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In writing the story of Waitaruna, it has been the aim and endeavour of the author to present to the reader some true pictures of life in the southern portion of the colony of New Zealand, as it was a short time ago, and to some extent still is; but already the rapid advance which the country has made within the past few years has wrought many changes. Although the pictures are drawn from life, they are not pre-Raphaelite in detail; for the depicting of the ordinary humdrum routine of station life, or work on the diggings, would have proved neither an agreeable task to the writer, nor interesting to many readers. Yet sufficient glimpses of such details have been given to enable the reader to complete the pictures which have been strung together, as it were, by a story, not very interesting in itself, perhaps, to the ordinary run of novel readers, but one which it is hoped will help to a better knowledge of life in the
If the simple story of Waitaruna ends in removing, however slightly, the great ignorance which prevails among many of the people of Britain, regarding these fair Southern Islands, fondly and proudly called "The Britain of the South," the writer will feel amply rewarded for his labours; but those who desire information regarding the wealth and progress of this magnificent colony, must avail themselves of other sources of information.
— "Away the good ship sails and leaves Old England on the lee." Cunningham
"Hullo! Langton, what are you doing in this part of the world? I didn't expect to meet you here."
"How are you, Arthur? I daresay you will be surprised when I tell you I am here for the purpose of getting away from this part of the world. I am on my way to New Zealand, and sail to-morrow in the Netherby."
"You don't mean it, old man," replied the first speaker; "but I daresay it is true enough, for you always were a lucky dog. How I wish I were you."
The two lads, who had seen nothing of each other since they parted company, some months before, at old Fusby's educational establishment, had, of
Gilbert Langton tried to dissuade his friend from entertaining any such notion, and, thinking that he had done so, left him with many promises to write by every mail, and obtained a similar promise from Arthur, who agreed to give a full and true history of all the old Fusbyites in return for Langton's accounts of his own personal adventures.
The idea of running away from home having taken possession of Arthur Leslie's mind, was not so easily dismissed as Gilbert Langton seemed to think; for Arthur's uncle and guardian, with whom he resided, had spoken once or twice lately about giving Arthur a seat in his counting-house, and this was by no means a pleasant prospect in the eyes of that young gentleman. When, therefore, he had bid good-bye Netherby, and, going on board, he had an interview with the cook, which must have been of a very satisfactory nature, for a short time afterwards he might have been seen proceeding rapidly homewards with a self-satisfied air. Next morning all was bustle and excitement on board the Netherby. The pilot bawling to the men on board the tug, passengers and their friends taking sorrowful leave of one another, or, Mark Tapley-like, trying to look "jolly" in the most disadvantageous circumstances. Soon they were well under way, and the waving figures on the pier became gradually more and more indistinct.
Gilbert Langton was amongst the last to turn from gazing towards the shore, and as he busied himself in arranging his luggage in his cabin he sighed once or twice, for he knew his mother and sisters would still be watching the receding ship, but his excitement and the novelty of his position kept any feeling of sadness pretty well at bay. Afterwards, when he had done everything that suggested itself in the way of putting his cabin in order, and when he began to experience first the qualms of seasickness, then also did feelings of regret and homesickness take possession of his mind. The mental suffering was soon overpowered by the greater virulence of the bodily affliction; and Gilbert, devoutly wishing himself anywhere but where he was, retired to his bunk
Early next morning he awoke, with the impression that the house was coming down, and was surprised to find himself in bed with the most of his clothes on. He was not long, however, in collecting his faculties, and, remembering the advice which had been given him in case of seasickness, to keep as much on deck as possible, he rolled out of bed, and, after a not very successful attempt at washing, with the floor anything but horizontal, and by no means steady withal, he clambered clumsily up the companion to the poop.
"Well, youngster," said Mr. Spanker the mate, who was pacing the deck, "you're up betimes this morning, but you've not got your sea-legs yet, I notice."
"I don't know about that," said Gilbert; "but I thought I was on my last legs yesterday."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the mate. "You're all right, my boy, when you can make a joke, even though it is a lame one; there can't be much wrong with you. But what the dickens is the matter with you, Pat?"
The last remark was addressed to an excited looking young Irishman who appeared suddenly from the main deck.
"Mather enough, your honour; but it's Michael Dunovan that's my name, sir, and was my father's before me; and sure an' I wish I was back with the ould man in Tipperary, and had never thought about
"If that's all that's the matter with you, Mike, go back to your work in the galley."
"The galley—the divil!" said Mike incoherently.
"Go to your work," thundered Mr. Spanker; "do you know you're speaking to the chief officer, sir? Don't come fooling round here with your nonsense, if you're wise."
"I axe your pardin, sir, I didn't mane no nonsense; but as I was going into the galley a few minutes ago, I heard the most awful groaning, and I thought it was the ould gintleman himself."
"Was the cook there?" asked the mate.
"No, your riverance, there was nobody there; that's the quare thing."
"Don't you 'rivrance' me. I expect that old blackguard of a cook has got drunk, and if we have to trust to you for our breakfast it's a poor lookout."
At this moment the Captain came up from his cabin, and learning what was wrong he descended to the main deck, and, followed by the fearful Mike, made for the galley.
As Captain Seebon entered the galley he heard a faint groan, but whence the sound came he was unable to discover; for, as Mike had stated, the place was empty. The sound evidently did not come from the other end of the deck-house, which was divided from the galley by a thick wooden partition; for, though faint, it seemed close at hand. The Captain
"Bear a hand here and undo the lashings of these slush barrels," shouted the skipper, adding to himself, in a muttered tone, "I wonder it didn't strike me to ask that lubber of a cook how he had managed to fill one of his barrels before starting."
Two of the hands speedily obeyed the Captain's order, and turned the barrel over, when it proved to have been standing bottom upwards, the bottom hidden by a layer of fat, while, from the inside, there appeared the legs of a man. Catching hold of these the sailors dragged the stowaway from his hiding-place. The poor wretch seemed more dead than alive.
"Turn him over and let's look at him," said the Captain.
"Impossible!" explained Gilbert, who approached as they did so. "No, it can't be! but it is Arthur Leslie."
Arthur Leslie it was sure enough, and he was soon recovered sufficiently to answer Gilbert's eager questions.
He had bribed the cook to hide him, which was done early in the morning of the day of sailing.
"You may be thankful that Mike heard you," said Gilbert, "for I believe a very short time longer in that horrid old tub would have finished you."
"Ah! well I'm free, and my own master at last," replied Arthur in his easy-going style; "and you know 'all's well that ends well.'"
"It's somewhat unfortunate for you, young man, if being your own master is your object," said Captain Seebon, "that the pilot's gone, for you would have more chance of being your own master on shore than you'll have here, as you'll learn before the Netherby reaches England again. If there is anything you have to be thankful for, it is that Mr. Langton's knowing you has saved you a dance to the tune of a rope's-end that would have loosened your stiff joints, I'll warrant."
"By the finger that burns," broke in from Mike, "it would have served him right well too, for frightening a dacent Christian out of his wits."
"Hold your tongue, you chattering fool, or you may know more about it. Go and fetch the cook, and look sharp too," said the Captain; and turning angrily to Leslie, he ordered him to go forward and take his orders from the "bo'swain."
The cook, it turned out, had invested the money he had received from Leslie in a private stock of rum, his attentions to which had been rather too assiduous, for now he lay helpless in his bunk, and Mike in consequence was for that day promoted from the post of "bottle-washer" to that of "chief cook"—a circumstance which did not tend to increase the amiability of Captain Seebon, nor the comfort of his passengers.
Gilbert found enough to occupy him during the day in beginning his journal, which he had promised to send to his mother, with a full account of the occurrence of the morning, and in making the acquaintance of his fellow-passengers. His cabin was shared with a young man of about his own age, who affected the languid swell, and whose sole object in life seemed to be to pour as much beer down his throat as possible. Percy Brown seemed to think there was something manly in making a beer barrel of himself, and boastfully talked of the number of bottles of that liquor he consumed per diem, till at length the steward began to have some fears as to Mr. Brown's ability to liquidate his rapidly lengthening bill; but Percy talked grandly about his intention of devoting himself to pastoral pursuits, and
"We have, however, been progressing rather too fast, and must return to the evening of the eventful day we have just described.
Every one had gone to bed, and Langton and Brown had been asleep for some hours, when they were both awakened by some one, as they thought, in their cabin. The nature of the intruder was soon revealed by a decidedly swinish grunt, and on Gilbert's springing from his bed the intruder bolted into the saloon. Arming themselves with the first weapons that came to hand, Gilbert and Brown gave chase, but, with the usual obstinacy of his race, master pig would go every way but the way he was wanted. Several faces appeared at the doors of the different cabins, peering round their curtains at the two white figures, just visible by the dim light of the lowered lamp, dodging and chasing another white object round the table, administering to it an occasional smart whack, and talking in stage whispers, as if under the impression that they were making no noise at all. At length they succeeded in driving the errant porker out of the saloon, Gilbert dealing him a parting blow to quicken his movements. The blow proved disastrous to more than the pig, for the walking-stick with which it was dealt, snapped over his bristly back.
"O Brown!" said Langton, "I'm sorry to say I have broken your stick."
"My stick! What business had you taking it? I can't get another like it out of London."
"I could not see in the dark what I was taking, you know," Langton said apologetically.
