothe this pain. Nor
could he apologise to his haughty son for that
wherein he had defrauded him. Even German senti-
ment could scarce venture upon such lengths as
these,

160 LENCHEN

Nothing being lost, however, all this may possibly
go to the squaring of Albrecht’s account upon that
Great Day, and break for him the crushing shock of
discovering himself in the end a prig.

One day a great sickness fell upon the Prince and
he knew that it was the beginning of the long
night.

Lenchen had been through life his star, so it was
but natural that in death he should keep his eyes
fixed steadfastly upon her. During that strange
illuminating gaze he learnt a great deal. But as he
was trying to tell her of it he died.

And thus it came to pass that Lenchen kept her
regal vow of silence until the end.

Even as it came Albrecht’s son arrived from a
distant court.

He sent gentle messages to his father’s widow. For
Albrecht the younger was never out of order, and
piqued himself upon his skill in manoeuvring a delicate
situation.

But he carried off his father’s body to its official
home, there to lie in reputable state, where selt-
respecting hereditary highnesses could do their duty
by it.

The first and last and only time that Lenchen ever «
crossed the threshold of her husband’s palace was the
next night. She disdained to crave permission to
watch openly beside her dead, which was indeed a sore
disappointment to the dead man’s son ; for, ever gracious
and thoughtful, he had given full directions for the
lady’s admission, with a masterly intuition, arranging
hours and doors with a due regard to Lenchen’s claims
and his relatives’ sensations.

LENCHEN 161

Lenchen, however, asked neither leave nor cere-
monial.

But when the night fell upon the first day of her
widowhood, she drove through the dim aisles of the
great trees across the parks, and dismounting, walked
alone and unattended up the avenue of beeches, to
kneel for the last time beside her dearest. And at the
first flush of dawn she walked out again, through the
stately hall, tall, straight, and fine, with the proud fires
of courage all undimmed in her splendid eyes.

°

One day Lenchen put out her hands once more to
pick up the threads of her shattered life, and her
indiscretion no longer the cause of offence to any high
well-born one, she found Albrecht’s world, which, to
give it its due, has a picturesque instinct, quite ready
to find out things from viva voce examinations, con-
ducted with all due honour to the central figure of an
engaging romance now happily rendered innocuous.

But Lenchen preferred silence and the kingdom of
her poor.

CIGARP EEE

BY MARGARET THOMAS

TO MY

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TO MY GIGARETTE
BY MARGARET THOMAS

~RIENDS are changing, years are flying,
Fk Hopes are failing, love is dying.
Thou alone art faithful yet,
Cigarette, O cigarette.

Life’s deceiving, fame betraying,
Nothing stays that’s worth the staying.
Come and teach me to forget,
Cigarette, O cigarette.

Kiss me as thou knowest only ;
Kiss the smoker, sad and lonely,—
Truest kiss the poor may get,
Cigarette, O cigarette.

Upward, like thy fumes ascending,
All my soul with nature blending,
May I pass without regret,
Cigarette, O cigarette,

165

BY OLIPHANT SMEATON

AUTHOR OF “BY ADVERSE WINDS,”

”

“OUR LADDIE,” ETC., ETC.

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A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL
BY OLIPHANT SMEATON

s¢ IE’S owre my specs, Tibbie ; I'll tak’ a bit look

owre the paper. No’ that there’s muckle
intilt ; I jalouse—my specs, wuman, my specs, no’ my
pipe. Losh save’s a’, Tibbie, ye’re gettin’ as deaf’s a
dead tyke.1 Humph! but there’s nane sae deaf as
them that winna hear, I’m thinkin’.”

“‘ Ay, ay, Symie, my man, there’s yer specs to ye.
I ken I’m gettin’ deaf, but we’re no growin’ younger,
gudeman,” replied Tibbie Tamson, with a heavy
sigh, as she handed her husband his spectacles.

“ Humph! wha said we were?” was the ungracious
retort. “Keep yer gab steekit, gin ye dinna want
to seem a born fule. God send ye mair sense, and
me mair siller.”

Tibbie said no more. But as her poor old fingers
tremblingly pursued their task of knitting Symie’s
thick woollen hozss, or stockings, which kept his feet
so cosy and warm when he worked early and late in
his little mailing,2 more than one tear trickled silently
down her cheeks, and dropped upon her work.

But she was used to this cruel treatment. The

* Tyke—Dog. 2 Mailing —Rented
169

170 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

day had been when she resented it, and bitter, angry
words passed between the couple. But that was in
her young and foolish days. Many years ago Tibbie
had seen her mistake, and silently endured what she
could not mend.

Not that Symie was a cruel, hard-hearted man,
with no soft place in his soul for better and holier
influences to find a germing ground. His farm stock
was better cared for than those of any other mailer in
Nethercleuch. The sight of any cruelty towards the
brute creation made his blood boil. To all the world,
save Tibbie, Symie was ready to do a kindness wie
it did not involve the expenditure of money. He
was of that cheap philanthropy which expends itself
in words rather than deeds.

In the village of Kittlebinkie, adjoining which his
little mailing or farm, of some sixty acres, was situated,
Symie was looked upon as an honest, straightforward
man, as regards all the cardinal virtues of the Decalogue.
No one was more scrupulous in the observance of
religious ordinances, public and private. He was an
elder in the Free Kirk, was held in high esteem by
the minister, the Rev. John Muirhead. Nay, though
Symie had what he called “‘a fair scunner at Eraustian
Estaubleeshments,” the parish minister and he always
passed a kindly word of greeting when they met, in
which such an exchange of civilities as—

“It’s a fine day, Mr. Thomson.”

“Ay, it’s jist sae, Maister Thrawnthrapple, it’s
unco gude for the braird,” 1—or, “ for the lambin’ ”-—
or, “it’s fine dry weather for the hair’st,”2 formed
the staple of their intercourse.

1 Braird—Young grain. Hair’st—Harvest.

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL 171

In a word, then, Symie Tamson of the Cleuch
farm was a man of whom the tongue of popular
report spoke well. If he was a little near, and counted
his bawbees twice before parting with them, and never
let a ““saxpence go bang,” like the historic Scotsman
in London, without getting an adequate quid pro quo
for it, well! was not that an illustration of Scottish
thrift and prudence? Avarice is a relative term, you
know, largely dependent on national characteristics
and idiosyncrasies.

But within the castle of his own home, Symie was
a different man altogether. His bonhomie and jocu-
larity became sardonic sarcasm and thin-veiled insult.
His was one of those natures that are not improved
by having yielding spirits associated with them. In
such minds, submissiveness, in place of suggesting
considerateness and kindness, engender tyranny and
scarcely-disguised contempt. Had Tibbie possessed a
stronger and more unyielding temperament, with a
tongue savouring of the quality of Xanthippe’s, in all
probability Symie, receiving as good as he gave, would,
many long years ago, have learned to bridle his unruly
member, and his wife would have been a happy, con-
tented woman. But poor Tibbie, after the first few
wild, hysterical outbursts against the unjust reflections
and bitter speeches of her husband, in an unfortunate
moment read Paul’s advice in the Epistle to the
Ephesians—“ Wives, submit yourselves unto your own
husbands as unto the Lord,” in a sense far too literal,
and from that moment her domestic martyrdom began,
For forty-five years her long-drawn-out misery of
uncongenial companionship had lasted.

Both of them were now within a few months of

172 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

reaching the three-score-and-ten stagepost in the
journey of life. Symie was still full of vigour, strong,
active, and sinewy. His massive frame and brawny
limbs had lost but little of their original power. His
complexion still retained much of its youthful ruddi-
ness and colour. “Though the frost of the sixties had
powdered his hair with grey, and his eyesight required
some little help of a night to read over the news in
the Courier, these were the sole traces the flight of
the years had as yet left on him.

With Tibbie it was different. Time had dealt
hardly with her, and worry still more unkindly. Her
parchment-like face, though still retaining traces,
under her invariably spotless mutch,t of her former
comeliness, in the large, soft, black eyes, and delicately
shapen, mobile mouth, nevertheless evinced the foot-
steps of Time in numberless crow’s-feet and wrinkles
round the eyes and across the cheeks, and at the base
of the chin. Her elasticity of step had long disap-
peared. Her limbs were frail, and trembled as though
with incipient palsy. Her frame was slightly bent,
and her hair was white as the unsmirched snowdrift.
From outward evidence, Tibbie would be guessed the
elder of the two, though in truth Symie was her senior
by over six months.

The diverse treatment his wife and he had received
from Father Time was a favourite topic for expatiation
with Symie, on which occasions he would stretch out
his massive limbs to their full extent, and, pointing to
poor Tibbie’s bent, attenuated frame, would say—

“‘Hech, but ye’re a puir, fushionless, deein’ craytur,
Tibbie, wuman,” whereupon Tibbie would smile and

* Mutch—Cap,

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL 173

affect to laugh, while her heart was breaking over her
husband’s comparisons.

Hers was a nature gifted with an infinite capacity
for loving. But at every turn it had been cribbed,
cabined, and confined within itself, and prevented
from shooting its tendrils around her husband. Of
love Symie had never known a trace in his youthful
days. He imagined Tibbie would make him a good
housewife, and he married her. A better wife and a
more careful manager he could not have had, though
he always grumbled on principle over her extravagance,
lest she should grow careless. All her girlish dreams
of delicious wedded happiness had long since passed
away into the dull mist of the past, leaving her a
broken-hearted woman, bound to an_uncongenial
companion. For many long years, she prayed night
and morning that God would remove her out of her
misery. Then she thought that was sinful, and prayed
for patience to bear her cross. For one word of
endearing encouragement she would have risked her
life, but that word never was granted to her. Had
Providence willed that her maternal instincts should
have been gratified by the care and tendance of
children, her heart might have expanded into all the
glorious fruition of full womanly development. But
of family Symie and she had none, and thus she
dragged her ever-lengthening chain of sorrow on
throughout the years—a lonely, heartbroken woman,
with all the possibilities of good in her crushed out by
the cruelty of indifference, which inflicts a deeper
wound on the heart than blows.

But at the time our narrative opens, one gleam of
sunshine had thrown itself athwart Tibbie’s path.

174 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

Symie’s sister had died, leaving her only child, a little
girl of some twelve years, to her brother’s care.
Symie gloomed and fretted, spoke of sending her to
the “pairish,” and of the bad seasons he had experi-
enced. Then it was that Tibbie, for the first and
last time in her life, took an independent stand.

“Shame on ye, Symie Tamson, to speak o’ the
pairish for ane sae sib* to ye as ye’re ain sister’s bairn.
I tell ’ee, wee Beatie sall no gang to the pairish,
though I hae to wark air and late for her masel’.”

Symie muttered something about a “ toom hoose
bein’ better than a bad tenant,” but went out to
“pit” his potatoes without making any further
remark.

Presently little Beatie arrived, a pale, waxen-faced,
dark-eyed child, preternaturally acute, and with a dis-
cretion far beyond her years. To the desolate heart
of the poor orphan, Tibbie appeared in the light of
an angel come from heaven to take the place of the
mother she had lost. A mighty, absorbing affection
presently sprang up in the little one’s heart towards
the kindly, affectionate, but broken-spirited old woman,
who lavished on her all the pent-up wealth of maternal
love for which she had been denied outlet or exercise
on children of her own. Between the child and
Tibbie a subtle bond of love was forged, which did
much to soften the old woman’s feelings towards life
and its. responsibilities. So deep was the love the
child bore her new mother, that though she could
not understand the full meaning of Symie’s cutting
speeches to his wife, a vague appreciation of their
drift seemed to reach her young mind. Her flashing

t Sib—Nearly related,

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL 175

eyes and flushed cheeks on more than one occasion
caused him to suppress the bitter words even when
on his lips, so reproachful were the looks he received
from the little maid. Kinder and more considerate
by far was Symie to his niece than to his wife. But
not a caress could Beatie be induced to receive from
him had he spoken harshly to Tibbie in her presence.

The end of this domestic martyrdom, however, was
very near. To many of the neighbours Symie’s mode
of treating his wife was known. Though they
honoured the sturdy honesty of the man, they repro-
bated his cruelty towards a woman whose patient
weakness won their admiration. Only one ventured
to condole with her on the subject. The attempt
was made but once.

“ Mause Pairtrick,” said Tibbie indignantly, “ ye
mean weel, nae doot, and for that I winna be as hard
on ye as I ocht to be: but dinna let me hear ye
misca’ ma gudeman in ma hearin’ again, or you and
me wull cuist oot. Let ilka ane mind their ain busi-
ness. Ma gudeman an’ me are weel eneuch.”

Her silent endurance under prolonged provocation
increased the sympathy for her in the village among
those who knew her story. But they had to sympa-
thise in secret,-for no one had a more pronounced
contempt than she for “ greetin’ gabbies,” as she
designated wives who carried their domestic sorrows
out of doors.

A fine fresh October morning. ‘The sun had just
peeped over the eastern horizon, and was flooding
the whole face of nature—mountain and meadow,
wood and stream, valley and plain-—with that joyous,
sparkling effulgency of rich mellow light which renders

176 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

sunrise a spectacle so infinitely exhilarating. Those
leaves—well tanned to an autumnal brown—which
the boisterous breath of the late equinoctial gales still
left on the trees, were literally glistening under the
kiss of the sun on their dewy surfaces. ‘The birds,
too, were hymning their morning orisons, as Symie
stepped out on to the road in front of his cottage to
take a breath of the morning air, while Tibbie was
boiling the porridge.

A few paces from the door he found his old crony
and neighbour, Jock Howieson, vigorously flogging
a cart-horse, which jibbed at taking the brae leading
into the village. Jock’s horse was an obstinate brute,
and its master’s temper was none of the most placid.

Symie watched the struggle for a moment or two,
then, as the strokes began to wax severe, he said,
“I’m sayin’, Jock, div’ee mind the words o’ Solomon
the son o’ Dauvid, ‘The richteous man regairdeth the
life o’ his beast’; or, as Mathy Henry pits it, ‘The
maircifu’ man is maircifu’ to his beast’ ?”

“ Ay, man, is it sae? But Ill be bund, Solomon
the son o’ Dauvid niver had tae drive a bawsend
meer! like auld Nance there, whilk wad bunk at ilka
thorn bush i’ the road. But I’m sayin’, Symie, syne
ye’ve gien me a bit word frae Solomon the son o’
Dauvid, Pll just be drappin’ ye anither orra yin frae
the Apostle Paul to the Corunthins, ‘ Let the husband
render unto the wife due benevelence.’ Symie
Tamson, hae ye been daein’ that a’ yer life to Tibbie,
ye’re gudewife? I’m thinkin’ ’ll just be steppin’ on,
Symie ; gee up, Bawsy.”

Symie stood as though rooted to the spot. Never

t Bawsend meer—Whitefaced mare.

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL 197

/

before had his persistent carping and sneering conduct
towards Tibbie been revealed to him in a light so
morally odious and reprehensible. For years past,
so thoroughly had sarcasm and cavilling become a
part of his daily intercourse with Tibbie, that he had
lost his sense of moral distinction with regard to it,
and failed to realise there was anything out of the
common in the perpetual snarls and growls wherewith
he persecuted his unfortunate partner. He walked
back to the house a humbled man. But as yet it was
not so much the realisation of his sin which troubled
him as the fact that it was common talk in the
village.

Tibbie met him in the trance, her usual feeble,
deprecating smile on her lips.

“Come yer wa’as in by, Symie, the parridge is
dished, an’ yer bicker’s stannin’ waitin’. Are ye no’
ready?”

The custom of years, combined with the latent
feeling of blind indignation at her for being the inne
cent cause of making him appear in the wrong,
induced him to catch her up sharply, as usual.

“Humph, and whaur d’ye jalouset I wad be
stravaigin’ 2 to at this oor o’ the day? Women and
weans are aye witless.”

Tibbie cowered under the rebuke, but it was wee
Beatie who confronted Symie as he moved towards
the kitchen table, and, with flashing eyes, thus ad-
dressed him—

“Uncle Symie, what for d’ye no’ love God?”

“ No’ love God? the lassie’s in a creel Wha tauld
ye that, ma dawtie? I div love God.”

Jalouse—Suppose. 2 Stravaigin’— Wandering.

iS

178 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

“ Weel, then, the Bible maun be wrang. For the
Bible says in ma tex’, ‘ By this sall a’ men know that
ye are My disciples if ye love ane anither.’”

“ Weel, lassie, what aboot it?”

“Uncle Symie, ye dinna love Auntie Tibbie, or ye
wadna speak to her the gait ye div ; an’ gin ye dinna
love her, ye canna love God, for she’s yer neeber, an’
yer bidden love yer neeber as yersel’.”

Symie started. A sharp answer to the little logician
seemed on the tip of his tongue. But he did nothing
more than pat her on the head, and remarked in a
strange, constrained tone: “God gie ye grace wi’ yer
tongue, lass, for He’s made it gleg * eneuch.”

After supping a few spoonfuls of porridge and milk,
he pushed the plate away, and signed Tibbie to give
him a cup of tea. But he only sipped about one half
its contents, and then, rising, left the room, muttering
something about “A slow haund maks a sober for-
it.”

_ Tibbie had not broken her fast. The words of the

child had at first filled her with a keen, fierce joy,
succeeded, however, by an aching dread lest Symie
should in his harshness visit wee Beatie’s protest on
herself by sending her away. ‘Tibbie felt that then
the light of her life would quite go out.

“©, ma dawtie,” she cried, “never heed him. It’s
dist his way ; gie intil ’m, dearie, or maybe he micht
pairt us.”

“Na, na, auntie, I’ll gie intil nane o’ him. He’s
aye prayin’ to God to saften oor hard an’ stoney
hairts, an’ to gie us hairts o’ flesh. Wow! but the
Cleuch millstane is saft tae his hairt.”

* Cleg—Sharp.

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL 179

Her aunt only sorrowfully shook her head. All
that morning Tibbie went about her work with a
dull feeling of terror gnawing at her heartstrings.
Presently, as she was busy preparing dinner against
Symie’s return, she was startled by a loud knock at
the front entrance—a most unusual occurrence. She
hurried through the trance and threw open the door.
Mr. Muirhead, the Free Kirk minister, stood without.

“‘ C’wae in by, sir ; the gudeman’s no’ at hame, but
he winna be lang, I’m thinkin’.”

“ Ah, my dear Mrs. Thomson—ahem—it’s on his
account—ahem—I’m here. I am very sorry =)

“‘Gudesakes, minister, whatten’s wrang, what’s
cam’ owre the gudeman?: Is he deid—O tell me,
is he deid ?”

“O no, it’s not so bad as that, Mrs. Thomson, but
he received a bad shock of paralysis while working on
the farm. Fortunately he was seen to fall by the
inmates of Robert Dowie’s cottage; and they ran
over to him. They are bringing him home now.
Ah, here they are, I see!”

Tibbie waited to hear no more. As fast as her
poor old limbs would carry her, she hobbled out to
meet the sad procession that was coming up the little
garden.

Symie was lying helpless on the improvised stretcher.
The only signs of life left in him were his eyes, which
moved restlessly from side to side. Fortunately his
speech was but little affected, and when Tibbie met
the bearers, the tears streaming down her cheeks,
Symie remarked, with a sort of dreary, hopeless
attempt at jocularity—

“ Hech, Tibbie, ma wuman, we'll be a bonny pair

180 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

o’ bauchles, you an’ me, noo. ‘Tak’ me in by, lads,
the gudewife wull show’ee the road.”

Tenderly and gently Symie Thomson was undressed
and laid upon the bed from which he was never to rise.
Then the doctor made his examination, during which
his looks became increasingly grave. Finally he shook
his head mournfully, and taking Tibbie by the hand,
led her from the room.

“Eh, wow, doctor, I can jalouse yer news frae yer
face ; ma gudeman’s days o’ acteevity are owre.”

“ Even so, Mrs. Thomson ; I cannot give you any
hope it will ever be otherwise.”

“Weel, weel, ‘the Lord gave an’ the Lord hath
ta’en awa’; blessed be the name of the Lord,’” said the
old woman, as, amid her streaming tears, a sad sweet
smile broke through, like April sunshine amid April
showers. “It’s no’ a’ sorrow, sir; na, na! God be
thankit his life’s been spared to me.” Dr. Bolus
turned hastily away to hide the suspicious moisture
that was dimming his eyes.

And so their friends left them to begin that strange
new life, wherein Tibbie, the frail one, was to under-
take the active oversight of the farm, and Symie, the
strong man who boasted of his strength, had to lie
helpless, hand and foot alike, and inclined to rail
bitterly against God’s mysterious providence.

For some days he was very hard to live with. Of
a truth, it seemed as though he were desirous of com-
pensating for the enforced idleness of his limbs by the
bitterness and venom of his speech. Nothing, seem-
ingly, could be done correctly for him. Again and
again Tibbie had to endure such speeches as—

“Hech me, ye’re a’ jist ettlin’ to worry me. Hae ye

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL 181

ony brains ava’? Neist to nae wife a gude ane’s best,
but that’s no’ ma lot. Ay, wives maun be had, be
they gude or bad, but the bad anes are like a hunner
to yin.”