"Well, old fellow," replied Brown, "don't mention it, for I find I have broken the cleaning rod of your gun; I could not see either, you know."
With a laugh over their mutual misfortune, they retired again to their respective shelves.
Gilbert Langton had not usually to complain of sleeplessness, but on the present occasion, whether it was that he had already got through that mysterious, incomprehensible something, of which he had heard his mother speak as her "first sleep," but which, in Gilbert's case, generally lasted till near breakfast time, or whether the excitement of a nocturnal pig hunt in the middle of the ocean had proved too much for his nervous system, he could not tell; nevertheless the result remained the same—he could not sleep. To make matters worse, Percy Brown, Esquire (according to the inscription on his boxes), having been more successful in his attempts at wooing the "dull god," now broke forth in an exultant pæan, with an instrument not usually the vehicle of the human voice, but which imparted to it a strong resemblance to the grunting of their late visitor. This was too much for Gilbert, so, donning his clothes, he went on deck.
'Twas a lovely night. The moon was shining brightly from the cloudless yet starless sky. The clean white deck looked cleaner and whiter than by day. The distended sails seemed made of the fairest of snowy linen. The vessel was scudding along. The wind on her quarter caused her to heel over, so that to the charmed youth it appeared but a step from the deck to the glittering silvery pathway of the moonbeams leading from where he stood over the moving expanse of waters. Whither did this dazzling pathway lead? We know, not but it led Gilbert's thoughts to the loved ones left behind. This gallant ship, steadily ploughing her unmarked course, was hourly bearing him further from them. Possibly his mother was then lying awake thinking of him, or asking God to bless her boy. His sisters were probably slumbering peacefully. He did not know before that he loved them so well; even of Maud, with whom he had frequently been at variance, he thought fondly, and, thinking a prayer to Our Father to protect and keep them all, he turned his mind to other subjects. He thought of Arthur Leslie, of whom he had seen nothing since the morning, and pitied him for the unaccustomed discomforts he must endure roughing it with the sailors. Then he bethought him of the anxiety of Arthur's friends at home, and hoped the Netherby might meet a vessel by which he could send some message. Next his meditations, annihilating distance, carried him to his journey's end. But why follow him
Some half an hour afterwards Mr. Spanker found him fast asleep on the hencoop, and with difficulty roused him.
"I've not been asleep, have I?" said Gilbert; "I came on deck because I couldn't sleep."
"Well, if you don't call it sleeping, perhaps I'm not awake," replied Mr. Spanker. "But you'll catch cold, or perhaps something worse, if you go to sleep like that, with the moon so bright too."
"The moon won't hurt me, surely. I don't believe in that sort of nonsense."
"Don't be so sure of that. But come and take a turn to warm you before you go below," said the mate, taking Gilbert by the arm. "I don't know how it may be on land," Mr. Spanker continued, "but I know that at sea the moon has great power. I remember when I was quite a youngster a whole ship's crew of us were nearly killed by the moon."
"Killed by the moon! How could that be?" exclaimed Gilbert.
"I was going to tell you if you had not been in such a hurry," said Spanker exasperatingly. "Well, you see it was this way. We had caught a porpoise, and next morning we had some cooked for breakfast, and as we had not seen fresh meat for some time, we enjoyed it and ate heartily. In about an hour everybody turned ill, our heads swelled, and some of their bodies turned as red as lobsters. If the
"But what has that got to do with the moon?" said Gilbert in astonishment.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you that the porpoise had been hanging in the rigging all the night before, when it had been very bright moonlight; and as most of us had eaten porpoise previously and never been the worse for it, the moonshine on the meat was the only thing we could think of."
"I'll turn in again now," said Gilbert; "goodnight." Thinking he might henceforth claim to be possessed of his sea-legs, he, for the third time that night, rolled into his bunk, and, in spite of Mr. Brown's snoring, was soon asleep.
"Where the dancing waters play, And the winds their revel keep." — . Dibdin
The A i clipper ship Netherby steadily pursued her way, though that was sometimes made twice as long as it need have been through the perverseness of the wind, compelling her to tack backwards and forwards by a devious course. Gilbert Langton, however, did not find life monotonous, but on the contrary a very pleasant change from anything he had previously experienced. He was one of those youths who delight in always picking up scraps of information of all kinds, and from all sources. He was therefore eager to learn as much about ships and navigation as he could. He found much to interest him too in watching the sea-birds, and the few natural objects which presented themselves to his observant notice. The stormy petrels became his especial favourites, and he often sat at the stern watching their busy movements as, searching for food in the wake of the ship, they skimmed the surface of the waves, as if they were, indeed, like their illustrious namesake
With such resources as these, and that never-failing refuge from dulness, a good book, to say nothing of games at quoits or chess with some of his fellow-passengers, time passed pleasantly enough with Gilbert.
It was somewhat different with Arthur Leslie, who already heartily repented him of his rash step, and wished he had never left home, for he found that life before the mast was anything but a bed of roses. The rough fare and the discomforts of the "fo'c'stle" were bad enough, but the menial duties he had to perform were galling in the extreme. Even the apprentices bullied him, and his position on board seemed to be considered such by every one that they might fairly make a butt of him. He attempted to rebel at first, but that only led to his being ordered aloft to grease the fore-topgallant mast, and kept there for a whole afternoon—a duty which was to him, at least, unused as he was to such an elevated position, not unattended with personal danger, so that he found rebellion would not answer.
Gilbert took every opportunity of conversing with Arthur, and doing what he could to make matters more easy for him. He lent him some of his books, that he might be able to spend the time more pleasantly when off duty; but, unfortunately for himself, Arthur Leslie had never taken kindly to books, and had never acquired a love of reading, so that now he Netherby so intensely disagreeable as he did.
In due time the Tropic of Cancer was crossed, and notwithstanding the breeze which they still enjoyed, Gilbert found it advisable to follow the example of some of his fellow-passengers and don lighter clothing. Poor Mike found the heat of the galley intolerable, and was continually growling about it to any one who would listen to him; he did not, however, get much sympathy from the cook, who was a nigger, and seemed rather to enjoy the increased temperature himself. Mike kept clear of the galley as much as possible, and more than he ought; so that the cook, or the "black doctor," as he was most frequently called, could seldom get his Hibernian subordinate when he wanted him. This state of things finally culminated in blows; for on Mike's attempting to slip out one day, the "doctor" hit him on the head with such force, that he was driven against the side of the door, and his nose brought into such violent contact with the doorpost as to cause it to bleed. The first person Mike met was the
"Oh, please, sir," said Mike, "it was the cook; he knocked my head, and my head came against my nose!"
This reply was too much for the Captain's gravity, and, greatly to the astonishment of the innocent Michael, he laughed heartily. The result, however, was what Mike most wished for; for, after a slight reprimand, he was liberated from his post in the galley, and Arthur Leslie appointed in his stead.
Gilbert now found many more natural objects to interest him. One day a land bird visited the ship, and after resting for some hours in the rigging, it again took to the wing. Next morning, on coming on deck, he was surprised to see what looked like a flight of sparrows flying from the ship close to the water, into which they suddenly dropped. He at once knew they must be flying fish, though he could hardly believe it, they flew so like birds. But he soon had an opportunity of making their closer acquaintance, as during the next night three of them flew on board. Their wings were cut off and dried, whilst their bodies were cooked; but so many were anxious to partake of them, that there was hardly enough for each one to do more than guess at their flavour. And, although flights of flying fish were frequently seen afterwards, none of them ever so far forgot themselves as to board the Netherby. Sometimes the sea was covered with beautiful little
The attempt to make a sailor of Donovan was not more successful than the efforts of the "black doctor" had been to instruct him in the mysteries of a three-decker sea-pie, and such like triumphs
Donovan stared at the compass for some time, then looked at the sails, and then at the sea, and gravely answered, "Well, I should think right ahead, sir."
Gilbert smiled, but with exemplary patience went over all his explanation again, boxed the compass more than once, and again put the question. This time Mike was ready with his reply, and promptly answered, "North by south, sir."
"I fear you don't want to learn, or else you're a bigger fool than you look," said Gilbert, with some annoyance in his tone, as he left Mike to work out the problem.
"Well then," muttered Mike, "I don't know how a man can be bigger nor he looks; but they've got quare ways on board ship, and if ever I git to New Zealand, I'll go right away back to ould Ireland overland, as I have heard tell o' some gintlemen going, even though I've got to walk the whole road."
But Mike's experiences of life on board ship were
Gilbert Langton—who, notwithstanding his blackened face and disguise, had recognised in this marine messenger one of the sailors popularly known on board as the Russian Finn—received a letter as well as the rest. Opening it he read as follows:—
"Neptune sends greeting, and as he has not had the pleasure of seeing you in this part of his dominions before, he will be glad if you will attend his court to-morrow, when his Supreme Majesty will confer upon you the freedom of the sea.
"P.S.—You need not be afraid, all is in fun and for a lark."
Gilbert was amused with his summons to the regal presence of the King of the Sea, the postscript whereof afforded evidence that they were not punctilious in their language at the court of Neptune—a
"My word! did you see that?" looking over the port bulwark. "There she goes!" he exclaimed again. Every one pressed forwards and gazed into the already gathering darkness. "Where is it?" "What was it?" was asked eagerly by half a dozen voices at once.
"Did you not see Neptune's car drawn by sea-horses, with a merman driving them?" said Bradley. "Called for the postman, I'll be bound;" he added.