But though her tears fell plentifully enough in
secret, Tibbie never wavered in her determination
to keep a bright face and a stout heart when in the
presence of her husband. His bitterest speeches only
extorted from her a sweeter smile, and the words—

“'Wheesht ye noo, ma dear, dinna fash yersel’, an’
I'll dae better neist time.”

She engaged a man to work on the little farm, and
making a virtue of a necessity, she developed traits of
business, prudence, and foresight, that even astonished
her husband, though he never bestowed on her that
one word of praise and affection for which her soul
hungered. Day by dayshe went overall the accounts
with him, relating what she was doing, and humouring
him in the idea he was still managing the farm.

Wee Beatie it was who again opened her uncle’s
eyes to the hidden treasure he possessed in his dear old
wife. One day Symie called Tibbie, but no answer
was returned. Again he called, and Beatie told him
that auntie was having a sleep.

“‘Sleepin’ in the broad daylicht ! ma certie, that’s
the gait to maunage a fairm! Nae wonner a’s ga’an
to rack an’ ruin. Eh, wow, but women are as mense-
less as a tinkler’s messan.t Ou, aye, a sillerless man
gangs fast through the mercat, and, faith, we'll no’ be
lang afore we’re i’ that state’ Sleepin’ i’ the daytime!
Gudesakes ! ”

“Uncle Symie, ye’re dist an auld haverel, an’ div

* Menseless as a tinkler’s messan—Greedy, and lazy as a tinker’s cur.

182 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

ye think ilka body’s as bad as yersel, an’ as
scodgie!?”

“Beatie, whatten are ’ee mintin at,” said Symie
angrily.

“Jist this, that puir auntie disna get to her bed a’
nicht wi’ workin’ to keep the fairm ga’an. A’ the
kirnin’, an’ the bakin’, an’ the sautin’, an’ the smokin’,
she does through the nicht, sae that she can hae the
hale day to spend wi’ ye. Eh, wow, man, but ye’re a
puir, feckless, fushionless, discomfisht body, lying there,
no’ able to rax out yer ain elbuck, an’ girnin’ and
grizlin’ at yer puir wife, that’s fashin’ hersel’ intil her
grave aboot ye. What gars ye be sae snar-gabbet? to
her, that wad gie her life for ye?”

“ Beatie, ma dawtie, is that sae? It canna be, it
canna be!” said Symie in an anxious tone. “ Ma
puir Tibbie. Yer sure it’s true noo, Beatie lass ?
Does Tibbie wark a’ nicht? God forgie me, God
forgie me ; but yer sure it’s true, wee Beatie ?”

“Tosh, uncle, canna ye use yer ain een an’ yer ain
lugs?”

Symie said no more. Presumably he did use “his
ain een and his ain lugs” that night when poor Tibbie
imagined he was asleep. Be that as it may, on the
following day, after work was over, Symie called her.
His tone was more kindly and gentle than it had ever
been before. Yet Tibbie had been repressed and
downtrodden so long that she actually trembled and
shook when she entered his presence.

“Did ye ca’ me, Symie ?”’

“ Ay, Tibbie lass. I’m fain to hae a bit crack wi’
ye aboot some orra things.”

* Scodgie—Suspicious, ? Snar-gabbet—Sharp tongued,

Blt

A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL 183

“Weel, Symie, say awa’. Poor Tibbie could
scarcely speak with anxiety.

“’Tibbie, ma dawtie, ye hae been the best o’ wives
to me, an Heeven kens I’ve no’ been what I suld to ye;
_ far frae it. [ll no’ be lang wi’ ye noo tae fash ye.”

The long expected words of endearment had come
at last, and their effect, as they fell upon her weary,
sorrow-burdened spirit, was like dew upon a dry,
parched land. Her whole nature seemed to revive
under it. The long distant days of their courtship
seemed restored. ‘Timidly she took his withered, life-
less hand in hers, and feebly fondled and caressed it.
But as yet she spoke not.

“ Ah, Tibbie wuman, had I kenned a’ I ken noo,
what years o” blessed happiness we micht hae had !
But it wusna to be, Tibbie lass. Wull ye forgie me
for a’ ma sins 0’ omission and commission ; for ma bad,
bitter tongue, an’ ma blin’ness to the gudeness o’ the
best o’ wives f”

But Tibbie was on her knees by his bedside, sobbing
like a child.

“‘ Symie, dinna speak like that, ye’ll brak ma hairt ;
ye’ve aye been a gude, kind husband tae me,”

“Na, na, Tibbie, jist the contr’ary lass, jist the
contr’ary; but, oh, ’m wae for’t a’ noo! Gie mea
kiss lass ; it’s lang syne we had oor last.”

For the first time for a period exceeding by many
years a quarter of a century, Tibbie’s withered, aged
lips were laid against those of her partner in a kiss of
love. The old woman’s eyes, as they rested on her
husband, seemed to glow with a beautiful love-light.
All the anxious dread, and the look they used to have
as of a hunted hare, had left them. A pure, holy

184 A SEXAGENARIAN IDYLL

radiance, the reflex of the peace that reigned within
her soul, shone from them. Her days of mourning
were ended.

“Eh, Tibbie lass, but it’s like auld days this, when
I cam’ a-coortin’ ye. We'll hae some twa or three
thegither yet, afore we pairt, jist to pree the joy we
micht hae had a’ through, gin it hadna been for ma
wicked tongue. Read me a bit verse frae the ‘ Auld
Buke,’ lass; the nicht’s closin’ in, an’ I’m kind o°
tired. But the morn’s a noo day, an’ we'll hae oor
crack oot then.”

“ Whaur wull I read, Symie ?”

“Read us aboot the Noo Jerusalem, lass, an’ the
comin’ o’ the Maister, in the hinner en’ o’ the Revela-
tions. Surely I come quickly; Amen; even sae, come
Lord Jesus.”

The old woman lit her lamp, and Symie composed
himself to listen. Tibbie’s voice was singularly
musical and soothing, and there was little wonder
that ere long a tear or two forced themselves through
the closed lashes of Symie’s eyes as she detailed the
glories of that world he was so soon to see. When she
reached the seventeenth verse and read, “ The Spirit
and the Bride say, Come : and let him that heareth,
say Come: and let him that is athirst, Come, and
whosoever will, let him take of the water of life
freely,” she heard her husband heave a gentle sigh.
Tibbie stopped and looked up, then gently closed the
book and knelt by the bedside. Already the morning
of the new day had dawned for him. Symie Tamson
had responded to the invitation of his Lord, and had
passed into the presence of “ The Maister !”

HEIMWEH

BY LALA FISHER

HEIMWEH
BY LALA FISHER

”T “HE silver sea creeps in to kiss
The harbour’s wooded edges,

And bears to ocean’s wilderness

The scent of may-sweet hedges.
The white-winged boats glide gently in,

With scarce a breeze to guide them ;
While shyly-peeping stars begin

And gem the waves beside them.

The fairy-petalled daisies close
And on their stems lie sleeping ;
The perfume of a climbing rose
Upon the night is creeping.
The music of a distant oar
In rhythm soft is falling,
And from some tree-top on the shore
A nightingale is calling.

Tis sweet, and in my native land
’*T would fill my heart with gladness ;
But here, upon an alien strand,

Its sweetness breathes of sadness.
187

188

HEIMWEH

If I could hear the bell-bird’s song
Through this calm scene come ringing,
Awaking echoes all along
In that divinest singing.

If I could hear the hushed, deep beat
Of waves on lonely shorelands,

Or watch the red sun rise to greet
The towering rugged forelands ;

If I could roam the fern-clad creek
And lie in knee-deep grasses,

Where happy birds their loved ones seek
In seldom-trodden passes.

If one wee branch of ti-tree bloom,
Or wattle light and golden
Appeared to me in the gloom
With baby buds enfolden :
Such sweet and well-loved scenes would wake
Now half forgot and sleeping
That oh! my very heart would break
With longing, love, and weeping.

THE INSIDE STATION

BY DOUGLAS SLADEN

Ree EN SIDE OS TATION
BY DOUGLAS SLADEN
I
<3 yc Englishmen,” said the girl, “are such

cowards.”

“You new chums,” began the tall young fellow
with bad teeth, and light eyes that were a little too
prominent. He mumbled the rest ; he had caught an
expression flitting over the Englishman’s face, and he
thought Kit might have been a little too sweeping.

“T’ll finish it,” she said, throwing a contemptuous
glance at the last speaker.

“You new chums think yourselves too jolly clever.”

“ But I tell you, I saw them.”

“A mirage, and a heated imagination !”

“This is an inside station; there have been no
blacks here for years,” said the older man, with the
bleached beard and the big brown. blotches on the
backs of his hands.

“T saw them, just at dusk. I was lying low for
a platypus, and my hound began to growl. There were
a lot of them, armed, and no gins, or children, or dogs.”

“Tf I were on a new station,” said the man with the

blotched hands, “(I might think something of it; but
19!

192 THE INSIDE STATION

this has been settled a long while, and one can easily
be deceived at dusk, in that thick ti-tree by the
river.”

‘“¢ Pure imagination,” said the girl, and the man with
the bad teeth grinned behind the Englishman’s back.
He had shifted his seat to curry favour with Kit, who
despised him. Like every man within fifty miles, he
was her slave ; she was so plucky, so pretty, so witty,
and had, in such a marked degree, the lithe grace of a
bush-bred girl. Only the woman feeling was wanting ;
she would not tolerate attentions from any man, except
such as a subject might offer to a queen, and these she
took with an air of prerogative.

John Forest too had frankly fallen in love with her,
and she hated him for it. She loathed him more than
any man in Queensland. No one else had ever dared ~
to propose to her. She felt that he had humiliated her.
Except for the silky coils of glittering hair, twisted
with careless grace low down on her neck, she looked
from head to foot almost as much like a man as a
woman.

Her dress was of light homespun tweed, with a short
skirt and a loose boy’s jacket. The ‘silk cricketing
shirt, which set off her fairness with its whiteness, was
loose too.

Before the men turned in for the night, they went
outside to look round, ‘They could see nothing ; it
was a pitch dark night, and even the practised ear ot
a bushman could not detect an unusual sound, though
there was not enough breeze to flap the tattered bark
hanging on the stringy-barks round the house.

A couple of hours passed; Kit had not slept. She
was a little uneasy, “I wish father was here,” she said

THE INSIDE STATION 193

to herself. He was a better bushman than either of the
three men, and she could not help confessing that he
would, as a mere matter of courtesy to their guest,
have looked into the matter. Besides, while he was
away, there was no one in the house but herself and
the two maids. The bachelors’ quarters, where the
overseer, and the manager, and Mr. Forest, during
her father’s absence, slept, were, as is not unusual in
Australia, a little way down the garden, and the men’s
hut for the shepherds and their cook was a quarter of
a mile away, on the other side of the stables.

Looking out of her window towards the river, she
could have sworn that she saw for a moment ever such
a little light. Could this be a fire-streak? She had
never seen one at a distance. She would have liked to
dress, but thought it would be cowardly. She would have
given anything to be able to defy her pride. She was
glad that there was no light in the room for the mirror
to show in the proud blue eyes a look that had never
been there before. She was actually asking herself why
she had allowed her hate for the Englishman to prevent
her telling the manager with the blotched hands, or
the overseer, to take the shepherds and the dogs and
see that everything was all right. The dogs, which
would bark at a ’possum going into the poor little
kitchen-garden, had not uttered a sound.

False pride prevented the two Australians—the old
colonist and the young colonial—from taking the
Englishman’s warning. They did not even take their
guns into their rooms from the gun-room, and there
was not a lock in the house.

But Forest felt that the house would be attacked,
and determined to prepare. His tennis-shoes would

14

194 THE INSIDE STATION

make less noise than boots. He was fully dressed ; he
loaded his revolver carefully, and buckled on a belt
full of cartridges—they might have rattled in his
pocket. He laid his rifle, loaded, and a box of rifle
cartridges on his dressing-table. On such a dark night
it might knock against something if he had to fly from
the house. The long Mexican knife, sharp as a razor,
which he used for skinning kangaroos, was worth a
dozen rifles for fighting his way out. Some inspiration
made him look at his chimney, a brick shaft about a
couple of feet square, which had never received its
chimney-pot. He reckoned the chance of a native
sliding down the chimney and taking him in the rear.
That there would be an attack he was morally certain.
He even went so far as to go and wake the others and
entreat them to arm; but they simply said, “ Blacks be
damned!” and turned round sulkily to sleep again.
‘There was no fastening to the house door, because
there are no ferocious carnivora in Australia.

Forest sat on his bed, he dared not even smoke, lest
the red crater of his pipe should guide a waddy to his
head. Though not long in Australia, he was a man
trained to sport a// his life ; so he had a vigilant ear ;
and even on that silent night there was sound after
sound which made the sweat on his forehead run cold.
First, there was scratch, scratch, scratch. Could it be
the blacks? ‘Though all he had ever heard of them
pointed: to a swift rush, silent or with blood-curdling
yells, when they came up to the house, he could not
help picturing to himself that they had changed their
habits, and were playing the stealthy burglar, till a
squeak and a skelter reassured him that it was the
native cats, who were suffered to make their home

THE INSIDE STATION 195

between the ceiling and the bark roof, because they
were such unremitting scavengers.

He heard the mocking peal of a laughing jackass ;
it was so human, it must be a signal. He waited for
the crackle of flames—the black fiends of the early
days loved to creep up to a homestead and fire it, and
spear the half-stifled whites as they rushed out.

The dead limb on the big tree over his chimney
groaned—the creak of these dead limbs, rotten as
touchwood, barely able to support their own weight,
is horribly human. ‘That must be the manager or the
overseer waddied in their sleep. Now the rush must
come.

He heard a man move—it was certainly a man—he
listened for all his life, but could scarcely hear for the
beatings of his own heart, as loud in seeming as the
puffs of the engine dragging its train up the zigzags
of the mountains. He could feel the sweat running
down his spine in that agony of listening. Nothing
came but stertorous snoring ; it could only have been
the young colonial turning in his sleep.

All at once he heard another sound, and he knew—
he had never been more certain in his life—that this
sound meant something, though it was, if anything,
less pronounced than the former sounds.

About one o’clock, as far as he could judge, after
the long vigil in which minutes had seemed like hours,
he heard the stealthy tread which told him that at last
he was face to face with a supreme moment. He rose
silently and stood beside the door, with the long knife,
which he had learned to use where he bought it, in his
right hand. He judged that a people so cunning in
stalking would send a single assassin to despatch him.

196 THE INSIDE STATION

Only one man came. He struck him the fatal upward
cut which, if the line is good, reaches the heart, no
matter whether the victim be tall or short. He
endured a moment of horrible agony. Would the
man live a second—to cry out? The aim was
true. He caught him in his arms and laid him on the
bed almost in one movement, then he stole back to
the door and listened for his life. There was evidently
a crowd outside the house door. He could hear other
voices at the windows, which he had taken the pre-
caution of closing. "The sweat rolled down his fore-
head. In desperation he thought of the chimney, and
found that by putting his back and feet against opposite
sides, he could walk up quite easily. What a provi-
dence that there was no chimney-pot! But how to
get down unobserved and rescue or die for the girl
who loathed and insulted him, but could not turn him
from the idea that she was worth any amount of
winning. One side of the house had neither door nor
window ; it faced the quarter from which the hot
wind blew; the blacks, who had evidently taken
observations beforehand, had left it unguarded. But
to drop from the roof, even if he did not bring one of
its bark shingles clattering down, meant certain dis-
covery, and almost certain death. He felt something
touch his side, instantly the keen blade was buried in
it—in wood. It was a bough of the great stringy-
bark, which overshadowed the house on this side. It
took a terrible wrench, where every movement might
dislodge a portion of the roof, to drag out the knife,
but it put the idea into his mind of crawling along
the bough and descending by the tree. Just at that
moment, fortunately, the blacks found that there was

THE INSIDE STATION 197

a corpse on each bed, and rushed into the house. A
worse fate was reserved for the high-spirited Kit and
her maids. Forest darted to the big house to save
them. He found Kit quivering with anxiety on
the doorstep, but on her way to give them warning.
There was no need to whisper what had happened.

“We must fly; are you ready?” He half expected
her to refuse to go with him, or to waste precious
seconds in preparations or perversity.

She simply whispered, “The river ; take my hand ;
I know the way by night.”

“The horses,” he said; but as he spoke a broad
flame leapt up from the stables, showing swarms of
blacks all round, and at the girl’s side a tall savage in
the act of raising his waddy to brain her.

II

There was a moment of ghastly suspense. But the
black fellow, thunder-struck by the calm courage with
which the white woman awaited the blow, hesitated a
moment, and in that moment the clean upward
Mexican stab, made with the same motion as drawing
the knife, had once more done its silent work.

“The servants,” he whispered. Just then the ser-
vants rushed out at the back door with screams of
murder and the like, with the whole pack of black
fellows after them. From the prolonged screaming
they were evidently not killed at once. It was beyond
Forest’s power to save them after they began to scream,
but their screaming might save him and Kit by divert-
ing pursuit till they had some start,

198 THE INSIDE STATION

Had Kit tennis shoes too, he wondered; her feet
made hardly a sound in the deep loam of the track.
It was providential that they had always taken their
horses to the river by the same cutting through the
“ti-tree.” Both knew that in the river lay their
one chance of escape. On land they would be tracked
down to a certainty by the bloodhound instinct of the
blacks.

It was a mere apology for a river, not twenty feet
wide when a “ banker” was running and now in most
places only a few inches deep. Still, it would tell no
tales, and there was a township thirty miles down the
river as the crow flies; but the river was full of loops.
They knew they must go down stream anyhow to
avoid traces like broken twigs floating back to their
pursuers. The river, like most Australian rivers, had
a mud bed: Kit gave a little sigh of relief as they
entered the water. It was a tropical night; the blacks
had chosen a day when the hot wind was blowing,
so that their movements might be veiled in the whirl-
winds of dust, and the white men’s dogs be parched
with thirst.

Mile after mile they sped with swift and stealthy
stride. They did not run: they could not afford to
risk a sprain or even to splash heavily. “The wind had
died away at nightfall, leaving a sultry calm, like that
which precedes an earthquake.

Presently the water deepened quickly. She stopped
and drew him back to her nervously.

“The river is too deep to wade for a long way
below this,” said Kit.

“ T know it.”

“What shall we do!”

THE INSIDE STATION 199

“Could you find the track to the township in the
dark? Perhaps we have a long enough start.”

“Could you hold it if I put you on it?”

“Why?”

‘Because you must leave me, I can go no further.
Save yourself. I will hide in one of the holes under
the river bank along the deep pool. When you reach
the township gallop back with a rescue party and
coo-ee. I will answer if I have escaped.”

“ But if you fall into their hands ? ”

“God help me!”

“TI won’t leave you. We'll creep into a hole
together, and if we are discovered I can use the last
two shots in my revolver for ourselves. The blacks
may not come down so far, as there’s no track to
show which way we went. They won’t search many
hours ; they’ll be keen to get right away before the
troopers are out.”

*¢ How can we find a hole that’s big enough without
leaving marks all along where we try ?”

- “There’s a hole about fifteen paces down, where
that big half-bred hound of mine disappeared altogether
the other day. It must be dry, because he came out
all dusty. The entry’s not very big, but I know it
by a flat white stone right in its mouth.”

“© You'd much better save yourself and chance saving
me,” she said, not very graciously.

“Keep close to the edge,” was all he answered ;
“it gets deep very quickly.” As it was, he had to
hold up his revolver and cartridges to prevent their
getting wet.

He counted his paces. When he judged he was
at the right spot, he bent his head until it almost

200 THE INSIDE STATION

touched the ground and peered for the stone; he was
afraid to feel for it—they must not leave a finger mark
more than they can help for the trackers. Presently
he made out a faint glimmer of white in the pitch
dark. The dust raised by the hot wind hung like a
thick pall over the earth, shrouding every star in heaven.

“ Will you crawl in first or shall I?” said he.

“You; you could shoot me if they came up before
we both got in.”

He crawled in on his belly, and once inside struck
a match that she might see her way. He had a little
silver box in his watch pocket, which had kept above
water.

By its light he saw that the girl had bare, bleeding
feet, and apparently had nothing on but her night-
dress and a thin silk dust coat. Fortunately there was
no risk of chill that night. Another match revealed
that they were in a hollow of considerable area, though
nowhere high enough for them to sit upright. It had
evidently been eaten out by floods, which the sun-
baked crust above defied. It was shaped like the con-
cave of a flattish flat-fish shell. Neither of them felt
inclined to go near the sides, they had such a snaky
look. He found her a place that could not be seen
from the entrance, and himself lay down in front of
the entrance to listen.

“ You can come here,” she said coldly ; “you are
not safe there.”

“JT must watch.”

“Come here, I say.”

He did not move.

“You imperil both of us,” she insisted, in a rather
different tone,

THE INSIDE STATION 201

He felt that he had no right to do this. Besides,
it was her wish, about the only wish she had ever
expressed to him, and probably the last. So he crept
beside her. But he felt in honour bound not to
ingratiate himself.