Every one turned to look for the postman, but he was gone as mysteriously as he had come. "Aye, there they go," said Bradley again, pointing this time over the stern.
There was something to be seen now, at any rate; for a little way off in the wake of the ship a light was visible, apparently floating on the surface of the water.
"That's the gig lamp they've just lighted," said Bradley in explanation. "Old Nep only burns one; but it's a big 'un, as you see."
"And looks uncommonly like a cask with tarry
"You deserve credit for the way you managed that, Bradley," said Gilbert; "attracting our attention to the one side, while the affair was put over the other."
"I suppose because you didn't see the car when it was alongside, that I didn't see it either?" said Bradley. "But if it was not here, where's the postman gone?"
"By the powers," said Mike, "I belave Mr. Bradley's roight."
"Well, Mike," said Gilbert, "if you don't find the postman in the fo'c'stle, you may be sure he's gone off in that blazing craft."
Mike went and looked in the "fo'c'stle," but found no one there but the Russian Finn, who was engaged in washing his face; and returned fully convinced that Neptune's car had called at the ship and taken, off the messenger; in fact, he began to think that he had caught a glimpse of the conveyance when Bradley pointed it out, and before the evening was over he felt quite sure that one of the horses was a piebald.
Next morning, when Gilbert came on deck for his bath, which consisted in getting the hose played on him for a few seconds when the men were washing the decks, he found that it was a dead calm, and
When Gilbert returned to the deck from breakfast, he was surprised to see the surface of the sea covered with innumerable little bubbles. There were thousands of them all glancing in the morning sun, and often showing iridescent hues. Evidently they were no bubbles, but creatures of some sort, and he at once commenced to fish for them as he had done for the Portuguese men-of-war. After a long time he succeeded in capturing one, and found it to be a beautiful little gelatinous creature with a flat oblong body of a brilliant blue, having a fringe of tentacles of the same colour, and from this bright body the clear colourless sail which had attracted his attention rose like half a large gelatine lozenge. Gilbert noticed that they appeared to have the power of turning over, sail downwards, when they wished to sink. One of the passengers told him the name of these beautiful little creatures was velella, so called of course from the little sail.
Whilst he was, engaged admiring the beauties of his captive, Langton's ears caught the sound of a fiddle, and looking up he saw that the King of the Seas had arrived. A procession issued from the
After marching round the deck, old Nep and his wife took their places, one at each end of the spar
"What is your name?" asked Neptune.
Mike essayed to answer, but as soon as he opened his mouth the barber thrust the lather brush nearly down his throat. Mike roared lustily, but that only led to a repetition of the dose, so he found it advisable to confine his efforts to violent sputtering. After lathering him well the barber scraped him with a razor, the blade of which was about two feet long, and made of hoop-iron. When this operation was concluded Mrs. Neptune hugged him affectionately, and seemed to impress a kiss on his cheek, but as she held several pins in her teeth, Mike did not relish the endearment. Before he could recover himself he was caught by the legs and tilted backwards into the sail, where he was received by the bears, who ducked him repeatedly. At the first chance Mike attempted to scramble out of his enforced bath, but unfortunately he chose the side towards the sea, and in his desperation climbed
This operation was repeated till all the novices had undergone it; and though the Captain had issued orders that no passenger was to be interfered with against his will, Gilbert and several of the others joined in the fun. Some grog was served out to the sailors, when the proceedings terminated.
Although Neptune had taken advantage of the calm morning to hold his court, the line was not crossed till late in the afternoon; and Langton was rather amused by hearing one of the children on board ask Mike where the line was, to which query that worthy's answer was that he supposed it was slack that day! Whether slack or taut, it had been crossed, and Gilbert felt as though the first stage of his journey had been accomplished.
A few days subsequent to this, the Netherby again lay becalmed, and Langton, pretending to read, but in reality dreaming of home as he watched the idle sails beat listlessly against the masts, was lolling on a rug spread on deck beneath the awning, when he was aroused by the cry of "A shark! a shark!" He started to his feet, and running to the stern saw the dorsal fin of the monster projecting from the calm surface of the water about a cable's length from the ship. A hook baited with a great junk of salt pork was procured and thrown over the stern,
They were now favoured with a long continuance of fair winds, which carried them rapidly southwards towards "the land of frost and snow," and albatrosses, Cape pigeons, and other winged inhabitants of the southern ocean were met with, Gilbert admired the black and white plumage of the Cape pigeons greatly, and hearing they were easily caught with a light line let out over the stern, he made the experiment, although rather sceptical of success. His line had not been out long, however, when one
"You don't know what you are doing," said Spanker apologetically, for he saw from Gilbert's face that he resented the interference.
"I beg your pardon," replied Gilbert stiffly, "I know very well what I am about; your remark, I think, applies to yourself."
"There now, don't get huffy; but you evidently don't know that it is unlucky to catch these birds. To do so brings a head wind to a certainty."
Gilbert laughed at Spanker's superstition, but as he was tired of his bird-fishing, he gave it up for the present at any rate.
A couple of hours afterwards the wind, which had been fair for days, went right round to the opposite quarter, and Mr. Spanker was exultant.
"There now! didn't I tell you how it would be! A head wind before twenty-four hours were over."
Wondering if such an idea was prevalent amongst even the officers of the ship, Langton turned to the Captain, and, telling what had occurred, asked his opinion on the matter.
"You don't mean to say, Spanker, that you really believe that sort of thing?" said he. "But
Gilbert did so, and in a few minutes an unfortunate Cape pigeon flew to its destruction and was drawn on board.
"Would you like to let this one go, Mr. Spanker?" asked the Captain with ironical politeness.
Spanker looked as if he would; but, before he could reply almost, Captain Seebon twisted the poor bird's neck and gave it to a passenger, who was anxious to secure the skin.
"It is a humane superstition, at least," said the mate, "that is, if it is only a superstition—but I think there is something in it, after all."
It so happened that during the afternoon the wind veered round again to its old direction, and poor Spanker had to stand not a little "chaff" and badinage about the want of perception on the part of his friends, the Cape pigeons, in not being fully posted up as to the desired movements of the Netherby.
Varied by such trivial occurrences as these, life passed pleasantly enough on board the ship, and some of the passengers even went the length of saying, they would be sorry when the voyage came to an end; but the majority, amongst whom was Arthur Leslie, wished eagerly for the promised land
"Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around Of hills, and dales, and woods." — . Thompson
"Land on the port bow" were the words which greeted Gilbert Langton's ears as he went on deck early one morning, after having been eighty-five days at sea. The Captain had foretold that New Zealand would be sighted early in the morning, and in the hope of being the first to descry dry land again, Gilbert had risen betimes. He was, therefore, rather disappointed when he heard that it had already been sighted, and still more so when, on looking in the direction indicated, expecting to see the land looming large in the distance, he saw nothing. Eagerly he scanned the horizon; still he saw nothing but the waste of waters rolling and leaping with playful glee before a fresh breeze, as he had seen it almost daily for nearly three months.
"Well, I suppose you are pleased to see terra firma once more?" said Mr. Spanker.
"I would be if I saw it; but you're trying to hoax me, I think," replied Gilbert.
"Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Don't you see it yourself?" said the mate, pointing in the direction the land lay.
Looking again, Gilbert saw something on the horizon which he had at first mistaken for a cloud, and about which, even now, he had some doubt as to its being land. Mr. Spanker, however, had none, and laughingly asked him if he had ever seen a cloud like that. To which Gilbert felt inclined to answer, "Many a time," but he prudently refrained from expressing an opinion.
When Langton returned to the poop after breakfast, there was no longer any room for question as to whether it was land or no. There it was, without doubt, rising out of the sea, and every moment was bringing them nearer to it. There was great stir and excitement amongst the passengers, and many eager eyes were anxiously gazing at the nearing coast, and many extraordinary speculations and crude ideas were given vent to. As they approached, it became apparent that what they saw was the lower part of a wooded mountain, the upper part being hid in the clouds. Whilst they were conjecturing vaguely as to the probable height of the mountain, the mist fell to its base and left the summit clear. The effect was strange in the extreme; the mountain top looked like an island floating in a higher sea than that on which they sailed; but even as they watched it, the cloud rose again and soon after wholly disappeared, so that they obtained an uninterrupted view of the
"New Zealand does not seem to be a country suitable for pastoral pursuits," remarked Percy Brown, Esquire, to the assembled passengers.
"Faix," said Mike, "and where can they grow their praties?"
"I expect that is where the Maories live," said another; while a youth of sporting proclivities supposed there would be "lots of wild beasts there."
A few hours later the vessel lay hove-to off the entrance to Otago Harbour, with a signal for the pilot flying from the mizzenmast. The possessors of glasses watched the pilot-boat put off, and told the less fortunate the number of her crew, and such minor details as they were able to discover by the aid of their binoculars, with as great an air of importance as if it was something affecting the future well-being of every soul on board, and not a trivial fact which must be known to all in a few minutes. So soon as the boat came within hail, the pilot bawled out, "What ship's that?" Fifty throats replied, "The Netherby." But their united efforts only produced a babel of sound, for the pilot repeated his question when he had lessened the distance between his boat and the vessel.
Mike Donovan had silently watched the boat's approach till he was able to distinguish the appearance of the men in it, when he exclaimed, "Be jabers! thin there's white men in this counthry!"
"I think there will be some queer ones in it before long," said the third mate; "but what did you expect?"
"Well, you know, I thought as it might be different in furrin parts," replied Mike.
The mirth evoked by this conversation was cut short by the appearance of the pilot on deck, most of the passengers being anxious to get a word with him, to know what were their chances of employment, to learn if he knew their friends, or, in fact, with or without excuse to speak to him, and hear the sound of a strange voice. As it was too late that day to cross the bar, the pilot moved the Netherby nearer to the entrance, and cast anchor.
After the excitement of the previous day, Gilbert would probably not have been astir very early, but he was aroused by an unwonted commotion overhead; so dressing for the last time (he thought to himself) in the confined limits of his cabin, and going on deck, he found the Netherby already across the bar, in tow of a small steamer which snorted and puffed loud enough for one twice her size.
The scene which met Gilbert's eyes was a striking one, and the impressiveness of its beauty was not lessened by the fact, that land of any sort was attractive in such circumstances; but it was from the innate loveliness of the surrounding face of nature, and from no such extraneous cause, that Gilbert Langton was led to exclaim, "How very beautiful!" The harbour, up which they were
Gilbert, enchanted beyond measure, remarked to
"Oh yes," was the reply, "occasionally we have a southerly buster; but the snow never lies, down here on the coast, more than a day or so; but it makes up for any deficiency in that way by raining pretty considerably now and again."
At length the anchorage was reached, and the health officer and the customs officials, followed by newspaper reporters and friends of the passengers, came alongside, and as the answers to the questions of the first-mentioned individual were satisfactory, the vessel soon swarmed with strange faces, and all was excitement and bustle; some of the passengers shaking hands as though they would never stop, with friends they had not seen for many years, others getting out their luggage so as to get away from the ship as speedily as possible. Gilbert, having learned from the Captain that a steamer would come alongside next morning for such of the passengers as chose to wait till then, remained quietly on board that night; and it was not without a feeling of regret that he thought that he would next day leave the good ship Netherby, where he had spent the last three months not unpleasantly. He had his cabin all to himself, for the co-occupant of it—Percy Brown—had gone ashore in the first boat, saying he would look out for the biggest bed
Next day, which was as fine as that preceding it, saw Gilbert Langton and many of his fellow-passengers on board the little steamer, the Goldseeker, steaming still further up the beautiful lake-like bay to Dunedin, where they arrived after an hour's sail. The wharf was thronged with people, many of whom were gold-diggers, as Gilbert afterwards learned, waiting for a steamer to return to Melbourne; but at the time he wondered greatly that so many stalwart fellows should be loafing about doing nothing. Getting clear of the crowd, for whom he and the other "new chums" seemed to be objects of especial interest, he found his way to a quiet boarding-house, where he took up his quarters.
After luncheon he set out in search of the merchant's office to which his letters were to be directed, in the expectation of finding a budget from home awaiting him. Nor was he disappointed in this, and, oh! how pleasant it was to recognise the handwriting of his mother and sisters. It was almost like meeting a friend in this strange land. He bore the precious epistles back to his lodging-house, and, in the retirement of his bedroom, read and re-read them. Amongst them was a note which lay unheeded for a long time, till at length, when he knew the others almost by heart, he, wondering who in New Zealand could be writing to him, opened it,
Dunedin, though but a town of yesterday, surprised Gilbert much, for he found it a busy, stirring place, with plenty to amuse and interest him. The wooden houses and buildings seemed to him very strange, and accounted for the mushroom growth of the past year or two, consequent on the discovery of gold. He got, in a measure, accustomed to dwelling-houses and shops being built of wood, but he could not overcome the feeling of strangeness when he went to a church, on the first Sunday after his arrival, and found that it also was formed of that material. There was no lack of places of amusement, which appeared to be all patronised, and that, in a great measure, by the burly miners who had thronged the wharf on his landing, and by whom the town seemed to be filled. Gilbert saw a few of his fellow-passengers occasionally, but before many days were over the majority of them had drifted out of sight. He saw his old cabin mate frequently, however, for Percy Brown seemed bent on making himself conspicuous. He lived at the best hotel, and Gilbert often saw him driving or riding about, and wondered to himself if Brown was squandering the Netherby, whom he stopped to ask about Arthur Leslie, that he could at first extract nothing from him but abuse of Percy Brown, from whom the steward complained he had been unable to obtain any return for the beer so liberally consumed by that young gentleman on the voyage out. After he had got rid of a little of his spleen, he told Gilbert what was indeed news, but news which hardly surprised him, namely, that Arthur Leslie and one of the sailors had run away from the ship that morning. Langton hoped that he might meet Leslie, for he did not like to think of his old schoolfellow wandering about in this strange land with little or no money in his pocket, and, besides, he thought that, perhaps, he might be able to induce him to return to his friends; but he was, unfortunately, able to do neither, for Leslie was already on his way up the country.
On the morning of the day Mr. Ramshorn had said he would reach town, Gilbert was sitting, after breakfast, reading the morning's paper, when his eye caught the following paragraph:—
"A young man named Percy Brown was arrested by the police last night as he was leaving the theatre, on a charge of obtaining money on false pretences. The accused is a recent arrival in the
"My goodness!" exclaimed Gilbert, springing to his feet suddenly, and at the same time knocking over his chair, which had the effect of bringing the landlady hurriedly to the room to know what was wrong.
"Where's the police court?" asked Gilbert, in a manner which startled the old lady more than the previous noise had done; but, before she could speak, he added, "There can't be two Percy Browns lately arrived in the colony, surely; but I must go and see. I can't believe it really," and without waiting for any information as to the locality of the court, he rushed off, leaving the landlady in doubt as to whether he had taken leave of his senses or not.
Langton discovered the court in time to get a seat on one of the foremost benches, for before the business of the day began the room was filled by the "great unwashed." That the great majority of the spectators belonged to that class was strongly evidenced to Gilbert by his olfactory nerves before he had sat there long, and he wished the list of "drunks," and other minor offences which formed the first part of the day's performance, would come to an end, so that he might satisfy his curiosity and escape. At length the presiding magistrate mentioned the name of Percy Brown, and any lingering doubts as to the probable identity of the individual were set at rest, for the tall and good-looking police
The clerk read over the charge, and Brown answered "Not guilty" very coolly. It appeared from the evidence, that Brown had induced one of the waiters at the hotel where he had been staying to lend him £10, which the unfortunate waiter did, as Brown represented that he had plenty of money in the bank, from which it was too late to draw any that afternoon; so he promised that if he received the amount, he would give a cheque for it next morning. Next morning Mr. Brown had apparently forgotten all about the transaction, and the waiter did not like to say anything for a day or two, but, getting uneasy, he ventured to remind him of the promised cheque. Some excuse, however, was all he got; but, having his suspicions aroused, the waiter pressed the matter, and when a threat of giving information to the police only evoked blustering language from Brown, he felt sure he had been duped, and at once carried out his threat. Brown exhibited considerable ingenuity in cross-examining the witness, and attempted to shake his evidence as to the statement about the money in the bank, but without success. The magistrate committed the accused for trial; Gilbert left the court in a state of astonishment bordering on vacuity, and as he walked slowly back to his
Just as he reached his destination, Gilbert was roused from his unpleasant reverie by a clattering of horses' hoofs on the roadway, and looking up he saw a cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen approaching. As they rode past, his attention was attracted to one of the group, a pretty bright-eyed girl of about seventeen. A vagrant tress of hair of the brightest gold, shaken from its place by her exercise, fell from beneath a neat riding-hat, upon her habit of dark blue. Her horse, on which she sat with grace and confidence, was a handsome bay, and Langton thought, as he looked after the party, that he had never seen such a pretty girl in his life. His thoughts were completely diverted from their previous course by this fair vision, and he wished within himself that Mr. Ramshorn might not come to town for a long time, and that he might, by some lucky accident, obtain an introduction to the unknown beauty.
Any hope of that kind he might have entertained was dispelled when he reached the boarding-house, where he learned that Mr. Ramshorn had called, and not finding him in, had left a note asking him to call at his hotel that evening, and also expressing a hope that he would be ready to make an early start next morning, adding that there was a good horse for him to ride to the Station. There was
"My dear Gilbert,—I know you won't betray me, but I can't give you my address at present, for I don't know yet what it is to be, and I can't date this letter from any place, for the village, or 'township' as they call it in this part of the world, has such an unpronounceable Maori name that I can't venture to try to spell it, especially when I remember that old Fusby used to take a delight in reminding me that spelling was not my forte. At any rate, I may tell you that I am on my way to some sheep station or other, where I am to fill the onerous situation of men's cook, and, thanks to my experience on board that abominable old Netherby, I really do know something of my work. But writing of the Netherby reminds me that I have not told you how I left it. That old beast, Captain Seebon, told me that he intended to take me back to my friends, and that if I attempted to run away he would take proceedings against me as a stowaway. Well, as you may guess, I had not enjoyed myself so much in his society as to wish for his company back to England, and I accordingly looked out for an opportunity to part company. I found that one of the sailors—the Russian Finn—was meditating a similar move, so we laid our heads together, and Netherby has gone, and I can come to town and enjoy myself for a bit, when I hope you will do the same. Now burn this as soon as you have read it, like a good fellow, and believe me to remain, your old schoofellow,
Gilbert Langton read this letter with a feeling akin to awe; and as he watched it consuming in the fireplace, he muttered, "Is it not like him? so careless and selfish! Yet poor Arthur's not a bad fellow; I am thankful he escaped. When I saw the account in the papers of the poor man being found crushed beyond recognition, I little thought it was the Russian Finn, and that Arthur had had such a narrow escape. There is a tinge of coldbloodedness about his letter that I could hardly have
"But sleep at last the victory won, They must be stirring with the sun; And drowsily 'Good night' they said, And went still gossiping to bed." — . Longfellow
"So you think you can manage a sixty-mile ride," said Mr. Ramshorn; "I thought I could have given you two days to do it in, but I hear that young Ewart is to be at the station the day after tomorrow, to see after some sheep we have for sale, so I must push through in one day."