All the long night they lay listening for footsteps.
On such a still night they could have detected even
a black fellow’s light footfall far away on the hollow,
echoing ground. But they could not afford to risk
an unnecessary word. She asked briefly—

“What would two men do if they lay here afraid
to speak?”

“"They would lay their hands on each other’s
shoulders,”

“Please regard me as a man,” she said coldly.

But the hand she laid upon his shoulder, with an
absolute absence of emotion, was vibrant like a
vigorous man’s and, withal, the light hand of a
graceful woman.

He endeavoured to inspire his hand with no expres-
sion but that of protectiveness. Thus they lay till
morning.

There is no dusk in Australia. Night falls and
draws up again like changes of scenery at a theatre.

How open the whole cave seemed in the daylight,
though the orifice had only just been large enough to
admit them.

As the first rays of the sun shone into the cave a
cold shiver struck them. From one of the flattened
edges of the cave a huge black snake, warty, and black
as coal above, and deep red on the belly, glided right
over the place where Forest had lain at first and coiled

202 THE INSIDE STATION

himself on the flat stone to bask before the sun became
too fierce. They kept still as death; even if it had
been safe to use the revolver the snake could have
sprung before it was drawn, and a bite from such a
full-grown snake, where surgical aid was impossible,
meant death in half an hour. If the blacks did not
pass they could not leave the cave without using the
revolver. Both knew that a snake is never so dan-
gerous as when cut off from his hole. The minutes
passed like months. A strange mesmerism came over
Kit. As Forest watched the snake, revolver in hand,
he lay on his side, with his legs drawn up, in the best
position for moving quickly that the low roof allowed.
He was of course back to her ; insensibly she edged
up to him until she moulded her knees into the hollows
of his knees and rested her bosom against his shoulder
blades, her hands laid upon his shoulders, her head_
against his neck. In this prolonged and awful
anxiety she felt an imperious need of contact to give
her the sense of companionship.

Presently—the Australian-born had a quicker ear
than the Englishman—she detected the distant fall of
many footsteps. Nearer and nearer they came, a few
on the further bank, more over their heads, ‘They
must have found the footprints to the water and were
trying the river up and down to see where the fugitives
had struck away from it. When they came to the
banks of the pool they halted, they were too uncivilised
to know how white men dread a snaky-looking hole,
and the banks were honeycombed. They looked
sharply for a trail. “Two or three noticed marks on
the white stone; but there lay the great snake—six
or seven feet of him—snakes do not fly from the silent-

THE INSIDE STATION 203

footed blacks as they do from the booted whites.
They held a short conversation, one man demurring ;
he picked up a stone and threw it against the white
slab on which the snake lay. It of course darted into
the cave. No sound came and apparently he was
satisfied. [he tribe passed on. ‘The tension of those
moments had been awful, but Forest was quite calm
and resolved. When the angry, frightened snake
appeared at the cave’s mouth, he felt certain that it
would bite him; but he reckoned on being able to
keep it off Kit. As the snake entered he raised him-
self to guard her, the movement gave it a fresh scare,
but it fled into its hole instead of striking.

Kit was not afraid of snakes, they had been part of
her bringing up; but it was terrible to lie all through
a summer’s day watching for the deadly monster. It
was not safe to emerge till nightfall.

Instinctively he left her side, and slid to the opening
to watch.

“‘T asked you to regard meas a man,” she whispered
impatiently. “If we were both men would you not
be keeping as close to me as you could, to be out of
observation? Where I am is the only part of the cave
which is not vee to the passer By Please regard me
simply as a man.’

He crept close, but was ee not to touch her, for
daylight had revealed her bare feet, her scanty eidtae
She was pale with tiredness; but there was little
trace of fear in her steadfast blue eyes, and on her lips
there played, as she caught his eye, a little smile of
pluck, which went straighter to his heart than the
tenderest glance.

, ,

204 THE INSIDE STATION

They had nothing to eat. They almost died of
thirst ; though they could hear water running within
a yard or two. For though they had heard the foot-
steps die away, a scout might have been left. Perhaps
the snake was watching them from his hole in terror.
He did not come out; but they spent the day with
one eye fixed on his hole,

Towards nightfall they slipped out and struck the
road for the township. The sirocco had passed and
the stars shone out with the brilliancy of a moon.

“J will carry you,” he insisted, though weakened
by the day’s fast. His heart bled for the wounds on
the beautiful bare feet. She refused impatiently ; but
after a while she said—

“You may carry me on your back as far as the
road; I might snag my feet in the bush.”

“‘ Let me carry you in my arms.”

“Would you carry another man in your arms?
How often am I to ask you to regard me simply as a
man? ”

But he took her in his arms, and once there she lay
still, simply trying to lighten his load, as a maimed
man would for his carrier. “The abandon, which was
born of coldness, filled his veins with fire.

“ Put me down now; here is the road.”

“¢'You’re not heavy.”

“Tt’s ungentlemanly of you to persist in treating
me as a woman when I have told you so plainly that
I wish to be treated like a man. As I have to be
with you so many hours, you might at least do what I
ask you,” she said indignantly.

THE INSIDE STATION 205

“’The dust is so deep it’s like walking in sand,” she
added.

“You go on in front and sing out if you knock
your feet against anything. I can follow exactly in
your tracks.”

“All right, but we had better keep silence, in
case ” It was nearly six o’clock before they
reached the house of a squatter friend, who was also
a doctor, just outside the township, sorry objects,
especially Kit, with her bare, bleeding feet, her hatless
head, and the thin silk wrapper, draggled with wetting
in the river and lying in the dust of the cave, which
had nothing but a night-dress under it.

For the last two hours, from the time that daylight
made it safe, she had been leaning on his arm to ease
her feet. They were on a plain which the eye could
sweep for miles. They could not see a trace of the
blacks, and the township loomed up against the
morning horizon. In the fulness of his heart at
their delivery he began to talk hopefully and merrily.
But she said that it was a strain even to listen when
one was so wearied out. She would have liked to
silence her thoughts.

“We will stop at Dr. Woffington’s,” she said,
“ Mageie Woffington will lend me her things; she’s
about my size.”

Dr. Woffington lived a mile or two outside the
township, so as to combine practice with squatting.
He was standing on his doorstep, just about to mount
and visit a patient before breakfast.

‘¢ Jump on,” he said to the boy as soon as he brought
the horse round, “and ride in as hard as you can split ;
tell Reed the trooper, and Mrs. Rose at the telegraph

206 THE INSIDE STATION

office, to rouse the country. Then he turned to Kit
Pender.

“You know my daughter’s room; she'll rig you
out.”

The pursuing party, as the custom is in the Never
Never country, exterminated the whole tribe of blacks,
led to their camp by a woman of their own race.
The affair was apparently a vendetta, and this woman
the cause. A shepherd whom Mr. Pender had
recently engaged had abducted this girl from her
tribe. Fearing their vengeance if he continued in
their neighbourhood, he had left the “ Never, Never ”
and taken a billet on an inside station. The girl
whom he had abducted, made his drudge as well as
his mistress, had been sent down to the dam for water,
when her quick ear detected the approach of her
tribe. Knowing what she had to expect if she
was caught, she sprang on a horse that was at the
water and rode it barebacked at a gallop to the next
large station. Meanwhile her tribe stole on to the
men’s huts and the stables. The men, unsuspecting
and unarmed, were easily waddied in their sleep.
The horses being perfectly useless to the blacks, but
invaluable to their pursuers, were speared. Almost
simultaneously others of the tribe fell upon the
bachelors’ quarters. ‘They left the women—whom
they knew to be alone—till the last, lest a chance
scream should make the men rush to the dreaded
rifles. They had laid their plans with diabolical
cunning. Scouts had been watching for days, who
had seen Mr. Pender ride away, and had noticed that
the gentlemen all ‘slept in the bachelors’ quarters.
When the avenging party reached the smouldering

THE INSIDE STATION 207

ruins the silence of the dogs was soon explained.
Forest had taken his hound at dusk to scent the
platypus and Kit had taken out all the other dogs for
exercise because it had been too hot to take them out
during the day. This gave the blacks their chance ;
with no dogs in to give the alarm it was easy to creep
into the kennels unobserved and throw into the
drinking troughs the crystals of strychnine scraped
off the baits laid about the run for eagle-hawks and
dingoes. ‘The attitude of the stiffened corpses of the
dogs showed the nature of the poison. It being a
hot, windy day, the dogs lapped up every drain of
water as soon as they came in, and were all dead
soon after dark.

Before either Forest or Kit had awoke from the
deep sleep which follows the relaxation of vigilance
after many hours of peril, the pursuers had returned.
There was a tribe the less of the fast-disappearing
aborigines of Australia. It had been hanging about
a day longer than is usual with black fellows on a
raid. One of the tribe had probably discovered that
there were two whites unaccounted for among the
bodies, and the tribe had remained to hunt out these
witnesses of the outrage. And yet, if these blacks
were capable of thinking, they would have known
that the trackers would assuredly hunt them down,
witnesses or no witnesses.

With the avengers returned Kit’s father—ill-news
travels fast—overjoyed to find his beautiful young
daughter safe and sound,

She was quite girlishly pretty as she returned “his
hungry embraces ; quite girlishly smiling in her grati-
tude to Forest as her father poured a thanks in a

208 THE INSIDE STATION

voice broken by strong emotion. But when her
father, obeying a kindly dictate from within, left
them, she froze up directly.

He was stunned when she asked him in a hard, dry
voice, “Do you want to kiss me?” She probably
intended him to be stunned, for she proceeded,
“When a man puts a girl under a great obligation
he generally expects to kiss her, doesn’t he? I
suppose saving a girl’s life might be called putting
her under an obligation.”

“‘T don’t want to kiss you on those terms.”

“Tam glad. Perhaps I was wrong. You see, I didn’t
know how a girl would act under the circumstances.”

“<Tt’s lucky you’re like you are,” he said hoarsely.
“‘ [f you were any other girl I should have to offer to

>

marry you, to

“To save my good name? Yes, I understand.”

“1 didn’t say that.”

“You said enough.”

“And that would be one for you and two for
myself,” he added, ruefully. ‘But I suppose you’re man
enough for them to be afraid to say such things about
you? Man enough not to care for them, anyhow.”

Did she blush? She spoke quite ungraciously.

“You needn’t bother. Besides,” she added, yet
more bitterly, “you said it was a standing offer.”

FESO dt as."

“ You honour me,” she said coldly. “Yes, you
do honour me,” she repeated, with more warmth,
“for I suppose you’re the only man who would marry
me now.” Then she chilled again. “ But it’s an
honour of which I have never been ambitious, and I
suppose I can do without it better than ever.”

THE INSIDE STATION 2.09

“Well, goodbye Miss Kit,” he said) moving to-
wards the door, “I’m going back to join the men
now, to hear the parts they did not tell about the
extermination of the tribe. I’m going south to-
morrow. I’m not going to make your life miserable
with blowing hot and cold, according as your grati-
tude or your resentment gets the upper hand for the
time being.”

“No, don’t go,” she said quickly. ‘I want to
show my gratitude a little better before you go.”

“J don’t want your gratitude,’ he added simply.
“‘T’d have done it for any woman gladly—for one of
those poor servants we could not save—just as much
as for you.”

“Are you really going to-morrow?” she asked,
coming to him.

“T must.”

She took his hands and gave him her mouth, as any
girl might have given it to the man who had loved
her and saved her life, when he was leaving her for
ever.

“ Goodbye, John Forest—goodbye, John. Must
it be goodbye? Won’t you stay and let me try to be
decent to you before you go!” she asked, still holding
his hands.

“ Not unless you promise to marry me.”

“T haven’t fought off marriage all these years to

9

marry a man who
“ A man who——”
“Oh, you stupid man! Why don’t you tell me
that you love me?”

“J don’t think he ever told her-—in so many words,
15

WHAT DID HE DO WITH
THEM?

BY EDMUND STANSFELD RAWSON

WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM?
BY EDMUND STANSFIELD RAWSON

S it an old story? Possibly! yet it is worth

re-telling. New stories are generally old, and
new jokes have been better told in the olden days ;
even Punch himself admits that he never was as good
as he used to be !

The long and wearisome Session was over. It had
been agonisingly prolonged by the verbosity of the
“wind bags” who, like the “cheap numerosity of a
stage army,” came on and on, and ever on—from
afternoon to night, from night to day— until the
reporters were maddened with the repetitions, and
the country was sick unto death at delayed legislation.
But they never wearied, those woeful wind bags.
They dressed themselves in fresh garments seemingly,
but the same minds, the same feelings, and the same
speeches were painfully apparent throughout. They
were paid for their labours, and were determined to
earn the money.

The thermometer had reached a daily 100° in the
shade, and a nightly never-below 80° stage; the

streets of the city were blazing furnaces by day, and
213

214. WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM!

the mosquitoes were enjoying a full complement ot
meals by night.

Hugh Daventry had made his mark, a distinguished
and ineffaceable mark on the annals of his colony. He
had become a Minister, with the much-coveted prefix
of Honourable to his name, and the rather less coveted
privilege of answering hundreds of applications from
clamouring constituents wanting billets for all of their
families, J.P.-ships for themselves, and a general loan —
of money all round.

Now, Hugh was a man of letters —learned, and ever-
lastingly learning. Touch him on any subject, from
the deepest chaos of chemical compounds to the latest
fad in economics ; from the most intricate arguments
on bimetalism to the simple hen-and-eggs theory of
modern socialism, and he was all there. With the
ordinary conventionalities of life, however, he had
nothing in common. If his boots were unblacked,
or his collar unbuttoned, he never heeded. A gentle
suggestion that a sky-blue necktie was hardly the sort
of adornment in which to attend a funeral passed
unnoticed. He would appear at breakfast in carpet
slippers, foxes’ heads on red grounds for choice, without
any feeling of being still in his bedroom ; and would
have cheerfully walked in Hyde Park at a Sunday
parade, in a tall hat and tan boots, and with a short
black pipe in his mouth, without the slightest
sense of anything incongruous.

Society smiled and called him eccentric ; but when
he raised his voice in the House and launched out in
scathing sarcasms or rattling bursts of rhetoric,Society
listened with eager attention and exclaimed: “ This is
our man—this is a genius!”

WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM? 215

Gifted with a marvellous memory for every subject
but conventionalism, is it to be wondered at that such
trivial things as the contents of a portmanteau escaped
him ?

He was notorious for never knowing what he
possessed, or where he left his possessions. He would
start out on a journey with a full kit, and return
perfectly happy with an empty one.

“Hullo, Hugh! what have you lost now?”

“ Most extraordinary thing,” he would reply, quite
unconscious of any irony in the question ; “but I
can’t find my left boot. Here’s the right one. Are
you sure I didn’t leave it in your room ?”

The “strangers’ drawer” on the stations in his
district, where his visits were always most welcome,
invariably contained something he had left behind on
a previous trip: a shirt, a pair of socks, a singlet, or
a handkerchief. In fact, his failing in this particular
line was as well known as the morning breeze, and
naturally entailed a considerable amount of chaff.

This he took kindly enough, merely suggesting that
if the chaffer were only as blind as he was—for he was
very short-sighted—the boot might be on the other
foot.

Once, however, an opportunity occurred for retalia-
tion—an opportunity of which he took every advantage,
and with the most surprising result ; a result, in short,
which has never yet been properly determined, and the
key to which he alone possesses. And this was how.

The Session ended,.the members speedily dispersed
to their respective homes, and Hugh Daventry thank-
fully found himself on board the good steamer Kroro-
longa, bound, not for other climes, but for the north,

216 WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM?

where he lived, and where he could leave off all his
clothes if he liked, and they never would be missed.

His cabin mate was Teddy Beade, a most particular
chum, and much addicted to pleasantry.

Teddy was an Irishman, clever as they are made,
and full of a “right merrie conceit.” No one enjoyed
a joke more than he did, either at his own or any one
else’s expense. He preferred the latter of course, and
it generally happened that his preference came off. He
was seldom worsted in an argument, however abstruse,
for if he found himself drifting he would turn on,
Dan O’Connell-like, such a roaring cataract of words
that his opponent could only feebly gasp under the
douche—“ What will you have to drink ?”

The last bell clanged on the steamer’s deck with
a nerve-jarring clamour ; perspiring stewards rushed
through the saloon and round the quarter-deck,
screaming, “‘ Any one for the shore? ” and the gang-
ways were choked with visitors hurrying off.

The Captain, in gold-laced cap, suddenly appeared
on the wharf-side of the upper bridge and watched the
retreating crowd, occasionally nodding or waving his
hand to a passing friend.

The last “Goodbye,-dear,” and “ Don’t-forget-to-
“write” had been said, and the gangways rattled ashore.

“ Let go that after-spring!” ‘* All clear aft, sir.”
A ting of the engine-room bell, and an answering
plomp from the screw, “Let go forward,” and the
Krorolonga gently sheered off into the stream.

The railings were lined from stem to stern with
passengers fluttering farewells, and the wharf looking

WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM ?: 217

like a Monday morning drying ground in a gale of
wind, responded.

“Well, old chappie,” said Teddy to Hugh, “are
you quite sure you've got everything? You didn’t
leave your portmanteau on the wharf, did you? Where
are your spectacles ?”

Hugh Daventry clutched his coat pockets for an
instant in some doubt ; then, seeing the laughing face
of his friend, he exclaimed—

“Oh, shut up! [’m all right. The steward’s got
my things, and my spec’s are where they ought to be.
But, come on out of this crowd, and let’s talk over the
new ‘ad valorem’ duties.”

And so the steamer wended her way slowly down
the river full speed and across the broad bay at its
mouth, and out into the open sea beyond. Here her
course was set due north for a thirty hours’ run to the
first port of call, and the gold-laced Captain descended
from his post on the bridge and gave cheery greetings
to his passengers.

The sea was smooth and oily. There was no visible
horizon to the eastward, nor colour to the water. The
blazing, glaring sun seemed to have licked up all, and
left only a faint suggestion of skimmed milk.

A long undulating swell occasionally rolled in from
the south-east, telling of what had once been a mighty
wind, and a pair of porpoise lovers, out for an after-
noon stroll, would break the summit with their
glistening backs.

Westward, a few handfuls of cotton wool flattened
against the sky behind the deep blue coast range,
betokened thunderstorms. As night closed in these
gave out wondrous lights. A flickering fringe of

218 WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM?

brilliant and dazzling silver rippled along the edges,
and frequent bursts of pink and gold rien the
whole mass in startling and silent beauty.

The passengers Bel for the most part subsided into
deck chairs, or lay sprawling on the up-tilted skylights.
The terrible infant had gorged his last banana and bun
and was spread out on the deck apoplectically asleep,
open-mouthed, and fly-tickled, his mother stooping
down at intervals to flick away the aggressive insects
the while she stitched at a small red garment.

Odd and disconnected laughter came from the
smoking-room in the stern, where four enthusiasts
in shirt sleeves were playing “the sort of whist
that leaves thumb-marks on the cards,’ smoking the
strongest cigars, and imbibing lemon squashes with a
dash.

A faint but everlasting tinkle rose up from the
saloon piano, which some school misses had seized
upon to display their term’s acquirements in the
often-encored-by-themselves rendering of the “ Dew-
drop on the Oyster,” and the “Snowflake in the
Camp Oven,” and all the waltzes they could and
couldn’t a

At times a stout, elderly traveller would awake wit
a snort, and irate in audible profanity while he
shifted his chair farther away from the open skylight
through which the music was wafted, and settled
himself for another perspiring snooze.

The swish, swish, thump, thump, thump of the
screw went rhythmically on, and perhaps there was a
certain element of peace around on that sweltering
summer’s afternoon.

Hugh and Teddy were perfectly happy. They

WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM? 219

talked and smoked, and talked till the dinner bell rang,
talked through the dinner, and talked till the lights
went out suddenly and they found themselves alone on
the deck, damp with the heavy dew which had crept
in under the awning.

And so to the second night, when their journey
would be ended.

Their destination was one of the numerous islands
on the coast, under the lee of which a small tender
would be in readiness to take off passengers and mails
and cargo, and convey them to the town, a few miles
up a shallow, sand-shifting river.

The steward was instructed to call them when the
tender was ready to start, and they peacefully
slumbered. ‘They never heard or felt the stopping of
the screw, or the rattle of the anchor-chain, or the
slight bump and the scrunching of fenders as the
little steamer squeezed alongside in the hot, still hours
of the night ; neither did they heed the whisperings
as the steward ushered in a new passenger, who
promptly coiled himself up in the inside lower bunk
and went to sleep.

“The second whistle’s gone, gentlemen! You've
got a quarter of an hour.”

This was the voice of the steward, and the two
friends at once climbed down from their bunks and
hurriedly dressed.

Teddy was finished first, and turned as he was
leaving the cabin, to say—

“ Now, my dear Hugh, be careful, and don’t leave
any of your belongings behind, and don’t forget your
spectacles |”

“You just clear out,” said Hugh, and Teddy

220 WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM?

disappeared into the alley-way leading to the main
deck.