"Yes, of course you must, for I don't suppose you could send a telegram to any place where he would get it in time."
"A telegram! It's easily seen you're a 'new chum.' Why, bless you, there's only a mail to within ten miles of us once a week. And as for telegrams, they are almost unknown. Except a small line between this and the port, there is not a telegraph line in the country."
"What time shall we start?" asked Gilbert Langton, who was the other speaker.
"About daylight; so you had better come round here to-night, so that there may be no delay in the morning. You can put a few traps in a valise, and leave anything else to be sent after you."
Gilbert accordingly left to pack up his things, and make arrangements for their being sent up by waggon to Waitaruna, as he had learned the station was called. In the evening he returned to the hotel where Mr. Ramshorn was staying, with whom he enjoyed an hour or two's pleasant conversation before retiring for the night.
Mr. Ramshorn was an entertaining companion when he chose to make himself agreeable. He was a gentlemanly man, between thirty and forty years of age, who had seen a good deal of the world both at home and since he had come to the Colonies.
He had gone out to Australia a good many years before, and after turning his hand to almost every kind of work, he succeeded in acquiring a station of his own. But he had very little capital, for he had been too restless to gain much himself, and he had none otherwise. He had therefore to buy the station on credit, giving bills at long dates for a great part of the purchase price. But the second year he had it was a most disastrous one.
Next morning saw Mr. Ramshorn and Gilbert clattering through the silent streets at an early hour. The air was keen and cold, but a sharp trot sent the blood tingling through Gilbert's veins. After leaving the town, the road led up a small eminence, on the summit of which Mr. Ramshorn drew rein, and, turning round, directed Gilbert's attention to the slumbering city they had just left.
"It's as pretty a little town as you will see anywhere," said he; "and though it's the fashion of most Victorians to abuse it, and the country in general, and the climate in particular, I can't say I agree
"Indeed it is," replied Gilbert; "I had no idea I should have found the place so large or so far advanced."
"The last few years have made a marvellous difference. When I first came down from the other side, a few years ago, Dunedin was a very small place compared with what it is now. But let us push on."
"I suppose it was the discovery of gold that sent it ahead," said Gilbert, turning his horse's head away from the fair city again.
"Yes, it was the rush that gave it the start. It is a strange thing how gold seems to be always found in out-of-the-way places, as if it were put there to attract population. Look at California, and Australia, and now this country. Otago was considered the most outlandish, miserable part of the whole colony by those living further north, and now Dunedin has outstripped all the other towns in New Zealand."
"But don't you think that Dunedin will go down again as quickly as she has gone up?" asked Gilbert.
"Not a bit of it. I have no doubt that we shall have a strong reaction after the gold fever has subsided. There are already symptoms of its setting
But before Gilbert could reply, Mr. Ramshorn had put spurs to his horse, and was off at a canter. By chatting thus familiarly, they beguiled the tedium of the journey; but, except the necessary halts to bait both horses and men, the day was unbroken by any incident. The district through which they travelled in the morning was, in the main, well cultivated and studded with farms, but later in the day their route led through a tract of country which to Gilbert seemed desolate in the extreme. Nothing but undulating ridges covered with a yellow grass, growing in large bunches or tussocks; no trees, no houses, and no people to be seen. On they rode for miles through country of this description; only now and again would they see, on the top of some range, or in one of the gullies, a solitary cabbage tree. It looked more like a palm tree than anything Gilbert had ever seen, except that occasionally they were divided into several stems or branches, but the majority of them had only a straight stem, with a large head of long flag-like leaves, and resembled greatly a huge mop planted firmly in the ground.
It was getting dusk, when Mr. Ramshorn
Gilbert was not sorry to hear this, for the unwonted exercise was beginning to tell on him severely. Presently the road, which had been keeping to the high ground, and winding round the heads of gullies in a sinuous course, began to descend. At the foot of the descent they came upon some cattle feeding. "Hullo! what have we here?" said Mr. Ramshorn, dismounting and stooping down so as to bring the outline of the animals against the sky. "Redman and Blackbird," said he, "and the rest of you, I wonder why you are over this way to-night."
"You don't mean to say, Mr. Ramshorn, that you have names for the cattle on the station, and can tell them in the dark."
A loud peal of laughter was the reply.
"That's about as green a remark as I've heard for a long time. Why, we would exhaust all the dictionary if we were to name all our cattle, and would never be done christening them. That's the team of working bullocks we have just passed; we have names for them, as you'll know when you come to try your hand at punching them. Yonder's the light at last."
Mid a barking of dogs, they alighted at the stables.
"We have to be our own grooms here," said Mr. Ramshorn, putting up his horse himself; but as Gilbert was unaccustomed to the task, he called one of the men to his aid. One of the shepherds came in answer to the summons.
"Pless me, an' it's Mr. Ramshorn herself," said he.
"Yes, Dougal, it's me. Will you take off that gentleman's saddle for him?"
"Ou yes. An' what is the news in Du-nedin?"
"Nothing much, Dougal; but I've brought some newspapers that will keep you reading for some time. How have you been getting on since I left?"
"Ou, fery well at all," replied Dougal M'Lean, who was still more at home in the Gaelic tongue than in what he was pleased to think "fery goot English."
On reaching the house, they found that intelligence of their arrival had preceded them, and that Mrs. M'Lean, who acted as housekeeper, had already got the tea-table laid, on which she placed an immense dish of chops, and a large tin teapot capable of holding at least a gallon. Gilbert thought he had never been so hungry before, and, tired though he was, he did ample justice to the viands, even though he found the style a little rough. He was surprised to see no milk, and only salt butter on the table, for he supposed that a station would
"Oh no, we never trouble with milking cows; it's too much bother getting them in, and we generally do without."
After the meal was over, they turned their chairs round to the fire, but Langton was very soon nodding as he sat, so he was fain to ask Mr. Ramshorn where he was to sleep, and to retire at once. But he was surprised again, though he said nothing, when Mr. Ramshorn, taking up a candle, opened the front door and said, "Come along, and I'll show you your quarters."
Mr. Ramshorn led him to the end of the verandah, which extended along the front of the house, and then pointed out to him a step-ladder which stood against the gable. "You'll have to roost aloft, you see. I expect you'll find everything right up there; but if you should want anything you can call down to me, for I sleep just below you. Goodnight."
Gilbert thought that this was the queerest arrangement he had ever heard of, giving him a loft to sleep in. But as he had always declared he was prepared to rough it, he concluded it would not do to grumble; so, taking the candle from the manager, he climbed the ladder, at the top of which he found a door, the upper half whereof was glazed.
The sun was streaming into his room when Gilbert awoke next day. Although he had slept in strange beds lately, he could not for the moment remember where he was, and then he lay and looked at the pictures on the wall overhead till he dozed off again into a second sleep, from which he was
"Now then, young man, these are not station hours; hurry up, and come down."
"I'll be down immediately," answered Gilbert, at the same time wondering how he was expected to act in the paradoxical manner indicated. "That phrase is almost worthy of my old friend Mike Donovan," thought he.
When Gilbert descended from his exalted regions, he found that Mr. Ramshorn was not alone, but a tall, fair young man was seated by the fire, engaged in cutting up tobacco with which to replenish his short, briar-root pipe. Gilbert was struck with his face, as it seemed to him he should know him; but before he had time to think about it, Ramshorn introduced the stranger to him as Mr. Ewart. Gilbert knew, from what had been told him by Mr. Ramshorn on the way up, that he could not possibly have seen Mr. Ewart before, and concluded that it was one of those chance resemblances to some one he had seen elsewhere that one sometimes encounters.
The other two had breakfasted some hours before, and had been out to see some sheep while Gilbert was still asleep; but the large teapot was standing by the fire, and Mrs. M'Lean brought in a dish of smoking chops which would have sufficed for any two ordinary men.
"You must feel rather tired after your long ride, Mr. Langton. I am sorry I should have been the cause of your being hurried on," remarked Mr. Ewart.
"Oh! don't mention it," said Gilbert, "for I suppose I'll have to get accustomed to long rides, and I may as well do so sooner as later. I must own to feeling somewhat stiff, and I can't lift my left arm to my head, as it pains me."
"Then I'd advise you not to do it," said Ramshorn, laughing.
"Come, come, Ramshorn, it's all very well for a case-hardened individual like you to laugh, but every one is not built of the same material as you are," broke in Ewart. Then turning to Gilbert he added, "You'll find Ramshorn the most unsympathetic of mortals, but you must not mind that, for he does not mean all he says, and he dearly likes to chaff any one. If your arm is so sore as all that, you must have been holding your reins too stiffly, and perhaps the animal you rode was a puller, but you'll soon get used to that sort of thing."
"Well, you had better give your arms a little mild exercise in disposing of these chops, for Ewart and I will be thinking of dinner presently," said Ramshorn.
While Gilbert is busy breakfasting, we may take a hurried glance round the room. It is a small room, with a low ceiling formed by the lower side of the floor of the room above, intersected at intervals by the rafters. The ceiling has at one time been varnished, but wood smoke has dimmed its brightness and darkened its colour. The walls are covered with a light-coloured paper of a small pattern, which helps in some measure to atone for the dinginess of the ceiling; but they are unbroken by picture or ornament, save over the mantelpiece, where two pairs of spurs, a couple of stock-whip handles, and three riding-whips have been disposed so as to form a rude sort of trophy. The furniture of the room is of the plainest description, and comprises, besides the table at which Gilbert is seated, only a few American cane-bottomed chairs, a wooden couch, known as a colonial sofa, which stands across the window, and two easy-chairs with well-worn cushions by the fire. In the corner, by the fireplace, over a small table covered with newspapers heaped together untidily, a few shelves of plain wood, evidently the handiwork of Mr. Ramshorn himself or some other amateur, have been fixed, and on these are placed
While Gilbert was breakfasting the other two sat chatting by the fireside. Mr. Ramshorn was retailing all the little scraps of news he had picked up in town for the benefit of his visitor. Amongst other topics mentioned was the career of Percy Brown, which he characterised as being the "shortest flutter he had ever heard of."
"By the way, Langton," he said, "was he not a fellow-passenger of yours by the Netherby?"
Gilbert replied in the affirmative, and gave some account of Brown's conduct on board ship.
"There's another fellow-passenger of yours, Mr. Langton, on Lambton's station, if you came by the Netherby. I think his name is Leslie, or something
"Why, that must be Arthur Leslie. I must go and see him sometime. Is Lambton's far off?"
"Oh no, he is your nearest neighbour; his run bounds with you. It's about twelve miles over to Big Creek, isn't it, Ramshorn?"
"Yes; I wish it was half a dozen miles further off, for then it would make a more convenient place to stop at when we were going up your way. When are your people coming up from town, Ewart? I had not time to look them up when I was down, or I should have done so."
"Well," laughed Ewart, "you put things pretty plainly. That's as much as saying that it's no use coming up to Paketoa till they come back. Thank you for the compliment, old man."
"Now that's just like you, Ewart, always taking a man up wrong," said Ramshorn rather testily. "But you've not answered my question."
"I really don't know, old fellow. My sister is getting singing lessons from a master. I don't know how long that is to continue."
"My sister," thought Gilbert to himself. "I know who you are like now, Mr. Ewart. So my unknown beauty is Miss Ewart, and not a very distant neighbour as things go here apparently. That is one good thing. But I wonder what made
After a very early dinner of mutton, tea, and bread, which Gilbert soon discovered was the almost unvaried round, the manager and Mr. Ewart set out for the out-station. But as the day had become somewhat cold and raw, and as locomotion was not altogether an unalloyed pleasure to Gilbert in his present circumstances, he remained at home, and, making himself comfortable with one of the well-thumbed novels from the bookshelf, passed the rest of the day by the fireside.
"New scenes arise, new landscapes strike the eye, And all the enlivened country beautify." — . Thompson
Waitaruna homestead was much more picturesquely situated than are the majority of Otago sheep stations. It stood on the bank of a wide and deep, yet rapidly-flowing river, about a stone's-throw from the water's edge, along which grew a few straggling trees thickening into a clump of bush just below the house. This patch of bush had, doubtless, been one of the inducements which led to the choice of the site for the homestead, as it afforded shelter from the prevailing wind. A love of the picturesque had evidently weighed not with the pioneer in the wilderness who first fixed his habitation there, for the house resolutely turned its back to the swift-flowing Matau and the sylvan beauties of the bush, and stared at the yellow tussock-covered hills in preference. The ground immediately round the house was fenced and sub-divided into two or three paddocks, one of which
Looking from the verandah of the house, the view, if uninteresting, was at least extensive. Stretching away from the river for about a quarter of a mile, the ground was comparatively level, when it rose in a series of rolling hills intersected by numerous deeply-indented gullies. The hills as they receded increased in height, till a mountain range of considerable altitude formed a background to the picture. The whole were completely destitute of trees, and the only relief to the sombre monotony of the yellow tussock grass, was where one or two spurs bad been stripped of the long grass by fire, and the young shoots, which were already springing, appeared brilliantly green in contrast with the quieter shade of the surrounding hills.
Turning one's eyes in the opposite direction, a much less extensive but more pleasing picture presented itself. The opposite bank of the river rose abruptly from the very edge and shut out
On the one hand the prospect was framed by the dark green of the Sahara trees, which mainly composed the clump of bush, and on the other by a huge rock, looking as if it had come there by mistake somehow, and was trying to hide among the tall scrub and stunted birch trees growing round it.
As Gilbert Langton was contemplating these scenes in the stillness of the morning, just before breakfast on the second day after his arrival, he was startled by a voice behind him exclaiming: "By the powers of Maloney, and sure it's Mr. Langton himself!"
The voice was decidedly familiar, and turning round, Gilbert found himself confronting the well-known features of Mike Donovan.
"Why, Mike, who in the world would have expected to find you here of all people?"
"It's just them very same words that I was afther saying myself," replied Mike.
"Well, Mike," said Gilbert, laughing; "if you are so astonished at finding yourself here, I suppose you can't say how you got here, can you?"
"Now, Misther Langton, it's game you're makin' on me somehow, I know. But if you want to know badly what brought me here, sure thin it was a waggon so far, and after that I walked, and it's not myself I'm surprised at finding here, but you."
"Oh, that's it, is it? I am sure you need not be surprised at seeing me here, for I left England with the intention of coming to this very place. But as for you, I fully expected you would have walked a good part of the way home again overland by this time, as you used to talk about."
"Now, Mr. Langton, it's too bad of yees to be afther teasing a poor fellow loike me. How's the Netherby, and the ould skipper, and all of them getting on?"
Mike listened eagerly to all the gossip concerning the ship, which was the bond of union between him and Gilbert, and seemed greatly grieved at the miserable fate of the Russian Finn, and, with a saddened expression on his usually cheerful face, turned away to work again.
Shortly afterwards the manager and Mr. Ewart came in to breakfast, and Gilbert's attention was for a time withdrawn from the everlasting hills to the apparently never-ending mutton chops and strong tea, which appeared on the table at nearly every meal.
During breakfast Langton amused the others by recounting some of Mike's shipboard experiences, which gave the hero of them quite a new interest in the eyes of Mr. Ramshorn—at least so he said, and added, "I must, however, keep an eye on him, for I expect he has a good deal of the Chinaman's 'no savey' about him; that is, he will not understand when he does not wish to do so. I have found him very smart at picking up his work as yet. He can punch the bullocks almost as well as an old hand already, even to the swearing at them."
"That is undoubtedly a very necessary auxiliary in the eyes of an old bullock-driver," said Ewart. "I only once knew a fellow who could drive bullocks without sending them all to perdition every five minutes or so. Talking of bullock-driving reminds me of an incident which occurred the other day, and which rather amused me at the time. I was riding along a narrow footpath leading to one of the shepherd's huts; two embryo shepherds were trotting along the path in front of me; the eldest one, hearing my horse behind him, stepped aside, but the other, a
Whilst they were enjoying a whiff or two of tobacco after breakfast, Mr. Ramshorn inducted Gilbert into the mysteries of the station diary, the duty of keeping which would devolve on him. It seemed to Gilbert to savour something of ship life to have to note down day by day the state of the weather, and how the hands were employed, and such-like details of the routine of their occupations. But it was a duty which he never thought he would ever find irksome; yet more than once, when thoroughly tired out by a day's hard work, did he fall asleep, pen in hand, over that very diary.
"Come now, Ramshorn," said Ewart, "it's time we were at the yards; you'll have plenty of time to explain how you want the diary kept by and by. You ought to have had all these sheep delivered before this."
To the yards accordingly they adjourned. They found them already filled with sheep, and the shepherds, including Dougal M'Lean, awaiting their arrival.
"We hef drafted some of the sheep already," said Dougal as they came up.
"That's right, Dougal," replied Mr. Ramshorn, as he and Mr. Ewart entered the yards.
Then began a busy scene, which to Gilbert was utterly bewildering. Why some sheep were put into one pen and some into another he could not understand, for as yet he could not tell a hogget from a full-mouthed sheep, even by looking at their mouths; so at present he could do nothing but sit on a hurdle and look on. After a time one of the yards was filled, and Mr. Ramshorn called to him to come and lend a hand at counting them out. The sheep were driven through a narrow race from one yard to another, but before he had counted a dozen Gilbert was quite at sea and had lost count altogether, so fast did the sheep pass him.
He was, however, relieved to see that both Mr. Ewart and the manager were hard at work counting, so that the numbers would be ascertained without his aid.
Dougal having noticed that Gilbert had failed, sent him to keep tally while he went to bring up the rest of the mob. That duty was easy enough of
"You need to keep your eyes open for that sort of work, Langton," said Mr. Ramshorn when they had finished; "but I suppose you found it easy enough," he added sarcastically.