Hugh Daventry cast one last look round the cabin,
and his eyes lit on a pair of boots. ‘They were not
his certainly, as he had got his on. ‘Then they must
be Teddy’s—Teddy’s boots! Hurrah! His oppor-
tunity had come at last. Now he would have
revenge. Now he would stop that eternal chaff, and
Teddy’s tongue should be silenced for the whole of
ever! What luck!

So, chuckling, he jammed a boot into each pocket
of his overcoat, threw it across his arm, grasped his
bag and groped his way forward as the last whistle
sounded on board the tender.

A few “ good-nights,” mingled with the jarring of
the anchor winch, and the ting ting of the engine
bell, and the lights of the big steamer gradually
faded away as the little one passed off into the
darkness.

Hugh hugged himself over the boots. It was but a
poor little joke after all, but it meant a lot to him,
and he would make the most of it.

An hour’s fussing, an occasional grating of the keel
as the little vessel ground her way over a shoal, a loud
whistle—a long, two shorts, and a long whistle—and
just as the hand of dawn spread a rose-pink film across
the eastern sky, the wharf was reached.

Here a few of the early ones who seldom sleep before
the pubs. are shut, and never after they are opened,
and the hotel waiters who never sleep at all, were
assembled with the regular wharf hands, and the
tender was made fast.

A few minutes’ walk brought the two friends to their

WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM: 221

hotel. The street they traversed was thick and soft
with dust, with a dark crust of dew lying upon it. A
few dogs rose lazily out of the way, leaving white
patches where they had slept, and deep footprints as
they slowly slunk away ; and over all was the warm
smell of night in a tropical town.

The room into which they were conducted by the
sleepless waiter was full of that warm scent, dished up
with kerosine. A faint light still issued from a
smouldering lamp, the sticky glass bulb of which was
thick with a mass of mosquitoes and midges and
moths, and a well-defined rim on the oil-cloth table
cover showed how continuous suicides of these pests
had been kept up through the night.

“Phew!” said Teddy. “This is a bit sultry!
But here we are safe and sound; and now, Hugh, old
chap, what have you left behind?”

Hugh was tugging at both his pockets in suppressed
excitement, and as the boots were released he rounded
on his mate with—

“Now, look here!” and his voice was slow and
deliberate. ‘ You are always hammering away at me
for losing things, but I’ve got you at last! Yes, I’ve
got you. Look at those boots!”

And he triumphantly banged the boots on the table
with such a force that the lamp glasses rattled again,
and another blob of mixed midnighters slipped silently
off on to the cloth.

“ Took at those boots!”

Teddy, apparently surprised, did look at them. He
picked them up, and turned them over, and put them
down again.

“ Well,” he inquired at last, “what about them?”

222 WHAT DID HE DO WITH THEM?

“What about them?” almost screamed Hugh.
“ Why, man, don’t you recognise your own boots ? ”

Teddy lifted one of his feet and then the other, to
make sure he had got any boots on, before replying.

“ My boots? Why I never saw them in my life
before ! ”

“Oh, this is too much!” sighed Hugh.

“Too much? What on earth do you mean?
Where did you get them ?”

“Get them: Just listen to him. Why, in the
cabin, of course, after you left.”

“Then, my dear old Hugh,” said Teddy, as
solemnly as he could. “They must belong to the
man we left asleep there.”

“What!” gasped Hugh. “ Was there any one
else in the cabin?”

“ Of course there was! He must have come in off
the tender before we were roused up, and turned
straight into the lower bunk opposite you.”

“And I never saw him!” said Hugh. “ Well,
lam $4

“Yes, and you well may be, for you are guilty
of petty larceny of the meanest and commonest
description. It means fourteen days’ at least, without
the option of a fine, and how will that be for my right
honourable friend, the Minister for——”

“Oh, do shut up,” groaned Hugh. “ And let me
think.”

Then after a pause—

“T say, Teddy.”

“Well, what is it, my gentle burglar?”

“‘ Look here, old man, you—well, hang it all—you

”

won’t

WHAT DI) HE DO WITH THEM? 222

“No,” said Teddy deliberately, as he put a hand
caressingly on Hugh’s shoulder. “No, old chap,
I won't!”

But what did he do with them: Exactly ; what
did he do with them?

Did he expend much money in telegraphing and
forwarding the st lost boots to their rightful
owner, or did he leave them on the table in the
company of that smouldering and smelling lamp, and
those monumental mounds of kerosined insects !
What would you have done with them?

=

PoeOr

ik OLD G

BY ¥OHN ELKIN —

-, me Fh wae
olf ‘eae

Ps OTIS Ge Py O:
BY JOHN ELKIN

“This yellow slave
Will knit and break religions .. .
This is it
That makes the wappen’d widow wed again.,”’
Timon oF ATHENS.

T was in the Roaring Fifties! The vast staring

bay was dotted thick with dirty-white sails of
countless passenger ships, filled to overflowing with the
most mixed variety of human cargo. The one absorb-
ing aim of these feverish wanderers—including the
sailors before the mast—was to reach that new Land
of Ophir, the far-famed “diggings” of Ballarat and
Bandigo. Gold, the mightiest of the devil’s magi-
cians and agents, had lured them all those thousands
of milesacross the weary waste of waters, from their
poverty-stricken homes and dreary avocations in the
overcrowded cities or sleepy villages of the Old
Country. Of the eager thousands who week by week
entered Port Philip Heads, how many—or how few
—would ever reach their fancied Eldorado in that
dark, mysterious, unknown, gold-besprinkled bush !

On the southern outskirts of Melbourne, between
227

228 Sit EOP O) DR Ce ye @ F

river and bay, arose a township of tents, where those
unable to find housing in the city were huddled
together in the blinding sun-glare, and amid indescrib-
able dust and discomfort. Nor did Canvas Town (as
it was called) suffice. Many had to lie under the open
sky, at the mercy of fierce suns and pitiless rains.
Delicately nurtured women gave birth to babes
beneath the wind-swept sheds of “ Cole’s Wharf.” The
good ship, Duke of Bedford, moored alongside the pier,
was converted into a huge densely-packed boarding
house. ‘ Delightful Marine Residence,” so ran the
alluring legend— Boatage Found into the Bargain.”

It was the Roaring Fifties. And Melbourne itself
was simply Bedlam. Men of every race, creed, and
colour hustled one another in its ill-lighted, thronging
thoroughfares. At night they were packed sardine-
wise in foul, unventilated, dingy rooms ; and the tariff
of squalid Little Bourke Street rivalled the princely
prices of Park Lane or the Old Court suburb.
These feverish souls might roughly be catalogued
under two heads—diggers “down for a spree,” or
“new chums” waiting to make their plunge for
Eldorado.

The lucky digger was the reigning monarch—while
his gold-dust lasted! For him was the world’s obei-
sance, and the ready smiles of the consenting fair.
His pinnacle of glory was, as. the Napoleon of the
tap-room, to order bottles of champagne at a fabulous
price, to be decanted in tin buckets, from which
monstrous vessels his slavish admirers noisily drank to
the hero’s health. Ah! what a gloriously free-handed,
open-hearted fellow he was! And how he literally
emblazoned the female emigrant—erstwhile some

Mie cOR DG: PO: 229

lowly handmaiden or half-starved domestic “ help”—
in golden rings and trinkets, and so gorgeously arrayed
her in feathers, fowers, and furbelows, that the river
promenades, where in close embrace they walked
abroad, shone with more than tropic resplendence.
The language, too, of these strange lovers was often
intensely tropical. Such sexual gaiety and emotional
extravagance led sometimes to church—and some-
times not! Still, the average lucky digger was eccle-
slastically inclined ; and had Gothic cathedrals then
existed in Ophir, he would have scorned to be united
to his flaunting fair in any less magnificent edifice.
Weddings were indeed frequent and promiscuous.
Nor was the “new chum” maiden as a rule at all
backward or bashful. Ancient records reveal the story
of one bouncing Portsmouth lass who went through
the sacred ceremony five several times, with five various
auriferous swains. But perhaps a veil should be drawn
over these wilder doings of the Roaring Fifties. For
such disclosures may not only wound the tender
sensibilities of staid and surviving descendants, but
perchance tend to the upsetting of established inheri-
tances, and proprietary rights.

And what a time it was—the Roaring Fifties!

The ancient, overgrown, and extremely unpreten-
tious wooden bungalow which did duty as the General
Post Office (a vastly different structure to the present
palace, but on the same site) has long since been
demolished. But in its day “The Old G. P. O.” was
the glory and crown of Melbourne. For years it was
the “address” of a more distinguished, if more mixed

230 CHE OLD" G. Pay,

and heterogeneous, shoal of human-kind than almost
any club in Christendom. Its low-roofed verandah
was the Rialto of early Melbourne.

Old Governor Bourke and his surveyor, who laid out
the city, humorously located its “hub” in a deep
gully—originally the bed of a flowing creek. This
creek had been dammed up, the gully filled with blocks
of blue-stone, and converted into the main northern
highway to the diggings—and on to Sydney itself.
Sir Richard proudly called this great achievement
“Elizabeth Street ”—not, as is sometimes supposed, in
honour of the Tudor queen, but after his own wife ;
at the same time very properly and conjugally naming
the chief intersecting thoroughfare after himself.

And so they boldly stand—BoURKE AND ELIZABETH
STREETS—to this day, “to witness if I lie.”

Had old Sir Richard and his surveyor treated this
flowing creek and deep ravine exsthetically, they might
have changed them into an artificial lake or lagoon, a
cool and blessed Serpentine, in the midst of that
parched and dust-swept city. But those high official
utilitarians of the Fifties were all for straight, broad
roads, intersecting at right angles, on the approved
“ chess-board” pattern. Hence arose modern Mel-
bourne—a city “magnificent” to the man of com-
merce, and to the peripatetic journalist, but distasteful
and saddening to the poet and the lover of the
picturesque.

Old prehistoric denizens of the original little bush
township “before the gold,” were wont irreverently to
call this famous street of Elizabeth “’ The Glue-Pot” ;
and ancient colonial records are full of such prepos-
terous stories as that of the belated traveller who in the

“SHE OLD..G.- PO. 235

pitch blackness of these lampless nights stumbled
across a man’s hat in the middle of this quagmire of a
road. In his anger he would fain have kicked the thing
into the open sewers, then muddily flowing like yellow
fiends to poison the once pellucid Yarra. But his
avenging foot, poised in mid-air, was suddenly arrested
by a muffled voice inside the hat exclaiming, “ For
God’s sake, stranger, lift me out. Ay horse is under-
neath,”

Although Art may outwardly appear all-powerful,
even to the extent of transforming things from their
original uses, Nature has an awkward habit of unex-
pectedly re-asserting her sway, and, as it were, of
rudely disclosing her primal intention. So, when the
fierce tropic rains of that dry and sultry land would
come down in torrents, the wide-open gutters of the
new Cheapside would suddenly overflow their channels,
making the entire roadway into a raging yellow river,
which, in its mad fury, would even dash itself, like a
thing possessed, against the sacred portals of the Old
G. P.O. itself.

*T was a close sultry morning, that dreaded sirocco,
the north wind, blowing shoals of hot dust fiercely
along Elizabeth Street, when a young fellow sought
shelter under the familiar low-roofed Verandah. Dick
Dawlish hardly came under either of the two cate-
gories of the Fifties. He was neither a lucky digger
-nor a new chum. For all his loosely-fitting, slop-
made, Scotch tweeds, striped flannel shirt, and broad
flapping wide-zwake, he was unmistakably a gentleman
of the purely English or insular type, with the public
school hall-mark stamped indelibly all over him. But

232 THE OLD G. P. O.

if not “colonial,” Dick Dawlish was at least “ accli-
matised.” He had all the air of a fellow who knew
his “ way about,” even in these rough, chaotic times ;
and, indeed, he had been at half a dozen “rushes,” and
dug, none too successfully, -the golden gullies from
Fryer’s Creek to Bendigo, and from Ballarat to the
Mount.

His bronzed, sunburnt face was bold and even hand-
some. Fine dark, fearless eyes, good big bridge to the
nose, clear-cut, mobile lips, long firmly-curved chin,
made up a powerful profile ; while the fine muscular
figure and somewhat defiant carriage of the head
revealed an almost soldierly bearing. He was at that
glorious period of life—five-and-twenty—when the
world still has undiscovered regions to dream of or
explore.

“T am,” said the young man aloud, “as one at the
parting of the ways.”

And he lounged against the old Verandah post, and
knitted his brow, as ina tangled meditation.

Just then there suddenly bobbed round the Little
Bourke Street corner a young man who evidently
recognised the meditative figure in Scotch tweeds.
Any one would have guessed the new-comer to be the
merrier and more light-hearted of the twain; but a
really keen-sighted observer would have been tempted
to declare him also the more commonplace and super-
ficial. Yet, strange to say, he was actually the second
son of an English earl. But Nature—though the
most uncompromising of aristocrats—seems to scatter
her favours at random, or rather where she lists ; oft-
times casting her heaven-born patents of nobility into
cottages and workshops, while ignoring for genera-

eh OLD) GG, “PO. 233

tions those who dwell in palaces and amidst the pomp
of life.

The Honourable Philip Worsley was indeed the
second and vagabond son of that great steadfast pillar
of Church and State, the Right Honourable the Earl
of Ventnor. Like many another well-born, restless
wanderer, the Hon. Philip found himself in Hobson’s
Bay, suffering from an acute attack of “gold fever,”
in the Roaring Fifties. ‘ Phil.” as he was familiarly
styled by every man, gentle or simple, who had ever
“chummed” with him, was always voted “ not half
a bad fellow.” Nothing ever upset him, and he
regarded the varying and sometimes trying incidents
of pioneer colonial life (to use his own phrase) as “a
rattlin’ pantomime.” Thus, when he found himself
“hard up,” and in frequent necessity of calling at the
Old G. P. O. for letters in the hope of “ remittances
from home,” he one day discovered that the newly-
appointed Postmaster-General (with the full-blown
title of Honourable and a salary to match) was the
son of a Hampshire baker who formerly provided the
Ventnor household with bread. Whereat the Hon.
Phil. slapped his legs with joy and exclaimed, “ That
licks Joey Grimaldi.”

Making a .trumpet of his sunburnt hands and
creeping noiselessly on tip-toe behind the brooding
figure in Scotch tweeds, the Hon. Philip let loose a
“‘ Coo-ee,” calculated to startle a blacks’ camp in the
remote bush. It was distinctly heard and recognised
by Bouncing Bess, the popular barmaid at the
“Golden Bush,” which famous hostelry stood on the
other side of Elizabeth Street, in the direction of

the old town cemetery. ¥

234. THE (OLD ’*G: Pe

Dick Dawlish sprang back as if struck by a stock-
whip.

“Good God, Phil.!”” he exclaimed, “I might have
known it was you. If ever by any chance you get
within hail of the pearly gates, that’s how you'll call
up St. Peter, regardless of his condition of nerves, and
without a thought for all the cares and worries of his
perplexing billet.”

“Why so devilish theological, and so beastly glum
this morning?” queried the Hon. Phil., who, like
most humourists, hated his jokes to miscarry or fall
flat.

“Well, I’m considering whether to take my passage
home, or to go off again to the diggings. I’m sick of
loafing around Melbourne.”

“’There’s only one way to decide these things,”
said the Hon. Phil., feeling in his pocket: “the
spinning of the merry coinage of the realm.”

Whereupon up went a sovereign high into the air.

“Man we hump our swags; Woman we're off
before the mast.”

But his companion made no response, and the coin
fell and leisurely rolled into the open yellow sewer,
from which in some disgust its owner had to fish it
out.

“ Forgive me, Phil.,” said Dawlish with a friendly
smile. “I’m a devilish dull dog this morning. So
utterly.sick of the whole gamble of colonial life, that
I don’t feel disposed to put my immediate future to
the hazard of a toss. But it’s like you, old fellow, to
offer to accompany me, and not to care a curse which
way yellow-boy should point our footsteps.”

“Not much,” said the Hon. Phil. “Life’s a

THE SOLD. G. P.O: 235

pantomime, Dick, whether in Pall Mall or Elizabeth
Street. But, personally, I'd rather hang on a bit
longer here.”

“It’s this abominable ‘hanging-on’ that I can’t
stand,” exclaimed Dick. ‘Somehow you and I, and
most of the gentlemen section, never seem to get any
forrader, Phil. We’ve no luck. We turn upat every
rush but never strike the colour.”

“Oh, well, we grub along somehow, and it ain’t
half a bad life as long as the storekeepers give us tick—
and our ‘ remittances’ drop in occasionally at the Old
G. P. O.,” added Phil. after an ominous pause.

“But my dear Phil., you don’t seem to see we’re in
the colony and not of it. Besides, things are changing.
This Bedlamite business will soon be over, and other
people are settling down to something definite, to
some fixed social position, or decent calling, while you
and I, and poor Steve Dugdale—are all three on the
high road to Loaferdom.”

“Tt all comes,” said the Hon. Phil., philosophically,
“of our ungodly, extravagant bringing-up. It’s the
fault of our parents. We can rough it with any gipsy
tinker of the lot—but we can’t save a red cent, and as
a rule we've no luck. Would to God Id been born a
hungry German turnip-prodder, or a lantern-jawed
Scotch crofter—even a T’othersider. They’re the
chaps to grub along into millionaires in a country like
this.”

“Our greatest curse,” said Dick Dawlish im-
pressively, “ comes in the shape of monetary assistance
from our relations at home. It makes us a bye-word.
Even your friend Bouncing Bess calls us ‘R.M.’s,’
—Remittance men. It’s damned disgusting.”

236 THE OLD Ge BAD:

“So it is when the expected coin doesn’t turn up,
dear boy,” said the Hon Phil. ‘ Which reminds me
that my Calvinistic aunt, the Lady Letitia, seems to
be getting the upper hand again in the Ventnor family.
She agrees with you, and thinks these remittances sap
our self-reliance. But my manly pride can stand any
amount of bank drafts. She don’t know how tough
my moral fibre is. I'll drop on her yet with an
account of my Sunday-school class, and the work ’m
doing among the heathen.” And the incorrigible
young aristocrat winked at the newly-imported Irish
policeman, who was listening to this little confidential
colloquy with an amused grin on his fine open
Hibernian countenance.

How much longer these two young gentlemen
would have discussed the colony and their own future
prospects, it is impossible to say. But their talk was
suddenly interrupted by the most penetrating noise in
the world—a street Arab’s shrill cry—

The Mail! = English Mail! Arrival of the Mail!

And soon was heard the scramble and scurrying of
hundreds of feet and the hoarse myriad murmurs,
mounting to a prolonged roar, of wildly excited men,
rushing down from Flagstaff Hill, where they had
seen the long-wished-for signals of the mailship’s
arrival in the bay.

For all this was in the far-off days, which, though
but forty years ago, seem like an ancient, dim-recorded,
half-forgotten myth—the days before steamships and
telegraph cables were known, or even dreamed of, at
_the Antipodes. Then, indeed, the coming in of the

THE OLD G. P. O. 237

English mail—conveyed by slow sailing ships in from
seventy to one hundred days—with all the wonderful
accumulated budget of news, was an event—an epoch
—no longer to be realised by the young up-to-date
generation of 1899. Let us not, however, in our
pride in the achievements of modern science,
altogether despise our colonial forefathers. “The men
of the Roaring Fifties had their compensation for
being thus plunged for some three dark months in
utter ignorance of the outer world ; theirs was the
keen excitement of surprise, the eternal magic of the
unexpected ; the edge of novelty was not then blunted
by the irritating driblets of the daily cablegrams, and
the slow old mail boats brought ample budgets which
had all the freshness of sensational news, combined
with the fulness of historical records.

It was the fierce, exciting, anxious time of the
Crimean War. Fancy those vagabond Britons and
wandering gold-diggers rushing down from Flagstaff
Hill, in utter ignorance of the fortunes of the great
struggle in which the dear old motherland was
plunged, and knowing not whether their own un-
protected shores were altogether safe from Russian
cruisers.

How they surged round the newspaper offices, and
wildly rushed down towards the Old G. P. O., breath-
less for news from home. What an uproar and
stampede! Above all pierced the shrill cries of the
street Arabs—

The Mail! — Arrival of the English Mail! Full
Account of the Rooshian War ! Home News !
One Shilling !

238 RESOLD Gr PO:

One shilling indeed. Crowns and half-crowns were
tendered with no thought of change for these exciting
news sheets.

It had been a sullen, sultry morning, hot and dusty,
the sky overhead gleamed like burnished brass. But
low down on the horizon hung those small, floating,
everspreading cloudlets, which often seem to grow
and gather as one gazes; and ina short while cover
the face of the heavens like a pall, portending sudden
change and fierce storm. Soon huge drops of rain
began to fall one by one on the parched and dusty
street.

“Tvry dhrop,” remarked Connolly, the new Dublin
policeman, “ hittin’ yer wid a wilt loike a five-shullun
pace.”

But no one minded the coming storm. The
excited crowd grew thick and thicker, and hurled
itself against the old Verandah. Every man was eager
for news of the war, and anxious for his home letters.
It was a strange, indescribable Babel. Still, over all
the roar and hubbub broke the street Arabs’ shrill
cries—

Argus! Strornary! Home News! Charge of the
Light Brigade! Argus ’Strornary! Home News!
A Shilling !