"Oh, it's nothing when you're used to it, I daresay," replied Gilbert; "but I have been engaged on the far more arduous task of keeping tally."
"I did not like to ask you to try that," said Ramshorn, "in case you should be exhausted by the effort."
"Come now, Ramshorn," broke in Ewart, "I am sure if the truth were told you were not successful in your first attempt at counting sheep either. So don't be too rough on a poor new chum."
"I don't think the new chum wants your pity; I think he can fight his own battles pretty well. But come on and finish the drafting, or we won't get through by dinner time," replied the manager, as he proceeded to assist Dougal to yard the rest of the sheep.
The work was finished before dinner, and though Gilbert had not been doing anything that could be called work, he was not sorry when the hour for the midday meal arrived; the clear, fresh air imparting to him a most voracious appetite, which was fortunate, as had it not been so he might not
"You must bring Langton up to Paketoa sometime soon," said Ewart; "there's not much doing just now, and you can easily get away."
"Well, I'll see about that," said Ramshorn." You see I have been to town, and must stop at home for a bit."
"It's just like you, to make yourself disagreeable. You can come very well if you like, and when a fellow is all alone it is a duty you ought to perform; but I expect my folks back from town soon, so if Ramshorn won't bring you, you must find the way yourself, Langton, and when my sister comes home we'll have some music. When once you have found the way I hope you will come as often as you can get away for a day or two."
"I am going over to the out-station, and will ride with you so far," said Ramshorn, as they all proceeded towards the stables.
When Ewart and Ramshorn were fairly started, and Gilbert was left to himself for the rest of the afternoon, he found enough to interest him in the various objects, which were new and strange. He found Mike, too, in the course of his rounds, at work repairing a breach in the sod-fence which enclosed one of the paddocks, but that worthy was
"An' isn't it quare, Mr. Langton, that you should come to the same station as mesilf—isn't it now? Be jabers, it is almost as good as having some o' my frinds from the ould sod about the place."
"I suppose you mean that as a compliment," said Gilbert, laughing; "but it won't do for me to keep you from your work, and you had better devote your attention for the present to the new sods you are cutting to mend the fence. Can you tell me, though, if there is any way of getting to where those trees are?" he added, pointing to the clump near the house, "for I saw this morning that they appeared to be cut off from the bank by a sort of small branch of the river."
"Sure, thin, and they tell me that there is something they call a canoe down there that takes you across, but you can't get over on dry land, for that there pool of stagnant water runs right round the whole bush as they call it, except on the side where the river is, and of course you can't get on there at all, at all."
Not being able to make much of Mike's lucid explanations, Gilbert thought he had better make an exploration for himself. As he was proceeding thither he met M'Lean, the Highland shepherd, who had just come in from the run.
"An' it iss seeing the place you will pe after, she will suppose."
"Yes," replied Gilbert, "I am just having a look round. I suppose you know the place pretty well."
"Oh yes; she will hef been here six years, or fife years whatever. Mrs. M'Lean she will hef been here two years, but no more. She stayed in Scotland with her mother till she died, for she wass not for leafing Scotland. No, she wass not."
"Then if you have been here so long, no doubt you can tell me the use of the old coffee-mill, or something of that sort, which I saw fixed on a post at the back of the men's hut when I passed."
"The coffee-mill it iss that she will be wanting to know apout. The mill wass a flour-mill when first she wass here. Every man had to grind his own flour and make his own damper or scones, and no man would grind for his neighbours—not one. It would be fery hard work for her too, after mustering all day, to come home to grind the mill. But that iss all gone now, and things will pe much more petter now. Oh, yes."
Dougal liked well to retail reminiscences of his hardships in old times, most of which were decidedly uninteresting, and Gilbert afterwards found that there was considerable sameness about the experiences of the earlier days which some of the older colonists delighted to retail to a "new chum." As
Gilbert being desirous of mastering the geography of the immediate vicinity of the station, got the shepherd to show him the canoe of which Mike had spoken. It was really a canoe of native manufacture, and was simply a log of Totara, which had been hollowed out by some patient Maori, assisted by fire and a stone adze, in the days before the advent of the "Pakeha" with his deadly civilisation and exterminating "Waipouru" (alcoholic liquor—literally, "stinking water").
In this crank craft M'Lean with a long-handled shovel, in lieu of a more suitable paddle, paddled Gilbert across the narrow creek, which, when the river was high, divided the small wooded island from the mainland. Dougal told how they at times crossed the river itself by the same means, and how one young fellow had been nearly drowned in the attempt by getting foul of a snag which capsized the canoe, fortunately not very far from the bank.
"I should not care to venture on that rapid river in a tub like that," said Gilbert; "indeed, I hardly liked the feeling crossing that small branch
"Oh! she will pe getting more colonised py and py, and not pe caring so much," was Dougal's patronising remark, as Gilbert bade him "good night," ere he returned to the house, where he found the manager had already arrived.
"There be land rats and water rats." — . Shakespeare
"I had a letter yesterday from my old schoolfellow, Leslie," said Langton one morning at breakfast, some weeks after his arrival at Waitaruna.
"Indeed," replied Ramshorn. "He is the fellow who came out as a stowaway that you were telling me of, is he not?"
"Yes, the same; and he is now cooking at Big Creek, but he seems to be rather tired of that," said Gilbert, "judging from his letter, at least."
"Would you like to take a ride over there to see him? You can do so if you wish; but don't be longer away than a week at the most."
Langton did not take long in making up his mind to avail himself of the leave granted by the manager, and within an hour he was mounted on his mare Blanche, which he had bought from one of the men some time previously, and was ready to start.
"What in the world is all that swag you have
"Only a valise with a few things I shall need if I stay away a few days," replied Gilbert. "I could hardly do with less."
"Oh, no, of course not," said the manager; "for though you are not so green as many 'new chums,' you are not sufficiently colonised yet to be satisfied with carrying a tooth-brush and a paper collar as sufficient baggage for a week. I wonder you did not take a portmanteau and a pack-horse while you were about it, but off with you. Good-bye, and take care of yourself."
"Good-bye," replied Gilbert as he cantered away.
The road, or rather track, to Big Creek followed for a short distance that which led to Dunedin, when it struck off from it at right angles, and taking a leading ridge, tended away from the river towards the more mountainous country at the back. The morning was dull and the air was chilly, but the exercise of riding was sufficient to keep one warm. The country through which Gilbert passed at first was tame and uninteresting. When the top of the ridge was reached, the track led along the plateau or tableland for some miles. But although this part of the country bore the appearance of a tableland at first sight, it could perhaps hardly be called by that name, for a closer
The day-dreams which on this winter morning visited the brain of Gilbert Langton as he rode along were, if not very elevated, harmless enough; for he thought of the fair-haired girl he had seen in Dunedin, and who he decided must be Ewart's sister. Among the scenes his fancy wove from such materials, was one in which he saw the golden locks shining through a bridal veil, while he was putting a plain gold ring on the fair owner's white finger, with Ramshorn, his groomsman, standing by and
"By the way," thought Gilbert, rousing himself from his pleasant reverie, "I wonder that Ramshorn has never married; for he is just the sort of man I should have thought would be susceptible to the influence of the fair sex, and he is one who would make any woman a good husband, for though he comes down a little rough on a fellow now and again, yet he has a good large heart of his own. He seems to have a sort of reverence for women too, for I notice he always treats even old Mrs. M'Lean at the station with as much deference and politeness as though she were the highest lady in the land."
The sudden descent of the track he was following into one of the gullies changed the current of Gilbert's thoughts, and as he cantered along the lower ground his exuberance of spirits found vent in song. Before he had gone far the gully joined another and larger glen of a rougher and wilder character than any he had yet seen. A considerable stream ran brawling in a rocky bed, and the range forming the side of the glen, opposite to that from which he had entered, was steep and rugged. Here and there huge masses of rock of fantastic shapes met the eye. The scant vegetation did not suffice to hide the brown earth, and the only thing which redeemed the otherwise barren and desolate appearance of
The summit being gained, Gilbert paused before remounting to look down into the valley, which appeared wilder and more picturesque from this point of view than it did from below. "I should not like to come this road after dark," thought he as he rode away; "indeed, I am sure that if I made the attempt I should come to utter grief."
Leaving the hill-top again, the track led down a long, easy ridge towards a wide and grassy valley, whose gently sloping sides with their rounded spurs formed a great contrast to the rugged glen just passed. Throughout his ride Gilbert had seen no signs of life, and even now, when he knew he must be nearing Big Creek, the only living thing in sight was a large hawk sailing slowly along on lazy wing. Soon the distant bark of a dog told of the
The original owner of Big Creek station seemingly had as little of an eye for the beautiful, in the choice of a site for his house, as he had been influenced by any considerations for euphony in the selection of a name. The house, which was a long, low, one-storied building of clay or "cob," thatched with snow-grass, and having two doors, stood as close as it conveniently could to a spur which ran from the mountain out into the valley, while it resolutely turned away from the somewhat pleasing prospect down the stream, to stare stolidly at a grassy bank a few yards distant.
As Gilbert approached, his arrival was announced by the barking of the dogs, and ere he could dismount the noise had brought the inmates of the house to the door. These comprised two shepherds and Arthur Leslie, who no sooner saw the cause of the canine concert than he rushed towards him, exclaiming, "Why, Gilbert, old man, where in the world did you come from?"