Men, and women too, dashed wildly across the
widening yellow sewers into the wet road-way, to
secure at any price this long pent-up budget or
English news,

As these gold-seeking exiles tore open the papers
and read of the famous Balaclava charge, hats were

er OLD eG. P.O: 239

waved in the air, and Elizabeth Street was rent with
mad, vociferous cheers.

“My God,” said Dick Dawlish, “I should like to
have been in it.”

The rain began to come down faster and fiercer ;
it was a thorough tropical flood. But still the excited
crowd surged across the wide and almost impassable
gutters, into the slushy street for the papers, while
the street Arabs, drenched to the skin, yelled more
piercingly than ever—

Arrival of the Mail! Argus! Home News! Defeat
of the Rooshians! All the News of the War !

For a while people even forgot that they could get
their private letters addressed—as so many thousands
were at that time—‘G. P. O., Melbourne.” Even
the Hon. Phil. had become for the moment oblivious
of the fell designs of the pious Lady Letitia. How-
ever, after a while there was a fresh rush in the
direction of the Inquiry Window, while the historic
Old G. P. O. might well have been mistaken for
Drury Lane on boxing night.

A thin, delicate, refined-looking young fellow passed
by, just as Dick Dawlish and the Hon. Phil. were
making for the window.

“ Hullo, Stephen,” cried Dick Dawlish. ‘Glad to
see you. Hope you feel better. Isn’t the news from
the Crimea glorious ?”

With a faint smile and a nod, Stephen Dugdale
slipped by them and managed to reach the window,
where the clerk handed him his letters.

“What a crush,” said the Hon, Phil. “ Why,

240 THE OLD?tG/ Pi:

there’s the gay old fossils whose portraits figure in
half a dozen of Aunt Letitia’s story books. How
very odd.”

“Ominous, [ should call it,” said Dick. “Who
are they?”

“Don’t know; somethin’ in the Sunday-school
line, or else the scribblin’ and poetic business,” replied
his careless companion. “These Ballarat nuggets
have brought some rum fish over here, Richard.”

Had the Hon. Phil. possessed the curiosity to step up
behind the comely, pleasant-faced lady and gentleman,
as they asked for their letters at the window he might
have heard in soft Quaker tones, the query—

“ Any letters for William or Mary Howitt ?”

But if the Hon, Phil. was too heedless to identify
this remarkable pair of Quaker exiles, a young fellow
with a very marked face, who was pressing towards
the Inquiry Window evidently recognised them, and
was accosted by “ William and Mary.”

“Why,” said the lady with delight, “if it isn’t
young Mr. Wordsworth. It seems but yesterday
since I saw thy dear grandfather?”

This historic little group of English exiles,
attracted no attention whatever from the surging
crowd round the window. ‘They were soon joined
by a young digger whom Dick Dawlish evidently
knew. For he shouted out, “Hullo Woolner! How’s
the plaster-cast business getting on?” And in truth,
speaking to the grandson of the great English poet,
was the future pre-Raphaelite and Royal Acade-
mician. Yes! there were some strange groups under
the Old G. P. O. Verandah in the Roaring Fifties on
“ mail day.”

THE OLD G. P. O. 24T

No sooner had young Mr. Wordsworth and Thomas
Woolner got their letters and hurried off than the
Hon. Phil.’s attention was again arrested by the
entrance of a tall, spare, dark-haired, heavy-browed,
“aloof-looking” young gentleman, who looked the
tourist more than the digger.

“ Why,” exclaimed Phil, “I’m blowed if it ain’t a
friend of the governor’s. Don’t want him to spot
me.”

And he stepped into the darkest corner of the
Verandah and hid himself behind Dawlish.

“ Looks rather a masterful chap,” said Dick, eying

the stranger at the window.
_ This chance remark was not altogether a bad shot ;
for the young gentleman so lightly referred to was
destined to become, more than once, “ Master ” of the
British Empire.

But if none of those native exiles with historic
names made the least stir as they jostled in the
crowd of the Old G. P. O. Verandah, this was not the
case with a black-browed, sallow-faced man who now
entered, clamping his spurs on the weather-board floor,
and leaning his hand heavily on a pistol in his belt.
Everybody made way for this great personage, while
an expansive smile of heart-felt joy spread over the
jocund countenance of the Hon. Phil., who nudged his
moody companion.

“Don’t miss him, Dick. It’s worth a king’s
ransom to see Cornelius O’Regan call for his mail
letters.”

It was, indeed, the great Irish tragedian, whose
sonorous tones had thrilled the lovers of Shakespeare
and the “legitimate,” and whose name was indeed a

I]

242 THE OLD®*G.' P.O.

household word to the stage-struck shop-boys of Drury
Lane as well as to the perspiring diggers of the old
Charlie Napier at Ballarat. A hero indeed! The
great Cornelius inquired for his correspondence in a
voice like that of Hamlet’s ghostly father, audible to
the entire audience under the old Verandah, and even
penetrating into the recesses of the bungalow so as to
thrill the very souls of the over-worked clerks of the
oie ts. P.O.

“There were four different ladies last mail day,”
said the clerk at the window, “ each demanding letters
addressed to Mrs. Cornelius O’Regan. To whom am
I to deliver them ?”

Ah! then it was a noble spectacle to see the great
impersonator of Othello and Belphegor (the mounte-
bank) smite his mighty brow and exclaim—

“ Four !—did you say four, varlet? Nay, this
cannot be! And I a man of pure and stainless
life !”

Then, without deigning further to parley with
the official, the great man stalked majestically away,
muttering in a stage whisper, plainly audible within
the recesses of the building itself—

“ Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,
Thou shalt not escape CaLumny !”

And he threw such weird emphasis on the word
“CaLumny” that it sounded as some old Arabian
charm—an unfamiliar thing of beauty and mystery—
like unto that dear old word “ Mesopotamia!” With
bowed head, the great tragedian passed into the drip-
ping streets and slowly clanked out of sight, the

ie ODD. GP. O, 243

picture of a mighty soul in trouble — an injured
angel in a naughty world !

““By heavens!” exclaimed the Hon. Phil., “that’s
too gorgeous! It means quite fifty quid in the dress-
circle to-night at the old ‘ Iron Pot.’”

“Fifty quid in the old ‘Iron Pot?’” queried the
puzzled Dick. ‘ What the devil do you mean?”

“Why, that’s Cornelius O’Regan, and he’s playing
at the Olympic—the old iron theatre, you know, at the
top of Lonsdale Street. It’sa little ‘ad.,’ a put-up job.
Don’t you tumble to it? He’s given the josser at the
window half a dozen seats to ask him that question
about the four Mrs. Corneliuses. So that he could
throw the ‘ Calumny’ speech off his chest when the
blessed old Verandah was packed on mail day! It’s
magnificent, and worth quite fifty quid in the house
to-night. Oh! I’m up to the whole bag of tricks,
Richard.”

But the Hon. Phil. did not think it necessary to tell
his friend that he himself had once assisted in a similar
little dramatic scene when “business” was rather slack
at the old Charlie Napier at Ballarat (where he was
then going on nightly as a “super ”) ; and how the
old Eureka diggers rushed the theatre that night, and
threw their nuggets at the feet of the virtuous tragedian.

The Hon. Phil. at last squeezed in front of the
“Inquiry Window.” When, in reply to his eager
question, the clerk curtly replied, “ Nothing”; he
cheerfully nodded, and remarked, to the amazement of
that harassed but versatile official—

*¢ Many thanks, old son. ‘Thought as much. As
I expected, Letitia’s got the upper hand. Good day ;
see you at the ‘Iron Pot’ to-night.”

244 THE OLD G. P. O.

Dick Dawlish’s turn came; and he too had no
home letters.

When the two young men attempted to pass out
from under the old Verandah, they saw that the
Elizabeth Street gutters had invaded the side-walk
and were running frantically half across the wide
roadway itself. The rain continued to come down
in torrents. ‘The rushing waters were quite impassable,
even by the arched footbridges at the street corners.
Men and women were being conveyed across the
flooded street in carts at half-a-crown a head.

A sudden noisy splash! A man had stumbled and
fallen into the midst of this madly-flowing, dangerous
yellow torrent. Dick Dawlish, fleet and sure of foot
as a reindeer, rushed wildly through the shallow water
of the pathway, and springing with a bound on to the
centre of the footbridge, swooped down and caught
the drifting figure just as it was being sucked through
the narrowarch. ‘Hold on to the sides,” he shouted ;
and then with a powerful jerk drew poor Stephen
Dugdale out of the perilous floodtide, and landed him
on the narrow footbridge—a spectacle indeed for gods
and men !

“Did yez see that?” yelled the delighted Connolly,
the Irish constable. ‘The grip he tuk av his back-
bone! Begorra, but he’d be an ornimint to the
foorce.”

“The week afore last,” said a man, by way of
comment, “a little fat cove fell in, and was jammed
to death under that there very bridge. I seed them
haul him out like a drownded rat.”

“ But he was only a blasted Frenchman,” remarked
a big rough-looking bushman, burnt toa brick. “Wot

LAE? OLD Gee. 0. 245

can you expect? ‘Them foreigners, they ain’t got
the gumption to clutch on to the bridge, and haul
theirselves out.”

Despite the fact that the French were then our
“allies,” the colonial Briton regarded foreigners and
Frenchmen as synonymous — and inferiors. The
spirit of Horatio Nelson still held sway.

Such “street incidents” were not at all uncommon
in the Fifties. And a foreign tourist had actually
been drowned in this manner, in the old Elizabeth
Street gutter, at flood time.

“Come along, Dick,” exclaimed the ever-cheerful
Phil. ‘Let us take poor Steve over to the ‘ Golden
Bush’ and get Bessie to hang him up to dry.”

Ene ST RALIAN ROSE

BY MRS. PATCHETT MARTIN

.
‘

AN AUSTRALIAN ROSE
BY MRS. PATCHETT MARTIN

Le: ho NP.

O her of gracious gifts, whose graceful pen
Becomes a fairy wand in her frail hand,
Flashing the sunlight of her Austral land

On the slim maidens and brown-bearded men
Who live their lives for us at her command,
I said —“TI always think of you as when,
Like one entranced in an enchanted glen,
You stood one night amidst a madcap band.

With red lips parted, and a roseleaf flush
Painting the pearly pallor of your face,
Mute, motionless, in an expectant hush,
Your dreamy eyes like stars shone into space.’
Softly she answer’d with a shadowy blush—
“My soul first stirred to life in that fair
place! ”

>

‘i

fee SLEEPING SICKNESS OF
but THE KANAKA

BY LALA FISHER

Bee SLEEPING SICKNESS OF LUI
THE KANAKA

BY LALA FISHER

Bt LEASE, Mr. Wilton,” said my overseer, appear-

ing suddenly at the door of the dining-room
one sunny morning at seven o’clock, “there’s worse
news than ever.”

“Well, Elgar,” I answered, without excitement,
carrying a piece of well-buttered toast to my mouth,
“ what’s up now ?”

“ Wopobra is down! I missed him at his breakfast,
and on going to his hut found him lying asleep on his
bunk, with his face to the wall; and there he’ll lie till
he dies and rots, if we'll let him.”

I rose, pushing back my chair so hurriedly that it
toppled over, and taking a quick turn up and down
the room, thought bitterly of the aspect of success in
store for the sugar industry over whose interests I was
paid to watch. Only last month I had to send three
Kanakas into the township suffering with leprosy, and
now the Kanakas were dying at the rate of eight
for the past three weeks. One, the first, died of

dengue fever. “There was no mistake about that ; but
253

254 LUI THE KANAKA

his successor had no sign of fever nor illness of any
sort. He just made up his mind to die, turned his face
to the wall, and in two days was dead. So with a
third “ boy,” then a fourth, another, and another, until
I was fairly puzzled. Johnny, a_ stalwart, broad-
shouldered, and healthy “ boy,” took to his bunk one
fine morning, and neither the pokes of Elgar nor the
curses of the black overseer of his gang had the slightest
effect in rousing him. He, too, pegged out, and had
been buried last night.

Elgar’s news worried me horribly. Wopobra was
one of the most reliable and honest workers on the
plantation—a heavy, knock-kneed “ Tanna” boy, with
the laughing mouth, perfect teeth, and wondering eyes
of his countrymen. He had been fifteen years on the
place, and now superintended the cane-cutting of a
large gang of new “ boys.”

Presently I took my hat down from the peg on the
door, left my scarcely-opened egg, swallowed the
contents of my coffee cup, and followed Elgar down
the yard and across the space to the boys’ huts. We
soon reached the one of which we were in search, and
lifting up the heavy bag hanging across the door, I
entered.

Wopobra was, as Elgar had said, lying absolutely
motionless, with a blanket over his shoulder, and his
face hidden next the wall. The outlines of his high
hip, clumsy feet, and one sprawling hand, with the
delicate and filbert-nailed fingers peculiar to his race,
gave me the impression of a man—to use a common
term—“ throwing up thesponge.” For all the sign of
life he gave he might have been already dead. I crossed
over and gave his curly head a pull. “ Well, Wopobra,

LUI THE KANAKA 255
what sort of game you call this, eh?” A moan was
the only answer. “ Here, get up,” I said, giving him a
more vigorous pull, “ get up and do your work. What
for you skulk, you lazy hound? Get up,” and yeta
third pull.

I might as well have tugged at a corpse.

“Perhaps he’s dead,” Elgar suggested, and I bent
over his face.

“ Dead, not he—shamming more likely,” and with
Elgar’s help I caught him by the shoulders and got
him into a sitting position.

“You lazy dog,” I said angrily, “lift yourself up,”
hoping to arouse him by rough words, calm ones
having had not the faintest effect with the other boys
now dead.

He opened his eyesand looked into my face so dully
and stupidly, that I felt half a pang at the mode of
treatment I had adopted, but I determined to give it
yet a few more minutes’ trial, for, truth to tell, I was
in despair about these easy-dying chaps. Shaking,
kicking, swearing, proved not of any avail however ;
directly it was over he fell back in an inert heap, and
so we left him.

On our way to the mill I called at the hut of the
native doctor of the herd. Lui was inside—his work
hours did not commence until nine, as he was not
overstrong, and so was allowed the easy billet of
throwing the stacks of cane upon the feeders. “Go
down to Wopobra—he plenty ill,” I said. ‘ Suppose
you make him well, I give you £1, Lui.”

Lui spread out his hands and rolled his eyes. ‘“ No
good, boss,’ he droned dolefully, “‘ He die soon—he
feel him gwine to die—he no try live now.” As he

9

256 LUI THE KANAKA

spoke a thought flashed through my mind, and I
retraced my steps to Wopobra’s bedside.

It was too late; the poor wretch was dead !

That night I sat hour after hour in my squatter
chair on the moonlit verandah, and smoked pipe after
pipe as I endeavoured to arrive at some satisfactory
solution of these extraordinary deaths.

First and foremost I came to the conclusion that a
great deal of it had to do with the Kanakas’ well-
known habit of “caving in.” Any planter who
employs boys (and who does not?) will tell you that
sometimes if his fingers ache, one of these men will lie
down and die; a fit of biliousness, a short bout of
toothache, and he will neither eat nor be comforted.
If the fit takes him, he quietly dies.

Secondly, I concluded that if some drastic measure
could dispel the lethargy through which the lazy fellow
found so comfortable an egress from the world, a cure
might possibly be effected. Plan after plan occurred
to and was rejected by me, until at last I hit upon one
that I thought might suit my purpose. Just as the
glorious Queensland morning light was glimmering
rosily over r the cane tops—my usual hour for rising, I
went in and tumbled on the bed, boots and all, for a
short rest before breakfast.

That morning passed without any unusual incident.
Wopobra was buried at sunrise, and towards evening his
comrades gathered together, after they had knocked off
work, to watch the burning of his hut and its contents.
I turned to leave when this was done. ‘Where is
Lui?” I asked. I required him to take a turn at
rolling my tennis lawn, but I could not distinguish his
face among the crowd.

LUI THE KANAKA 257
“ Here, Sammy,” and I beckoned to a mate of his.
“ Go and find Lui, and help him to roll the lawn.”

Sammy tramped off to find him, and I walked slowly
up to the house, thinking no more of the matter.

After perhaps the lapse of half an hour, the house-
keeper’s knock woke me out of a nodding doze, and
she informed me that Sammy would like to speak to
me. I went out slipperless to the back verandah steps.
“Well, Sammy ?”

“Please, boss, Lui p!enty sick !”

“What!” I almost yelled; “say it again, you
black devil ; what!”

“Lui, he die soon,” Sammy said stolidly. “Lui, he
plenty sick !”

“Oh, indeed ! ” and I laughed sarcastically. “We'll
soon see to that. Sick is he? He'll be sick before I’ve
finished with him.”

My patience, never my strongest point, had at last
given way, and I went inside and laced up my boots
witha grim determination in my heart to knock the de
out of my friend Lui. I took down a heavy stockwhip
from its nail on the verandah ; and so great was my
indignation, and so unmeasured my haste, that in
hurrying from the house I slipped down the last eight
steps and nearly broke my neck. At boiling point I
hastened past the mill and the clumps of huts, grasping
yet tighter the coiled stockwhip in my hand, until I
reached Lui’s abode. Then my whip sprang out as
if by magic. I whirled it round my head with a
resounding crack. “Here, Lui,” I yelled, “ come out
of that.”

No answer—a silence like the grave.

“Lui, you black devil” ; and I made his walls shake

18

258 LUI THE KANAKA

where the whip whistled about them. ‘ Come here,
I say, or I'll hide the liver out of you.”

A rustle inside and Lui appeared, but sunk in a
heap at the door, even as his hand parted the bags.
_ “Me welly bad, boss,” he whined; “me soon

die!”

“* Die, be damned,” I said grimly.” “I'll die you.”
I squeezed behind him and planted in the middle of
his bent back a kick that sent him well out in the
front of the house. Then I prodded him with the
butt end of the whip. ‘Get up and run, Lui,” I
said insinuatingly. ‘ T’LL make you well—run—run—
RUN, you ebony hell-cat, Run.” Each word I empha-
sised with a flick from the whip-end. Soon he dimly
realised the necessity for rising and immediate flight,
and he crept to his hands and knees and turned on me
so pitiful a gaze, with his mouth working and his
frame shaking, that I almost faltered in my purpose
—ALMOST, not quite.

“You pig-dog—hell-beast,” I shrieked, “GET uP
AND RUN,” and I brought the whip heavily round his
flanks. As it curled above my head for a second
blow, he did run; my God! How HE RAN! The
cracker of my whip just tickled his moleskin clad calf,
and he was off like a deer. Down one of the paths
between the cane he flew, and I followed. I couldn’t
get at him in the cane, there the whip was useless to
me, but soon he reached the end of that short patch
and ran into the bullock-yard, screaming like a badly-
pithed ox.

Ah, ha! I had him now.

He attempted time after time to clamber up the
slabs and over the fence, but I flicked a bit of his skin

LUI THE KANAKA 259

every time, so savagely that he could not reach the
top, and fell headlong to the ground.

Round and round that bullock-yard I lashed him
—lashed his Crimean shirt to ribbons—lashed great
weals upon his chest and shoulders and across his
arms, until at length my arm refused further service,
and fell helpless at my side. His shrieks for mercy
stopped, and he stood for an instant silent and at bay,
with fiery, hunted eyes and labouring chest. The
veins in his throat stood out like cables, and his hands
clenched and unclenched themselves in an agony of
feeling. Then, when he realised that the whip had
fallen he rushed over and feel on his knees before me.

“* Boss, boss,” he groaned harshly and brokenly,
and a flood of tears poured from his bloodshot eyes ;
** Boss, boss, I will no die! I will no die.”

I just leant against the rails and looked at him—
too exhausted to speak. I noticed his exquisitely-
shaped hands, hands over which a painter would have
raved ; how he wrung them, how he sobbed, cringing
in the dirt before me like a cruelly chastised child.

After some moments I put out my hand and let it
sink into the mass of curls running over his head.

“You get well, Lui,” I panted, “or I’m damned
if I don’t do it again.”

Slowly and with effort I passed the whip from my
stiff and blistered fingers into my left hand, and
leaving Lui abjectly grovelling in the dust of the
yard, I went on my way to the house.

THERE WERE NO MORE DEATHS.

fee OLD SCENES
A SKETCH

BY MRS. CAMPBELL PRAED

THE OLD SCENES

4A SKETCH
BY MRS. CAMPBELL PRAED

¢ 7S that all?” said a pretty sick girl on our steamer,

who had had her chair brought close to the
bulwarks, that she might not miss the first sight of
Sydney Harbour. “Oh, I don’t call it much more
than just pretty. Seems somehow as if the mountains
had been forgotten.”

She expressed it exactly. One does feel as if the
Creator had forgotten the mountains. And yet,
indeed, how beautiful Sydney Harbour is, though one
begins to wonder whether it is as beautiful as the
harbour of Nagasaki, or of Hong Kong, or even of
Algiers, or of many other places one has heard less
about. ‘There is always the want of the background.

Strangely enough, I didn’t seem to be steaming
gently into Sydney Harbour in this big Orient boat,
on this summer afternoon, but to have gone back—
oh, ever so many years—to a certain wild morning,
when the sea was all grey and dirty-white, heaving

and growling after a great storm, in which a little
263

264 THE OLD SCENES

brig—she was called The Briton’s Queen | remember
—had gallantly held her own, though the English
mail steamer was in peril of her life, and more than
one ship went down off the coast that night. Brave
little Briton’s Queen! I can scent now in my nostrils
the briny freshness of that squally morning, and oh,
the delight of it after a day and a night with hatches
down in a cabin half full of water, and a smell—an
unforgetable and intolerable smell — of decaying
apples. The Briton’s Queen was freighted with fruit,
and we had been a fortnight in making the voyage
from ‘Tasmania. Nothing of that voyage remains in
my memory but the smell of the apples, the gale, and
the feeling of intense exhilaration, as our little ship,
with her sails set, scudded over the waves on that
tempestuous morning and passed between Sydney
Heads into balmy peace.

‘There it was again—the break in the grey-blue line
of cliff, the two huge profiles of rock—the boldest
with a lighthouse upon it, and the ocean roaring
against its iron rampart. A little boat with a reddish |
sail raced the big steamer round the North Head and
won the race. And now we were in perfectly smooth
water, a blue basin with sandy-beached bays curving
in and out, and a flotilla of boats—it was Saturday
afternoon—dancing about the points.

There flashed into my memory another entry into
Sydney. Harbour—this a night one—after a second
voyage from Tasmania ; and the thrill of hearing out
of the darkness, as a boat pulled up to the steamer,
the news that the Duke of Edinburgh had been shot
by Farrell, the Fenian. Then, next day, the mingled
excitement and horror of seeing Sydney placarded

THE OLD SCENES 265

with posters offering “£1,000 reward for the ac-
complices of Farrell.”

It is all confusing, terribly confusing; and the two
lightning streaks of impressions are dead trees and
hats. Were there always so many dead trees, and
did Australians always wear such a bewildering variety
of hats?

There are hard felt and soft felt, broad-brimmed
and narrow-brimmed, sailor, Panama, Buffalo Bill,
Jim Crow, cowboy, and cavalier; hats puggareed,
hats bare, and even the white “ Derby” chimney-
pots. It is a nightmare of hats.

And the dead trees! They, too, have become half
a nightmare, half a fascination. “These are not the
few scattered clumps of “rung” gums, which used to
show here and there round a head-station or stock-
man’s hut, in picturesque contrast with the mass of
grey-green foliage. All along the railway line there
are miles and miles, paddocks full, whole tracts of
these livid corpses of trees, which stand bolt upright,
stretching forth long naked arms, that twist up and
down and interlace each other in weirdly human
fashion. At first their deadness seems a mystery, and
then one remembers that it is the Free Selector now
and not the Squatter who rules the land; and that
because of him is its greyness. For it is all grey, all
the same dull, dead monotony of colouring—grey two-
railed fences, brown-grey grass, green-grey leaves—
where there are leaves — yellow-grey sawn-wood
houses; grey shingles, grey skeletons, grey ashes,
where the skeletons have been burned and the soil
made ready for crops of corn and vines and millet

266 THE OLD SCENES

and cotton, and all the other good things which the
Selector eventually produces. But it takes a long
time first to dispossess the gum-trees, which are the
inheritors of the ground.

Oh the heat and glare of that railway journey
between the skeleton-trees and the two-railed fences !
Only here and there, a little township of weather-
board houses, bare and straight, with oblongs of
windows, like the houses in toy boxes, and their zinc
roofs blazing piteously in the scorching sun. It is a
relief to see near the townships, beyond the aggressive
newness of their stores and public-houses, some sur-
vival of an old slab-and-bark homestead, with its patch
of pumpkin vines and a few willows and mulberries,
and perhaps an orange-tree. ‘That is on the higher
land, near the border, where the air has cooled a little.

Here, in a certain region, the skeletons give place
to queer grey boulders—everything is always grey—
scattered anyhow, in shape of crouching beasts and
altar-stones, and fat monoliths. Now, as we descend,
steamy rain falls, and the heat is a clammy misery
and a prickly aggravation. Night comes. At the
different wayside stations friendly hands are stretched
forth, and there’s a ghostly feeling in the sight of
familiar-strange faces—the faces of children grown to
manhood and womanhood, and of the middle-aged
become old and grey-haired. It is midnight, when at
last the thirty hours’ train journey is over, and I step
into the clammy stove-house atmosphere, and know
that, after twenty years, I am once again in mine own
land, amidst mine own people.

Familiar-strange, too, those bush boys on unkempt

THE OLD SCENES 267

bush horses, and with the real bush seat, an easy,
slouching oneness with the beast beneath, who are
waiting in a clearing of the scrub for the mail to be
thrown out as the train passes. ;

Where are the old landmarks? Twenty years ago
it took a good three days getting from the township
to Murrum, and extra horses had to be sent along to
pull the buggy through Doondin Scrub. Now it is a
question of being three or four hours in a railway
carriage, and of a fifteen-mile drive over the range.
But how much more exciting it used to be! The
plunge into the gloom of the scrub, the toiling on
foot down leafy gullies and up steep muddy pinches,
the jibbing of the horses, the shoutings of the black-
boys, and all the buggy-breakings and mendings, and
the uncertainty as to ultimate possibilities! Very
little remains of the scrub, only a few belts of glossy
green, and some of the old bottle trees, which are
like historic monuments of some strange order of
architecture. So that one might fancy Lemurian
builders had raised pillars of a grotesque topsy-turvi-
ness, with bulging middle, base tapering inwards and
over-loaded capitals. All the way are Selectors’
homesteads, set in gardens and orangeries, and where
once was dense forest, homely German settlements
with school-houses, stores, and plantations of maize,
cotton, arrowroot, and even tobacco.

The Selectors in these parts have long passed the
skeleton and grey stage; and all over the hills and on
the plains where the scrub used to be, are vivid patches
of green and yellow and thered-brown of millet. The
clearing of the forest has brought the mountains into
view, and it is such a satisfaction to find that years

268 THE OLD SCENES

have not dwarfed their outlines, nor imagination
magnified their beauty. They are all just as memory
painted them—tiers of blue peaks—the border range
in the far distance, and the Jerra Crag, with its
encircling precipice and turret top, rising between the
Murrum hump and twin-peaked Kumbal—as real and
good to look at as the Southern Cross and many other
things that were of old.

There is with us a little English artist girl, who has
lived all her life in London, and an English boy called
Rothwell, going to do “colonial experience” at
Murrum. The three “M’s,” Meg (that is the
English girl), Marge, and Mena, make as charming a
nosegay of maids as could be seen. And there is
Cousin William, outrider to the buggy just then, a
miner by profession, and self-appointed instructor-
general to Meg on things Australian. And there are
Terry, Fulvia, and the doctor.

““He’s a young one,” Terry said, apologetically,
as the near horse shied at a stump and tilted Meg
almost into the Flagstone Creek. ‘Only tackled
this summer. Never had a better puller... . But
this won’t do. Must attend to my business and not
talk. Look out! Here we are coming to a bit of
corduroy.”

And we found out that “corduroy” meant a road
made of little gum trees, and that it jolted exceedingly.

Two men with their blankets rolled into swags
were boiling their billy of tea in a gully by the road-
side.

“They’re humping bluey,” explained Cousin
William.

“What does that mean?” asked the artist girl,

THE OLD SCENES 269

“'They’re on the Wallabi track,” further explained
Cousin William.

Meg asked no more, but later on she made a sketch
of “ Humping Bluey.”

Meg has the air of one to whom no surprising
experience can now be a novelty. She has been given
tea for breakfast, luncheon, and dinner, at five o’clock
and also at eleven a.m. A monstrous frog stared at
her out of her washing basin this morning, and she
was shown a corrugated black fellow in a ragged shirt
and abbreviated trousers, with a brass plate—symbol
of sovereignty—on his tattooed breast, and told that
he is a king.

We stopped on the shoulder of the dividing range—
not the great Border range, but a little one between
Cuchin and Murrum. Below stretched the Cuchin
plain with its water hole, the Crag beyond, and the
head station on a green promontory jutting out into
the sea of tall grey-green grass. Now it is “eucalyptic
cloisterdom” once more; and we seem as we descend,
to be passing through interminable aisles of red-gum
trunks and fret work of bough. Locusts whirr inter-
mittently. Never was such rich grass as grows in the
furrows of the hills. Meg takes her revenge on Cousin
William by drawing his attention to the fine blot of
colour which a herd of red cattle make on the grey-
green. She wishes him to understand that if he can
talk Australese, she can talk Art jargon !

Some of the gums have grotesque protuberances—
these are what the shepherds and stockmen used to
make coolimans out of in the old Bush days; and
there are grass trees with spears and tufts, and great
brown ant-heaps like queer shaped tombstones.

270 THE OLD SCENES

Then comes a splash through the river at Cuchin
crossing, which is close by Murrum stockyard ; and
—is it the cornshed of memories? . . . The paddock
is clearer than it used to be, and the river fringe of ©
ti-tree and she-oak has been broken, and there’s a
grand new Selector’s homestead that was not there
long ago. The dogs run out barking, Fulvia, young
Marge, and Mena, and the St. Bernard, and the
cockatoo are at the garden fence—how the lager-
stromia and the creepers have grown !—and three pea-
cocks give screeches from the roof of the kitchen
gangway. They are moulting, poor things, and
terribly ashamed of their draggled tails, but a sense of
family obligation and of the dignity of the occasion
does not permit them to retire altogether as, for the
next week or so, they consistently do.

It is a funny little cluster of wooden cottages
Murrum head station, joined together by gangways
which are covered with bongainvillea, bignonia, rinka-
sporum and ever so many other creepers. ‘There are
bowery nooks between the verandahs filled in with
plants set in stumps and with stag-horn and bird’s nest
ferns growing upon walls and posts. Here Mena
makes a pretty picture in the mornings, learning her
lessons, with the St. Bernard panting in the heat at
her feet. Inside, the walls are of cedar—it isn’t the
old drawing-room, but a new room altogether, with
windows at the end giving peeps of the Jerra Crag,
and the Kumbal peaks, and showing the old mandarin
orange tree and quince orchard and the prickly pear
hedge. Outside there is a verandah like the deck of a
ship, where everybody lounges in cane chairs and the
hammock, and eats grapes and water melons, and

THE OLD SCENES 271

where we spend the long hot evenings looking on the
dim semicircle of mountains and watching the Southern
Cross mount from behind Mount Murrum.

Alas! It is the time of the rains, and for five days
and nights the heavens have poured forth water. A
blanket of steam has covered the mountains. The air
is a vaporous oppression, and over all broods a clammy
stillness, broken by the crashing downpour upon a
zinc roof, and the spattering upon the window-panes
and rebound upon the floor of the verandah. Mena’s
bower is no longer inviting. ‘The ground is strewn
with sodden bongainvillea petals, and the fern tongues
drop wetness. The grey stumps in which a little
while ago colcas and calladium plants flourished
joyously, are now black with moisture, and all the
slender stalks are bowed and the downy leaves torn to
shreds and drooping and flabby. Mena’s magpie is
taking a bath in one of the stumps. Now he perches
on the hedge, spluttering and spreading his wings with
his head cocked on one side, and a wicked look in his
little eyes. “The Galah parrot toddles up and down
disconsolately. There is a soft swish of rivulets
blending with the hushed murmur of insects. At
night, the frogs and crickets are deafening and the
roar of the river grows deeper.

The nasty creeping things come out. A fat
tarantula crawls up the curtains, and there’s a hundred-
legged spider between Meg’s blankets; and ants run
about in myriads, and get into the jam and sugar, and
drop their wings uncannily on the tablecloth, We
have no joy now in the verandah, though we draw the
cane chairs close to the wall to avoid driving drops,

272 THE OLD SCENES

and the doctor and the man from the next station and
Cousin William tell grim stories of the bush. The
fruit is sodden ; the beast which has been killed has
gone bad; the wood is too damp to burn in the
kitchen. Fulvia enters tragically, in her armsa bundle
of fine damask, black with mildew, and a snake is
killed in the bush house.

That evening the doctor, the man from the next
station, and Cousin William tell snake stories, and
Meg dreams evil dreams.

The man from the next station has only nine
fingers. When he was a little boy, he and his brother
went out into the bush with their tomahawks to play
at finding ’possums. As he moved a bit of dead wood
a black snake bit his forefinger. “The man from the
next station put his finger straight out on a stump,
and told his brother to chop it off, low down, with the
tomahawk that very moment. ‘The boy chopped, and
then they sucked the wound, and that’s how he comes
to have only nine fingers.

The doctor too had his snake experience. One
night he camped in a newly-built but deserted hut. A
sheet of bark was on the ground, he spread his blanket
over it and laid him down to sleep. Several times
during the night he fancied that the bark+ heaved
beneath him, but he was too tired to take any serious
notice. In the morning when he had rolled up his
blanket again, he kicked away the piece of bark and
saw a great black snake coiled under it.

Cousin William knows a man on the diggings
whose nerve broke after the gruesome adventure of
one night. The man was travelling alone, and that
evening he had camped in the open under a gum tree.

—

THE OLD SCENES 273

It was bright moonlight. Suddenly, in the very small
hours he awoke, feeling something moving over his
chest—he was lying on his back barely covered with
his blanket, for the night was hot. As he awoke, he
saw that a brown snake had coiled itself upon his
chest. Now, a brown snake is deadly ; and the man
had no brandy nor ammonia, nor anything which
would save him if he were bitten. For long hours he
lay watching. He dared not move, he scarcely dared
to breathe. He nursed the loathsome Thing, a thin
shirt only between him and its fang. Cousin William
related how the man described the stillness of the
night ; his horror of a puff of wind, of a falling leaf or
twig, and his dread of the approach of animal or bird
which might startle the Thing. Then the breaking ot
dawn, and the twitterings and callings, and all the
rousing of the bush. He was afraid lest his horse
should come and sniff, and yet longed that it might
come, as perhaps the noise might frighten the Thing
away. And as the light grew he saw that there were
soldier ants close by, and knew that if they crawled on
him he must let himself be stung till it should please
the Thing to move. He studied the flat head of the
Thing and its triangular markings, and thought he must
go mad. At last, when the sun was high the snake
uncoiled itself and crawled away. And the man got
up, shaking as if with palsy. “And Lord,” added
Cousin William, “ you wouldn’t have known that
chap when he got to the diggings next day. He was
trembling all over and couldn’t sleep for weeks. And
as for his nerve, which was like iron before, it clean
broke into little bits.”

I 9

274 THE OLD SCENES

“Tt’s only some magisterial business,” says Terry,
getting up. “I'll be back in five minutes,” and
presently he is heard calling, “Bring me a Bible,
dear,” and young Marge runs off with the Bible,
remarking, “Some of the Free Selectors come to
swear.”

When they had “sworn” and gone, Terry
explained the matter. ‘‘ You see, the conditions of
their being allowed to own their 160 acres—or less,
according to what they take up—are that they must
reside on the selection for five years, but most of them
after they have put up a hut, leave their wives and
children to fulfil the residence condition, and hire
themselves out on the job. “Then they must pay six-
pence a year—five sixpences in all—and must make
improvements up to the value of ten shillings an acre,
and at the end of the five years they have got to bring
along two witnesses and swear before a magistrate to
the residence and the improvements, after which they
can get a free title. That’s what those fellows were
doing.”

“Seems an easy way of becoming a landed
proprietor,” said Rothwell, the English boy.

“If they want to become bigger landed proprietors
still,” says Terry, “they can lease extra land up to
two thousand acres, at a rent of threepence per acre ;
only, co fulfil the residence conditions, it must be
within fifteen miles of the original selection. They
must put a fence round the extra bit within four
years, and when that’s over, they can buy it at a price
fixed by the Land Board.”

Fulvia came along the verandah carrying a silver
tray and the tea-pot, Marge and Mena following with

THE OLD SCENES “275

cakes and grapes. The lace frills of Fulvia’s pretty
blouse were tucked up towards her shoulders.

“Please forgive my bare arms. They’ve been up
to the elbows in four. I’m making bread.” Fulvia
was very hot, and very tired, though she contrived
to look remarkably dainty in her white cooking
apron.

Three days ago Fulvia’s cook and parlourmaid had
found themselves in bad health and requested to be
driven to the Doondin terminus. Then it was
suggested that the three M.’s should forage among the
Selections and see if they could find any one willing
to make the bread and wash for Murrum station.

They make quite a colony, the Selectors, along this
side of the river, and slab cottages climb up the slope
where scrub used to be. All the wilderness of the
river is gone. There are millet and lucerne and
Indian-corn patches by each bank, and men were
ploughing as we passed. The ti-trees have lost their
beauty. Of the two great cedars on the Mulgam flat
under which we used to boil our afternoon tea, one
has been felled and the other is naked and dead ; and
there are deep wheel tracks down to the arum pool
where the Selectors’ water-carts go to be filled. The
settlement having got the number of children required
by administrative powers, and having built the school-
house with the cracked bell, which is planted lower
down among the gums, the government provides at a
stipend of £80 a year, a schoolmaster, who lives in a
weather-board hut on the border of the scrub. The
debating club sits too in the school-house ; there the
balls take place, and the Sunday services, when a
clergyman comes along; and there the election

276 THE OLD SCENES

meetings are held. On the whole, the community
seem to have a pretty lively time.

Mr. Hindmarsh, whose wife Fulvia considered a
hopeful resource in emergency, was at work among
his crops by the creek.

“ And how are you getting on with your maize,
Mr. Hindmarsh ? ”

“ Bad, bad,” answered Hindmarsh, mournfully.
“ Three hundred bags.”

“Done well,?” asked the doctor. ‘ Tenpence
halfpenny, eh?”

Elevenpence,” returned Mr. Hindmarsh. ‘ Times
are wretched. It ain’t only the squatters that has got
cause tocomplain. What the country’s coming to J
dun-’now.”

“Tt’s bimetalism that’s at the root of everything,”
said the man from the next station, “and until silver
is acknowledged payment again, and forty shillings
instead of twenty given to the pound, the country
will never come to any good.”

Mr. Hindmarsh couldn’t see how that could make
a difference, and another Selector called Bascomb, who
seems a serious person, and is, I hear, chief spokesman
at the debating-society meetings, disagreed with
him.

“You see, it’s this way,” said Mr. Bascomb. “If
all the produce in the world was put on this side”
(prodding the ground with the butt of his bullock
whip), “and all the gold in the world was put on
the other side, why, there wouldn’t be gold enough to
buy the produce. For those that have the gold it
don’t matter; and for those who haven’t it’s a bad
job,”

THE OLD SCENES 277

“’That’s about it,” said the man from the next
station.

Mr. Hindmarsh changed the conversation. ‘“ My
word ! it’s been terrible hot to-day. . . . The missus
did you say? Jdun-now. Most like you'll find her
up yon’.” His long upper lips puckered down over
his teeth ; and he jerked his thumb in the direction ot
a slab house with a verandah, set in a garden of stumps
and some pumpkin vines, on the side of the hill.

Fulvia felt a delicacy in pressing inquiries. Hind-
marsh was known as “a quiet man but given to sulks,
and awful bad to put up with.” His neighbour
Garstin, who was helping him, was loud and masterful,
and only that morning Garstin, up at the station on
business, had related how the Hindmarshes had had
a difference, and had given it as his opinion that a chap
“mum in his tantrums” like Hindmarsh was more
aggravating to a female than the most raging of devils,
and that, therefore, Mrs. Hindmarsh might not be
unwilling to distract her thoughts by a day’s baking.
‘But Lord! I says to Hindmarsh,” continued Garstin.
“You doan’t know how to take the women, Hind-
marsh. Why, you mun give ’en a kick and knock
’en down, and they’ll coom all right after a time or
two. Doan’t crush ’en with silence”; which became
a family saying at Murrum, and when any one nursed
his grievance in dignified aloofness it was customary to
remark, “ Doan’t crush ’en with silence.”

Mrs. Hindmarsh, who is a big woman with great
black eyes and crinkly hair, did not look in the least
crushed, as she came up from the pumpkin patch with
a huge pumpkin under one arm and a baby under the
other. She had got a batch of bread coming out of

278 THE OLD SCENES

the oven that very minute, she said, and if we liked we
could take it over.

“Tam ashamed to ask you into such a dirty place.
I’ve been cleaning after the rains. The bread don’t
look as nice as it might, for it’s baked in a camp oven;
if there’s a cake-tin or two to spare at the station I’d
make the loaves a better shape for the table. . . . No,
I wouldn’t come to do the washing at the station,
you'd best get some one else—there’s Mrs. Garstin
perhaps—but / don’t know. . . . You’ve had a deal
of trouble I hear in the kitchen. If you want your
moleskins washed, Mr. Rothwell—or the doctor—tell
him I'll do ’em if you send ’em over. There’s funny
things goes on in the kitchen with them girls, ain’t
there, Mr. Rothwell ?”

“There’s plenty of funny things in Australia, seems
to me, Mrs. Hindmarsh.”

“Yes, they’re queer, those servant girls. They
objected to the moleskins. I heard the word; you
send them over, Mr. Rothwell.”

“ Well, if you’ve time, Mrs. Hindmarsh.”

“Oh, I'll make time—at threepence the pair... .
So Hindmarsh is going to take a job with the cart up
at the station? ”

Mrs. Hindmarsh was informed that such was the
arrangement.

“‘Hindmarsh hadn’t always come down to going
out on the job. We were in South Brisbane once, in
a house of our own; it’s the bad times has brought us
low. He has lost £800, has Hindmarsh.” And Mrs.
Hindmarsh announced the fact as cheerfully as though
she were putting forward a claim to distinction.

We made a little round of calls that afternoon.

THE OLD SCENES 279

Rothwell and Meg had already established friendly
relations with the Selections, and had brought a camera,
which hung on the pommel of Meg’s saddle.

“We've got two plates left, Mrs. Garstin, and Mr.
Garstin says he’d like you and the little girl to be
taken ; and we'd like to photograph the house if we
may.”

“‘ Garstin said as he’d like the two children done,”
said Mrs. Garstin. “It’s seventeen year now since I
was took—didn’t like to, somehow. But I’d be
pleased to have the children. Garstin, he wanted to
have little "Liza done last year, but I said (with a
smile at the infant), wait a bit and get in two of
’em.”

Mrs. Garstin was the mother ofa large family. The
doctor joined us while the photographing was going
on, and Mrs. Garstin had much domestic intelligence
to communicate.

“Jimmy was nearly dead, doctor, since you was
here last. Johnny come down from the Scrub and
says, ‘Mother I want some eucalypty stuff.’ ‘What
for?’ I says. ‘Jimmy’s had a hurt,’ says he; and
sure enough there was Jimmy lying onsensible. . . .
But I’m that used to their getting hurts, I don’t feel
frightened. There was Jo broke his leg, and I pulled
the bones together, and bandaged it, and set it in
splints ; and the doctor there told me he couldn’t have
done it better himself. . . . Lift up yer trouser, Jo,
and show the doctor and the ladies your leg... .
And there was Harry as chopped off his fingers—two
of ’em hanging by a bit of skin; and Garstin says,
‘Give us a pair of scissors, and have done with ’em.’
But I says, ‘No, I aint going to have my boy short of

280 THE OLD SCENES

fingers if J can help it.’ So I sets the fingers back
again, and binds them up; and they’re as good as the
others this day. Show the doctor your fingers, Harry.
And I had to go to Murmm station for sticking
plaister and hump him all the way ; and Lor’! I don’t
know how I done it !”

After the rains came a great freshness. Higher up
the Ubi is a gorge where in old days we always rode
after rains to see the spring swollen into a waterfall.
There was a question whether the river would be
crossable—it was still a brown, turbid torrent. “I
don’t think we can manage it,” said the man from the
next station.

Cousin William spurred his horse on. ‘“ Keep up,”
cried Terry.

But Cousin William got through all right, and the
rest followed, even to little Mena in her holland
knickerbockers, riding man-fashion. The horses
swayed unsteadily with the current. The little one
couldn’t guide hers, and he went down slantways with
the stream.

“Baby, keep up,” screamed Fulvia. “Keep up,
baby.” Then Cousin William dashed back and took
hold of Mina’s bridle, turning her up-stream.

“You should never shout to any one in a flooded
creek,” said the doctor. “It makes a fellow lose his
head—like the mailman on the Jerra the other day,
who was as near as possible carried down. ‘They kept
calling out from the bank, ‘Keep up! keep up!’ till the
chap trembled and turned white, and at last got so
confused that he let the reins drop helplessly and said,
‘Which is up? I can’t tell.’”

THE OLD SCENES 281

We follow a creeklet fringed by she oaks, and bor-
dered on each side by stony ridges. On the top of
the ridge, the dark, distinctive line of scrub stands up
like a wall from the blady grassand bracken. By-and-
by the ridges swell into high hills and come close,
blocking the foreground as the valley narrows. The
she-oaks thicken, and the whispering among their
needle points sounds fuller. There is a great side cleft
in the hill, and a white torrent comes foaming down
among the grey-black boulders which are scarred and
patched with lichen. Terry and Cousin William
drag logs and make a bridge over the torrent, the
horses are hitched up, and the glen swallows those of
us who walk foremost.

It is just a chasm torn out of the mountain side.
The grey walls of rock overhang it, making jagged
ledges, from which drop ferns and rock lilies—I
remember the lilies’ feathery plumes in spring, but
they are not in bloom now—and there are thick
withes of hoya festooning the cliff. High on the top,
native bears and opossums and wallabis have their un-
molested dwellings. Slanting outward from the cliff
are slim trees of the red-barked mahogany, and of
mountain ash, as well as a fleshy-leaved shrub giving
out an aromatic perfume. Down in the bed, the
torrent roars along the channel it has cut, over worn
stones and between great greyrocks. It rushes out of
a deep pool, dark, mysterious, and still, except where
another stream, falling from a gully at a higher level,
churns the pool into brown foam.

This is not much of a waterfall. The children
climb up the rock ledges close to the fall, and are
wetted by its spray. And then there is a rare clamber

282 THE OLD SCENES

to the upper ravine, sacred to the memories of twenty
years back ; and young Marge comes down presently,
her arms full of native geranium and red berries off
those same plants from which we elder ones used to
gather them long ago.

So we went back to the old scenes—went back to
the old scenes !

Do we ever, indeed, get away from the old
scenes?

pT a

Sat LAST CRUISE OF JOHN
MAUDSLEY RECRUITER

BY LOUIS BECKE

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THE LAST CRUISE
OF FOHN MAUDSLEY, RECRUITER

BY LOUIS BECKE

HE Montiara, barque, of Sydney, from the New
Hebrides to Samoa with a cargo of black labour,
was lying becalmed upon a sea of glass, with the pitch
bubbling up between her deck seams. Ten miles
away to the eastward the verdured slopes of two
islands—Fotuna and Alofi—which, an hour before
had shone a vivid and enchanting green, were now
changing to a dulled purple under the last rays of an
angry, blood-red sun.

As four bells struck, John Maudsley, the chief mate
came up on deck from the main hold, and walking
quickly aft, joined his captain on the poop.

“‘ Packenham,” he said wearily, as he took off his
broad straw hat and fanned his heated face, “ there’s
another poor devil just pegged out—one of the Santa
Cruz boys. Thirteen in twenty-one days ! and unless
we get a breeze soon they'll begin to die like rotten
sheep. Look here, old man, it’s no use talking, we
must let a batch of say thirty up on deck at once—it
will at least give the rest some more air.”

The two men looked into each other’s faces for a

few moments in silence, then Packenham spoke.
285

286 CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY

“Tt’s terribly risky, Maudsley. There are only
three sound men in the ship besides you and I, and it
would simply be asking those Tanna and Pentecost
niggers to cut our throats and take the ship. What
chance should we have, old man, with even only a
dozen of them if they knew our weakness! Can’t
you get the sick men to come up on deck?”

“No. They are sulky and savage, and would rather
die down there of suffocation. There are now quite
half-a-dozen of them sickening. Tried to get one
fellow up on his feet, to bring him on deck, but his
countrymen looked so threateningly at me that I had
to desist.”

“ Any of the Tanna and Pentecost boys sick yet?”

“No; it would be a damned good thing for us if
they were. They’re the crowd who are bent on mis-
chief. So far, only the Banks’ Islanders have been
attacked, and they are the least dangerous of the lot.
Something must be done, Packenham. Always thought
measles was a baby’s complaint, didn’t you? I say,
old man, look out for the deck for a bit and send for
some coffee. I’ve got a bit of a twister coming on.
Oh, this is a lovely trip! all hands but five down with
fever, measles among the ‘cargo ’—the greater portion
of which is only waiting its chance to cut our throats ;
and a blarsted, furious calm to boot.”

“‘ Steward, bring some coffee, quick,” cried Packen-
ham, as Maudsley, with chattering teeth and shaking
limbs crawled up between the up-ended wings of the
skylight, and drawing his knees to his chest, lay down
on his side, whilst the captain hastily covered him with
rugs and blankets until the ague fit was past and the
bone-racking agonies of the fever began.

CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY 287

The steward brought the coffee, and Maudsley
raised himself on his elbow and caught sight of his
captain standing over him.

“Damn you, Packenham, what the devil are you
doing here?” he chattered in querulous, irritable tones ;
“Tm all right. You go and get that ’tween deck
ladder up—if the niggers mean to make a rush one
man with a gun won’t stop ’em. Take a look below
first, and see what they’re doing. If it wasn’t murder
to do so in such weather, I'd clap the hatches on.”

The skipper of the Montiara was well used to his
mate’s language, for the two men were old and tried
comrades ; and in all matters concerning natives,
Packenham always gave way to his subordinate ; for
Maudsley was not only his chief officer but “ re-
cruiter” as well, and no man who ever sailed the
Pacific had a greater knowledge of native custom and
character nor had displayed it so often in the face of
the deadliest danger.

Packenham walked along to the main deck and
looked down the hatchway, but the fast gathering
darkness prevented him from discerning more than the
recumbent figures of his “cargo,” with here and there
the gleam of a surreptitious pipe or a cigarette of
negrohead tobacco rolled in a dried banana leaf. A
sailor, armed with a revolver and cutlass, was pacing
to and fro across the for’ard end of the hatchway, and
presently Packenham motioned him to haul up the
light ladder. This was done without noise ; and then
the captain went to the deck-house, and, putting his
head in at the door, addressed the occupants (six
hands) which it contained.

“‘ Here, I say you fellows, can’t you shake off a bit

288 CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY

of fever? Why, there’s the mate, who is worse than
any of you, and whose teeth are going like a cotton-
gin at full speed, dancing a jig on the poop to himself.
Come, buck up my lads.”

The boatswain, a tall, sallow-faced Maori half-caste,
crawled slowly out of his bunk.

“I’m feeling a bit more fit, sir. I can take the
wheel, if a breeze comes, if I can’t do anything else.”

“’That’s right, Bill. Here, strike a light first and
let me look at you fellows. Steward looking after
you all right, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” answered one of the men with a groan,
“we has got all we wants, sir; but we doesn’t like
bein’ here by ourselves. Tommy Samoa there ”—
pointing to a native seaman lying on the deck of the
house rolled in a mat—“ says that if those Tanna men
make a rush all us chaps will have our throats cutted
and will be blue sharks’ meat afore we knowed where
we was.”

“Just what Maudsley said,” muttered Packenham
to himself, then he added aloud, “ You needn’t be
scared ; the hatchway ladder is hauled up and there’s
a man on the lookout, not ten feet away. Have you
your arms by you?”

OV es Gite

“ Well, what the blazes are you making a song
about? You stand a better show in a good, strong
deck-house than do the rest of us.”

Then raising the lamp he surveyed the place,
examined the men’s carbines and pistols, and then
went on his usual nightly round along the deck of
the disease-smitten ship. Ten minutes later he
rejoined Maudsley, who was now sitting up, clad

CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY 289

only in his pyjamas, and pressing his throbbing head
between his hands as the fever heat ran fiercely
through his boiling veins.

“* Pack.,” he began excitedly, “there’s a bit of an
air up aloft. Look over the side and you'll see we’re
moving. Does she steer, Harry ?”

“No sir, not yet,” answered the helmsman.

Packenham looked aloft and then over the side.

“You're right, Maudsley, a breeze is coming sure
enough, and a breeze means everything to us; we
can run into Singavi Bay on Fotuna. One of the
two French priests there is a doctor, and we can put
the sick people ashore at any rate.”

Maudsley gave an irritated laugh.

“Don’t be a fool. I know you're not a brute; but
why the don’t you think of what you’re saying ?
There’s a thousand natives on Fotuna, and it would be
a damned dirty thing for us to do to dump these measly
brutes of ours among them. If we did, the chances
are that there wouldn’t be another native left alive on
the island in a month... . Now, this is my idea:
if we can get up under the lee of Alofi, we can anchor.
There is no one living there—at least not that I know
of—as the island is only used by the Fotuna people
for their yam plantations, and they seldom go there.
There’s good holding ground under the west point—
ten miles away from Fotuna.”

Packenham nodded.

“T see ; go ahead.”

“Well, as soon as we get there, let us land the
whole lot—Tanna boys, Pentecost boys, and the
Banks’ Islanders. Plenty of coco-nuts, yams, and
taro, and, above all, a fine big stream of running

20

290 CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY

water. They'll be as right as rain there ; and then
while you and the hands disinfect the hold and the
rest of the ship [ll start off for Singavi in the boat
with a couple of hands and see if the French priest—
the medicine-man fellow—will come back with me.
By God, Pack., he’ll have to come. We mustn’t let
these poor devils die like rotten sheep.”

“Look here, Maudsley ; you give the word, and
I’ll do whatever you say must be done. Hurrah!
here’s the breeze now, and no mistake—but nearly
dead ahead.”

“Never mind that,” said Maudsley, languidly ;
““we can’t pick up the anchorage to-night, but we'll
be near enough at daylight. Try and fix that wind-
sail, Pack., so that some of this cool breeze goes down
into the hold.”

Packenham, with the three seamen who were able
to work, and the steward, set to and trimmed the sails,
and under the bright light of myriad stars the little
barque glided over the silent sea.

An hour before the dawn, Maudsley, who was
feeling better, had taken the wheel, whilst Packen-
ham and the others were ranging the cable ready for
anchoring. ‘The clang and thump of the heavy iron
links as they fell upon the deck seemed to put new
life into the crew, and even those who were lying sick
in the house came out into the cooling morning air,
and with weakened arms and trembling knees helped
to flake the chain along ship-shape.

Just as they had finished, and as the first yellow
lights of the rising sun were dispersing the thick
mists of Schouten Mountain on Fotuna Island, the

CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY _ 291

steward came softly up to Maudsley and touched his
arm.

“The second mate is dead, sir.”

Maudsley’s hands gripped the spokes of the wheel
tightly, and then he ran his eye aloft before he
answered.

“Was he conscious, steward?”

“Yes, sir, he was—just at the last. He arst fur
you, sir; an’ when I told ’im that you was at the
wheel, an’ the skipper an’ the rest of the hands was
gettin’ ready for anchorin’, he says to me, ‘ Don’t call
the mate, steward, but tell ’im as there’s a letter under
my piller for some one as he’s a-heard me a-speakin’
of.” An’ without another word, sir, he turns on his
side an’ dies nice and quiet.”

“All right, steward. Go below and get mea stiff
glass of brandy. And, look here, while I think of it,
put that letter of Mr. Belton’s in the captain’s cabin.
Hurry up now, you damned Cockney swab, and bring
me that brandy—I want it.”

The steward disappeared without a word, and soon
came on deck again with half a tumblerful of liquor.

The chief mate, his hand now quite steady, took
the glass.

“Thank you, steward. You’re no Cockney swab,
but a good little chap. There’s a twenty-dollar gold
piece in the top after-drawer of my locker—that’s for
you... . Yousee I’ve got the fever pretty bad this
time, and as like as not I’ll slip my cable—you know
what that means, my Borough Road fried-fish-eating
friend, don’t you, though you’re no sailor man?
Sometimes it means going to hell suddenly, instead
of having a parson to ‘ready’ you up for it, though as

292 CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY

like as not he’ll tell you that you'll appear as white as
snow before the throne of God. . . . Clear out, damn
you! What the devil are you staring at? The
skipper will want his coffee presently.”

The steward, an under-sized, bent-shouldered old
man, placed his hand on the edge of the skylight and
looked into Maudsley’s face.

“You're very ill, sir—I can see that. Can’t I call
one of the hands, sir, to take the wheel ? ”

‘“No, you can’t. Go below and get that twenty-
dollar piece and stow it away—and clap a stopper on
your jaw-tackle, you silly old fool !”

Presently Packenham came aft and stood beside
him,

“ We're all ready for’ard, Maudy.”

“Right you are, Pack. We'll go about presently ; :
another half hour will bring us close enough, I think,
though I can’t see where we are very well as yet.
Take a cast of the lead, will you, old man, as soon
as we are in stays? Oh, God! Look there!” and
he sprang down off the poop to the main hatch and
tried to beat back the upward rush of threescore or
more of naked savages with his clenched fists.

Packenham and the three seamen ran to his aid‘
and then began a deadly struggle—the white men
trying to hurl back the savages into the hold instead
of using their revolvers. But in less than ten seconds
one of the sailors was thrown down upon his back and
his brains dashed out with a tomahawk; then, and not
till then, was a shot fired. Packenham was the first
to bring his pistol into play, and none too soon, for a
huge Tanna man had seized him by the beard with
his left hand, and in another moment would have

CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY = 293

driven a knife into his heart. The sharp crack of
the heavy Colt was followed by another and another,
and each time a native went down; then came the
loud reports of the seamen’s carbines, and the lust of
slaughter had seized upon them all, as, flinging aside
their firearms, they drew their heavy cutlasses and
slashed and cut and stabbed the naked figures of the
now maddened islanders. Up to this time not more
than thirty had succeeded in actually gaining the deck
by means of the ladder they had so cunningly made
and placed in position ; and of these eight or ten were
lying either dead or dying on the deck, as many more
had been hurled below, and the rest, when they saw
Packenham cut down two of their number and the
boatswain smash the skull of a third with the butt of
his carbine, turned and fled for’ard. Some of them
ran up the forerigging, and these were being picked
off one by one by Tommy Samoa and the other
seamen, when Maudsley struck their weapons from
their hands, and fiercely bade them cease such useless
slaughter.

“On with the hatches,” he said pantingly, as he
stooped over the coamings and pulled up the ladder
the natives had placed in position—a mere bamboo
pole with half-a-dozen cross-pieces lashed to it with
cinnett—“on with the hatches, men. They’ll give
in now, but we must take no further risks, and there
must be no more of this bloody work.”

As the hatches were being put on, Maudsley leant
over and looked at the savages below. They had all
gathered as far aft as possible, believing that the white
men, now that daylight had come, would open fire on
them.

294 CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY

Maudsley bade them remain quiet ; their lives would
be spared, he said, if they obeyed him. Then he
called to those of their number who were aloft, and
_ told them to come down and go below. They stared
at him sullenly and refused.

“Then stay there, you brutes,” he said with a
curse; “they can’t hurt us, Packenham, up there.
Now let us get to anchor.”

A cut from a tomahawk had laid open his cheek,
and Packenham, who himself had a_ knife-thrust
through the arm, quickly bound it up, and then
Maudsley again went aft to the wheel and brought
the barque to an anchor under a high-wooded bluff on
the western point of Alofi Island, and in water as
calm as that of a mountain lake. The bodies of the
dead natives were then thrown overboard, and that of ©
the white sailor carried aft and laid beside the second
mate’s in the cabin.

Then, when those of the crew who had been
wounded had had their hurts attended to by the
captain and steward, the ensanguined decks were
washed down, coffee and biscuit were served out, and
Maudsley went for’ard, and again urged the Tanna
men who were aloft to come down.

“If we are to die, we can die here,” was their
sullen answer.

The white man was losing patience ; the wound on
his face made him feel sick and faint, and a sudden
spasm of ague shook his frame. He took his pistol
from his belt.

“I promise you that no harm shall be done to you
if you come down quickly and go into the hold with
your countrymen. Have I ever lied to you?”

CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY 295

“No,” replied the oldest man of the four—a wild-
eyed, vicious-faced brute, with his hair twisted into
countless tiny curls, which hung in a greasy tangle
down his neck and cheeks.

“Then do as I bid you, or I shall kill you from
where I stand—quick!” and he raised his right
hand.

Slowly and suspiciously they descended, still grasping
their blood-stained knives and tomahawks. As they
reached the deck they stopped and glared about them
with the ferocity and fear of hunted tigers.

“Keep back there, men,” said Maudsley to the
crew who were standing near the main-hatch, “ they’ll
want a bit of coaxing. Hang a line over the for’ard
end of the hatch so that they can get down.” Then
putting his revolver back into its pouch, he unbuckled
the belt and laid it down on the windlass.

“ Now, come with me, men of Tanna,” he said
quietly, “no one shall hurt you. See, I hold no
weapon in my hand, and the rest of the white men,
too, have laid down their guns.” Beckoning to them
to follow, he walked to the hatchway, then turned
and faced them.

“Now listen. Take hold of that rope and go
down one by one. And tell your countrymen and
the men of Pentecost that if they sit down quietly
till the sun is high in the sky they shall have food and
water given them. “Then when all the badness is
out of their minds, they shall come on deck, ten at
a time, and the smell of blood will no longer be in our
nostrils. But before food and water is given, every
knife, every tomahawk and every club must be brought
on deck to me by two men. Now give me these,”

296 CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY

and he reached his hands out for the weapons they
themselves carried.

Two heavy butcher knives and one tomahawk
were, after a little hesitation, given up, were at once
thrown over the side, and the three disarmed savages
went below ; the fourth man—he with the greasy
curls—still clutched his tomahawk tightly.

“ Come, be quick,” said Maudsley, give it to me.”

“Take it, white man!” and the native swinging
the keen-edged weapon swiftly above his head, struck
it deep into the officer’s side, and with a yell of
triumph he sprang over the side and swam for the
shore—only to throw up his arms and sink as Packen-
ham sent a bullet through his head, before he was
fifty yards away from the ship.

“T’m done for, Packenham, old man . . . No, don’t
carry me aft, time’s too short. There’s a letter for
poor Belton’s girl, Pack., which you must give to her.
Tell her she must forgive me for tempting him to ship
on this cruise—my last cruise, old man.”

Very gently they lifted and carried him aft and
quickly rigged an awning, for the sun was blazing hot
and fiercely upon the vessel’s decks. Then Packen-
ham, with the quick-falling tears coursing down his
bronzed and bearded face, knelt beside the dying man
and took his hand.

Maudsley opened his eyes and smiled at his captain
and gave a faint answering pressure. ‘Don’t you
worry, old fellow. Somehow I don’t much care. But
it was hard for poor Belton to die—he was a bright
young shaver, and a gentleman. [ve got my gruel

4
=

:

CRUISE OF JOHN MAUDSLEY 297

this time, and I’m not going to make a—song over it.
And I’m no loss to any one.”

Then in slow, laboured words he told Packenham
what should be done. The sick natives should be put
ashore as soon as possible ; the rest disarmed and kept
confined till aid could be obtained from the white
traders on Fotuna, who would find him native sailors
to help sail the barque to Samoa. Nothing escaped
him, nothing was forgotten in his seaman’s mind that
bore upon the ship and her safety.

“¢ How does she lie, old man ?” he asked presently.

“Snug as possible, Tom,” answered the captain
brokenly.

“Plenty of room to swing if the wind comes from
the westward ?”

Plenty. Tom, old man, I’ve sent the boat to
Singavi for the French priest. She should be back by
noon.”

Maudsley shook his head. “I don’t want any
doctoring, Pack. ‘That buck sent it home properly.”
Suddenly, by a mighty effort he half raised himself.

“Steward, boatswain, come here; I want you
fellows to witness that I have said that all the money
coming to me for this cruise is to be paid to Captain
Packenham.”: Then he sank back again, and motioned
to the captain to come closer.

“ Pack.,” he whispered, “send it all to Belton’s
girl.”

Packenham bent his head, and then Maudsley the
Recruiter gave a long, heavy sigh and closed his eyes
—his last cruise was ended.

*

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SAN INCIDENT OUT WESE’”

BY FRANK RICHARDSON

“AN INCIDENT OUT WEST”
BY FRANK RICHARDSON

HE wind is sighing drearily through the trees
As the boundary rider makes his daily round,
And by the waning light he dimly sees
A human form stretched out upon the ground.

The face gleamed pale and haggard as with pain,
The tongue was lolling swollen, dry and red.

He must have crossed full forty miles of plain,
His eyes were almost starting from his head.

The rider gave him water from his bag,

He rubbed his joints to take the stiffness out ;
And lifting him he put him on the nag,

And walking by his side they both set out.

*Twas nightfall when they reached the lonely camp,
And after he had hobbled out his horse,
The rider said, while lighting his slush lamp,

“ What, in God’s name, made you attempt to cross?”
301

302 “AN INCIDENT OUT WEST”

With trembling lips the stranger spoke—You say
I nearly perished on the plain to-night ?

A horseman overtook me on the way,
And but for this I should have been all right.

I had a water-bag, both full and good,
And when he said he’d take it to the tree,
I trusted him, and really thought he would
Be good enough to leave it there for me.

Six miles it was, and I was nearly perished
When I got up the rise and to the tree,

The kindest thought I ever knew and cherished
Was gone. He had not left it there for me !

I struggled on across the desert plain,
And saw that now my chances were but few
To ever see a comrade’s face again,
And should have died to-night there but for you.

If e’er I get upon that horseman’s track
I'll follow while the sky is overhead ;
I'll never leave it till I’ve paid him back,

And left him on the desert lying dead.

UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.

A Cwilight Ceaching

AND OTHER POEMS

BY

Asie Ac si ES EE be:
PUBLISHED BY T. FISHER UNWIN. 6s. nett.

SOME PRESS OPINIONS.

The Observer, London, April toth, 1898.

“Mrs. Fisher bids fair to become the poet of Australia. There are
passages in her volume of fragments which far surpass anything written
by Gordon. . . . ‘A Twilight Teaching’ is a pleasure to read, and it
should be greeted as a volume of genuine poetic feeling.”

Black and White, April 23rd, 1898.

“Mrs. Fisher should publish only her best. That best is two-fold.
We have some very light and graceful pieces, for instance the old myth
of Syrinx. Then towards the end of the book we have some good stuff,
sincere and written with true feeling, especially the poems of mother-
hood.”

The Morning Post, August 26th.

“¢Telle est la Vie’ narrates a sort of Enoch Arden story simply and
forcibly, and ‘At Night’ is a fine apostrophe to the ocean, The author
is one of the little band of poets who are creating an Australian litera-
ture.”

Literary Gazette, June 2oth, 1898.

“*¢My Loves and I’ is a poem, a perfectly poetical expression of a
wife’s and mother’s love. The first verse of ‘Cleopatra’ and ‘On a
White Bird’ also achieve perfection. Here then we have an amount of
poetry equal in volume to ‘The Burial of Sir John Moore,’ which has
proved sufficient to confer immortality on its author, though the rest of
his works are forgotten.”

PRESS OPINIONS—Continued

The Aberdeen Free Press, April 11th, 1898.

“This little volume of lyric, narrative and descriptive poems throws a
varied light upon the genius of the authoress. It is the work of an
Australian . . . of one who loves her country with a deep devotion, and
can never tire of singing its praises. The structure of the poems will be
found simple and artistic, and they bear traces of a sympathetic abandon-
ment to the deeper and more subtle influences of nature, and a pathetic
consciousness of the sorrowful aspects of life. The subjects dealt with
in the lyrics are treated in a manner which is at once sincere and
beautiful.”

Wide Bay and Burnett News. Queensland.

“Lala Fisher is a singer of sweet and tender songs of love and sorrow.
. . « Possibly the poem that gives its title to the book is the best in the
collection, but there are many exquisite thoughts and well-turned lines
scattered among the other pieces in the work. . . . She gives us a
volume of tender, heartfelt songs that even a weary mind can sit down
and enjoy.”

The Scotsman, March 31st, 1898.

“Mrs, Fisher's book is a readable collection of Australian verse. It
is so good natured, so fluent, so easy-going and so frankly fond of every-
thing Australian that it cannot but please many readers on both sides of
the terraqueous globe.”

The Dundee Advertiser, April 7th, 1898.

“Mrs. Fisher is a genuine poet. . . . The sunshine and flowers of
the golden land would seem to have imparted colour and freshness to
her fancy, and the musical ring of her poetry suggests an optimistic

spirit. One verse in the collection is at once airy and profound. It -

seems literally to float into the reader’s memory and at the same time it
has a wonderful depth of thought and a glamour of tender melancholy.
‘I have loved—not the virtue or beauty. . . Of women remembered
though dead,” &c. The poem ‘On hearing a canary sing’ has some-
thing of the Shelley spirit in it, and there is a classic grace about the
pen-picture of ‘Hero and Leander.’ Other pieces of merit might be
named, but the critical reader will quickly discern the gems as they
appear.”

The Morning Bulletin, Rockhampton, Q.

“Mrs. Fisher is not a great poet, but that she possesses the faculty
divine, few who have read her effusions, and know what real poetry
means, will deny. Poetic feeling in her is sparkling and evanescent.
. . . Those pieces born of a sudden glow of passion shine with true
poetry. She has a good ear for rhythm, and a faculty for rhyme, which
contribute to make her poems sweetly musical.”

= aed

POOKS FOR
PECREATION
AND SIUDY

PUBLISHED BY

CUBA AND PORTO RICO

THE WEST INDIES, —

BY ROBERT T. HILL,

Of the United States Geological Survey.

BAHAMAS, A valuable Work of Reference.
JAMAICA, A Scientific Presentation.
as HAITI, An indispensable Guide.

SAN DOMINGO, A readable Narrative.

Flora,

ST. THOMAS, 500 Pages.

4 Climate

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hat ANTIGUA, Price 16s.

* Products, |
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as “He has written the most ST. VINCENT,

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: is va published on the subject.’— GRENADA,

G Statistics, Chicago Tribune. :

History, “His volume of 429 pages, with TRINIDAD.

profuse Illustrations and an index, forms
a little condensed library of reference.”—
N.Y. Times.

“The book is well and ably written .. . is
brightened by a truly magnificent series of photo-
graphs . . . beautifully reproduced on fine paper.” —
Edinburgh Scotsman.

f Routes of travel,

&

# Administration,

Accessibility,

Possibilities.

Tourists to Cuba, Porto Rico and the West Indies will find this a
most reliable and the only General Handbook.

T. FISHER UNWIN, PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON.

me sleet este etek terete sesbsbse sesh 34

GREAT ART BOOKS
EDITED BY JOSEPH PENNELL.

Lithography and Lithographers:
SOME CHAPTERS IN THE HISTORY OF THE ART.

With Technical Remarks and Suggestions by JOSEPH and ELIZABETH
ROBINS PENNELL. Together with 154 Illustrations, besidesa Frontispiece
Portrait of Joseph Pennell by JaMES MCNEILL WHISTLER, and other
original lithographs by A. Legros, W. Strang, C. H. Shannon, A. Lunois,
J. McLure Hamilton and T. R, Way. (133 X 10} inches, xiii + 279 pp.)
43 13s. 6d. net. Also, a Fine Edition signed by JOSEPH PENNELL ;
on Japan paper, £15 Iss. net.

“The selection is done as admirably as the reproduction, which is saying much.... The
authors .... present, in fact, the first complete and intelligent historical survey of the art in the
different countries of the world.” —St. James's Gazette.

“The present volume contains a great number of admirably-reproduced examples by many

artisis, and these illustrate in a very complete manner, not only the growth of ideas in regard to
lithography, but also the varied possibilities of the stone in different hands.” —Morning Post.

SOS GR GO GE HO HE FO OVC HE RE HE GE GE HE HE TE TE He

ae

“The Greatest English Artist since Hogarth.”

“The Work of Charles Keene.

With Introduction and Comments by JOSEPH PENNELL, and numerous
Pictures illustrative of the artist’s method and vein of humour ; to which
is added a Bibliography of Selected Works and Notes by W. H. CHEsson.
The Edition is limited to 750 copies (250 of these for America) , an Ordinary
Edition at £3 13s. 6d. net., and 15 copies of a Fine Edition at
AIS 15s. net.
“This work....will be a revelation even to those who are beginning to estimate this
consummate artist at his true merit.” —Lzterature.
“Mr. Pennell’s is the fullest critical appreciation of Keene we have yet had.’—Dazly News.
“Extraordinarily good and well worth having .... we thank Mr. Pennell very warmly for the
thorough performance of a task that called out to be aceomplished.”—Dazly Chronicle.
“The bibliography by Mr. W. H. Chesson ....is a labour of real merit and value, carried
out in a thorough and workmanlike manner.’— Graphic,

‘“* The Masterpiece of a Great Spanish Artist.”

PABLO DE SEGOVIA:

The Adventures of a Spanish Sharper.
BY FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO, —

Illustrated with over 100 Drawings by DANIEL VIERGE. With an Introduction
on “ Vierge and his Art,” by JOSEPH PENNELL ; and “A Critical Essay
on Quevedo, and his Writings,” by H. E. WATTs, Super royal 4to,

- parchment, old style (limited edition), £3 13s. 6d. net.

ondon: T. FISHER UNWIN, PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
Of os of of of ofa of cf of ofa of ofa of of of ofa of of ef of of ofp of of of of of of ofp of ofp

PoPrefs oho efecfrofo elec fo ofi oo cfs of efo choo of of of ofp of ofa of ofa of of ofo of of ef of of efi os of ois of of ofp of ef of foe

Re ee ee eee EE SR SRE GO

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BE fo of ofo ofp of of of cfs

bis
<e

tT. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,

SIX-SHILLING NOVELS

In uniform green cloth, large crown 8vo., gilt tops, G@Bg
We
Effie Hetherington. By RoBeRT BUCHANAN, Second Edition.
An Outcast of the Islands. By JosEPH ConrAp. Second Edition
Almayer’s Folly. By Jos—EpH ConrAD. Second Edition,
The Ebbing of the Tide. By Louis BEckE. Second Edition,
A First Fleet Family. By Louis BeckEe and WALTER JEFFERY.
Paddy’s Woman, and Other Stories. By HuMPHREY JAMES.
Clara Hopgood. By MARK RUTHERFORD. Second Edition.
The ios of John Oliver Hobbes. Portraitofthe Author. Secona
ditio

The Stickit Minister. By S.R. Crocketr. Eleventh Edition
The Liiac Sunbonmnet. By S.R.Crocketr. Sixth Edition.
The Raiders. By S.R.Crocketr. Eighth Edition.
The Grey Man. By S. R. CRockETT.
In a Man’s Mind. By J. R. WaTson.
A Daughter of the Fen. By J.T. BzatBy. Second Edition.
The Herb-Moon. By JoHN OLIVER HoszBeEs. Third Edition.
—— Noon. By BENJAMIN SwirT. Second Edition, With New

Preface.

Mr. Magnus. By F. REGINALD STATHAM. Second Edition.

Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland. By OLIVE SCHREINER.
Frontispiece.

Pacific Tales. By Louis Beckre. With Frontispiece Portrait of
the Author. Second Edition.

Mrs. Keith’s Crime. By Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD. Sixth Edition.
With Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the Hon. JOHN COLLIER, and a New Preface by
the Author.

Hugh Wynne. By Dr. S, WEIR MITCHELL, With Frontispiece
Illustration.

The Tormentor. By BENJAMIN SwiFtT, Author of “ Nancy Noon.”

Prisoners of Conscience. By AMELIA E. Barr, Author of “Jan
Vedder's Wife.” With 12 Illustrations.

The Gods, some Mortals and Lerd Wickenham. New Edition,
By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.

The Outlaws of the Marches. By Lord ERNEsT HAMILTON,
Fully illustrated.

The School for Saints: Part of t:e History of the Right Honourable

Robert Orange, M.P. By JOHN OLIVER HOPBES, Author of “ Sinner’s Comedy,’
“Some Emotions and a Moral,” “The Herb Mooa,” &c.

The People of Clopton. By GEORGE BARTRAM.

ll, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.G, +

7y. FISHER UNWIN, Fublisher,

eet

WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD

AN OUTCAST OF THE
ISLANDS

Crown 8vo., cloth, GBs

“Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (vide first part of notice},
‘An Outcast of the Islands’ is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been
published this year, as ‘ Almayer’s Folly’ was one of the finest that was pub-
lished in 1895 - - - Surely this is real romance—the romance that is real.
Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living
realities of Mr. Conrad’s invention—of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer,
the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla—all novel, all
authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad’s quality. He
imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his individu-
alities and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian
Novel of his. -. - - Greatness is deliberately written ; the present writer has
read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some
days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands.” —Saturday Review

il

ALMAYER'SS FOLLY

Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, GS-

“This startling, umique, splendid book.”
Mr, T. P. O’Connop, M.-P.

“This is a decidely powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks fresh
ground in fiction. . - - All the leading characters in the book—Almayer, his
wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter’s native lover—are well drawn, and
the parting between father and daughter has a pathetic naturalness about it,
unspoiled by straining after effect. There are, too, some admirably graphic
passages in the book. The approach of a monsoon is most effectively
described. . , . The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears
to usas if he might become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago,” —Spectaror

2 SS ee ee

li, Paternoster Buildings, London, F.C. ¢

T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,

THE EBBING OF THE
TIDE :

LOUIS BECKE
Author of “ By Reef and Palm”

Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, Gs.

e

“Mr. Louis Becke wields a powerful pen, with the additional advantage
that he waves it in unfrequented places, and Summons up with it the elemental
passions of human nature, . . , It will be seen that Mr. Becke is somewhat
of the fleshly school, but with a pathos and power not given to the ordinary
professors of that school. , . Altogether for those who like stirring stories
cast in strange scenes, this is a book to be read,”—National Observer,

—

BACIFIC -TAjeae

LOUIS BECKE

With a Portrait of the Author

Second Edttion. Crown 8vo., cloth, Gs.

-

“ The appearance of a new book by Mr. Becke has become an event of note
—and very justly. No living author, if we except Mr. Kipling, has so amazin
a command of that unhackneyed vitality of phrase that mos people call by
the name of realism. Whether it is scenery or character or incident that he
wishes to depict, the touch is ever so dramatic and vivid that the reader is
conscious of a picture and impression that has no parallel save in the records
of actual sight and memory.” — Westminster Gazette.

“ Another series of sketches of island life in the South Seas, not inferior to
those contained in ‘By Reef and Palm,’ ”—Sheaker,

“The book is well worth treading. The author knows what he is talking
about and has a keen eye for the picturesque.”—G. B, BURGIN in To-day,

“A notable contribution to the fomance of the South Seas.”

T. P. O’ConNor, M.P,, in The Graphie,

1

ll, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.C, ad

T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,

means) FLEET FAMILY:
PeeNnG A HITHERTO
UNPUBLISHED NARRA-
feve OF CERTAIN RE-
mee KABLE ADVEN-
Meee S. COMPILED
eeoMvM THE PAPERS OF
SeRGEANT WILLIAM
Pew, OF THE MARINES

BY
LOUIS BECKE and WALTER JEFFERY
Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s-

a

“As convincingly real and vivid as a narrative can
be.” —Sketch.

“No maker of plots could work out a better story of its
kind, nor balance it more neatly.”—Daily Chronicle.

“ A book which describes a set of characters varied and
so attractive as the more prominent figures in this romance,
and a book so full of life, vicissitude, and peril, should be
welcomed by every discreet novel reader.” —Yorkshire Post.

“A very interesting tale, written in clear and vigorous
English.” —Globe.

“The novel is a happy blend of truth and fiction, with a
purpose that will be appreciated by many readers; it has
also the most exciting elements of the tale of adventure.”

Morning Post.

ll, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.C. £

T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,

THE TALES OF Jaa
OLIVER HOBBES

With a Frontispiece Portrait of the Author

Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, Gs.

ob

“ The cleverness of them all is extraordinary.” —Guerdian.

“The volume proves how little and how great a thing it is to write a
‘Pseudonym. Four whole ‘Pseudonyms’ ... are easily contained
within its not extravagant limits, and these four little books have given
John Oliver Hobbes a recognized position as a master of epigram and
narrative comedy.” —St. Fames’s Gazette,

“ As her star has been sudden in its rise so may it stay long with us!
Some day she may give us something better than these tingling, pulsing,
mocking, epigrammatic morsels.” —7imes,

“ There are several literary ladies, of recent origin, who have tried
to come up to the society ideal ; but John Oliver Hobbes is by far the
best writer of them all, by far the most capable artist in fiction... ,
She is clever enough for anything.” —Saturday Review.

THE HERB MOON

JOHN OLIVER HOBBES

Third Edition, Crown 8vo., cloth, Gs.

s

“The jaded reader who needs sauce for his literary appetite cannot
do better than buy ‘The Herb Moon.’”—Ziterary World.

“A book to hail with more than common pleasure. The epigram-
matic quality, the power of rapid analysis and brilliant presentation
are there, and added to these a less definable quality, only to be
described as charm... . ‘The Herb Moon’ is as clever as most of
its predecessors, and far less artificial,’”—A theneeum.

ll, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.C, 4

T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,

THE TALES OF JOHN
OLIVER HOBBES

With a Frontispiece Portrait of the Author

Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, Gs.

ob

“The cleverness of them all is extraordinary,” —Guerdian.

“The volume proves how little and how great a thing it is to write a
‘Pseudonym. Four whole ‘Pseudonyms’ .,. . are easily contained
within its not extravagant limits, and these four little books have given
John Oliver Hobbes a recognized position as a master of epigram and
narrative comedy.” —St. Fames’s Gazette.

“ As her star has been sudden in its rise so may it stay long with us!
Some day she may give us something better than these tingling, pulsing,
mocking, epigrammatic morsels.’—7imes,

“ There are several literary ladies, of recent origin, who have tried
to come up to the society ideal ; but John Oliver Hobbes is by far the
best writer of them all, by far the most capable artist in fiction... .
She is clever enough for anything.” —Saturday Review.

THE HERB MOON

JOHN OLIVER HOBBES

Third Edition, Crown 8vo., cloth, Gs.

S

“ The jaded reader who needs sauce for his literary appetite cannot
do better than buy ‘ The Herb Moon.’”—Ziterary World.

“A book to hail with more than common pleasure, The epigram-
matic quality, the power of rapid analysis and brilliant presentation
are there, and added to these a less definable quality, only to be
described as charm... . ‘The Herb Moon’ is as clever as most of
its predecessors, and far less artificial.” —A theneum.

1], Paternoster Buildings, London, E.C. 4

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