"From Waitaruna," said Gilbert; "but how are you getting on, old fellow? Is cooking ashore more to your mind than it was on shipboard?"
A grimace was Arthur's only reply, but he immediately said, "We were just going to have dinner;
After dinner—of which the guest, shepherds, and cook partook in company, and which was served in a style rougher and more uncomfortable than any Langton had yet encountered—the shepherds retired, leaving Langton to assist Leslie to wash up.
"Is not this a miserable outlandish hole for any white man to live in?" asked Leslie, while they were thus occupied. "I am thoroughly sick of it, and intend clearing out very soon. There are golddiggings not far from this, and I think I'll have a try at that sort of thing."
"It is rather an out-of-the-way corner, and judging from the road here, I should say you were not troubled with many visitors; for I don't think any one would come up that steep spur for the sake of coming here, unless they had something special to bring them. The scenery in that gully is worth seeing, but there is nothing on this side of it worth looking at."
"We don't have many visitors, that's true," said Arthur, "except the boss, who comes over now and again to see how things are going on. But we have had several fencers here up till a week ago, and there are some other men coming to put up a new wash, or dip, or something, in a few days. After
"You seem to be pretty well your own master," said Gilbert.
"I never tried on anything of that sort before," replied Arthur; "but if they don't like it they can only get the boss to sack me, and I should not much care if they did."
After supper that evening, Arthur informed Langton that he was in luck's way, as they had made all their arrangements for having a grand battue that evening, and though the game was only rats he thought that they might expect some fun. It appeared that the store was a small building of cob which stood a little way from the house, and that the rats had scraped a great many holes through hors de combat. Towser after this did not seem to see where the fun lay; for, instead of further molesting the rats, he gave expression to his feelings by barking excitedly. Meanwhile the cudgels had not been idle any more than had those who handled them, for what between jumping about to avoid the rats as well as to follow them, the hunters had a pretty lively time of it. In the melée Gilbert came down with a thundering blow on the foot of one of the shepherds, mistaking it for a rat, and though the man wore a thick boot he sprang up as though he had been shot, and addressed Gilbert in language more forcible than polite. The other two laughed so immoderately that Gilbert could hardly repress a grin as he begged the man's pardon, Renwick, for that was his name, was apparently doomed that night, for while he was standing, still somewhat sulky, close to one of the shelves, he was suddenly startled by feeling a rat endeavouring to secrete itself down the back of his neck.
He screamed lustily to the others to take the nasty brute off, which he declared was biting him; and he seemed to be afraid to try to touch it even
When he retired, Gilbert found that the accommodation for the night was very inferior to Waitaruna, but he could easily have slept on a deal board. He lay down thinking of his friends in old England, and how impossible it would be for them to picture his present situation and surroundings; but his head had not been long on his pillow ere all had vanished in the oblivion of refreshing slumber.
Next morning after breakfast, taking what Renwick called a "piece" in their pockets, Gilbert and Leslie started on foot for Waterfall Gully, which the shepherds had spoken of as being worth visiting. For fully two hours they trudged along among the hills without finding the place they were in search of, till they began to think they had missed the way and taken a wrong ridge, but shortly after they
"What can he be doing?" asked Gilbert, as they stopped to look at him.
"He is a digger, I expect," replied Arthur. "I know there is gold got on some parts of the run, and I have heard them speak of an old fellow who was digging up this way. He is what they call a 'hatter,' that is, he works alone."
"That's a peculiar term. I wonder what can be the origin of it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Oh, I'll tell you. Those men who work alone are, I should think, always more or less cranky, and you know the phrase, 'as mad as a hatter.' So I suppose they came to be styled 'hatters.'"
"Let's go and speak to the old boy. I wonder if he gets much gold there," said Gilbert.
They accordingly descended towards the solitary miner, and on coming up to him availed themselves of that ever-blessed, never-hackneyed topic, the weather, as a means of opening the conversation.
"It is a fine day," said Leslie.
"It micht be waur," replied the miner, hardly
This was not a very promising beginning; neither of them made any further attempt at conversation, but stood watching him for a few minutes in silence. As he was replacing the hopper of his cradle, after having tossed the gravel from it, Gilbert renewed the attempt to establish communication with the hatter.
"You find this ground pays you, I suppose?" said he.
"Oh! the grund's weel eneuch," was the reply.
"How much do you make a week at this work?" asked Gilbert, nothing daunted.
"Sometimes ae thing, sometimes anither," said the miner.
Arthur now came to the front, and thinking to show his superior knowledge of the subject, said, "How much does this ground give to the dish?"
"It's hard to tell till it's washed up," was the only information he could extract.
"You seem to have been at work here for some time. Is there much more ground which you can work, do you think?" again asked Arthur.
"That remains to be seen," said the hatter.
He was evidently hopeless; but before leaving Gilbert made one more attempt, and asked if some
"May be there is," was the miner's reply, "but no muckle, I'm thinkin'; for ye see gold's a cunnin' deevil and likes to be quiet, and sae settle's down as soon's he can."
This was more hopeful; but carrying on a conversation under such circumstances was too much like hard work, so they turned away with a parting "so long" by way of good-bye.
"Did you ever see such an old beast?" said Leslie when they were beyond earshot. "I have heard of Scotch caution, but I think that specimen has gone cranky on the subject. Why, the old scoundrel would not even commit himself to an opinion on the weather."
"I'll venture to say that he has not a mate," said Langton, "because he would be afraid to trust any one."
"It certainly was not worth going down the hill to see him, though he is a curiosity in his way," said Arthur as they climbed the ridge again.
On reaching the top of the Waterfall Gully they could not obtain any view, for the trees which grew on the sides of the gully rose high enough to obscure any prospect, except of the top of the opposite hill. Into the bush they went, and found that the trees grew on a well-nigh perpendicular
The noise of the falling water had been in their ears for some time, and from it they knew they had struck the creek a little way below the fall. Gilbert was much impressed with the beauty of the birch trees; but, though he praised them greatly, he could awaken no enthusiasm in his companion, who contented himself with observing that there was a "deal of good fencing in them," and added that he would not like to have to "hump" the posts out of the bush.
The fall proved to be, as they had been told it was, well worth visiting, though in all probability it had not been seen by more than half a dozen persons since first the stream chose its rocky bed. The water came from some unseen source in the hills above, leaping and dashing from rock to rock down to where they stood. The steep sides of the glen were densely clothed, except where a rugged cliff showed its scarred face, with rich deep green
Above the ceaseless sound of the ever-flowing, ever-falling water, the mellow notes of the tui could be heard, but the songster himself remained hid in some snug leafy retreat. Gilbert stood gazing in silence at what was indeed a lovely picture, drinking in its beauties with a subdued pleasure and appreciation. He felt as though he could never be satiated with its loveliness; but he found his companion was more easily satisfied, for his reverie was broken in upon by Leslie exclaiming, "I am uncommonly hungry, and vote we grub now."
Thus recalled to himself, Gilbert could not but admit that his appetite had been rendered more
After discussing their luncheon and spending some time in climbing about the waterfall, Leslie and Langton started homewards; and choosing a different and, as they thought, easier route to the top than that by which they had descended, commenced to reascend. Before they had climbed far, however, they found that it would have been better to have returned by the way they came, rather than by that which they had selected. For a time there were no difficulties, but when they had reached about half way from the summit the bush gave place to a thick growth of manuka scrub. This scrub of itself would not have proved such a formidable obstacle, had it not, unfortunately for the climbers, been swept by fire a year or two before. The effect of this had been to char and kill all the scrub which had then been growing, and which had since been laid prostrate by the winds, while a vigorous young growth had sprung up through the interlaced branches of their fallen predecessors. Mounting upon a good stout limb of the prostrate scrub, and stepping thence to another and another, Gilbert, who was leading the way, found locomotion a comparatively easy matter, and he called to Arthur, who had not yet emerged from the taller bush—
"Come along, here's a place where we'll get on swimmingly."
If by getting on "swimmingly" Gilbert meant using both hands and feet, and that vigorously, he found that his metaphorical expression was fully realised. If, however, as is more probably the case, he intended to indicate that they would be able to get over the ground rapidly and easily, he was doomed to disappointment, for he had not taken many steps further when a treacherous bough snapped beneath his feet, and he was precipitated headlong into a bed of broken branches. To make matters worse, a bush lawyer had twined some of its long straggling prickly limbs through the scrub. One of these embraced Langton affectionately round the neck, and it was only after receiving some severe scratches that he was able to disentangle himself from its grasp. When he regained his feet he stood surrounded by the fallen scrub, which lay openly heaped as high nearly as his waist. He tried to get again on the top of this mass, but now the fallen stems would not bear his weight, and he was only able to proceed by crushing and breaking the dead wood before him as he went, an operation which the fresh growth from below greatly retarded. Leslie's shouts told that he too was in the same predicament. After some hard climbing and struggling, Gilbert managed again to reach the surface of the floor of
"I could not imagine anything worse than that to come through," said Gilbert as they lay resting awhile on the grass above.
"I could, though," said Arthur, "and that would be that same place, just after the fire had been through it."
"I don't think that would be so bad," replied Gilbert, "for then you would not have the young scrub or the lawyers."
"That's true; but in place you would have the other scrub all black and grimy, and the ground all dust and ashes, which would rise and choke you."
"Well, I have no wish to test the question by actual experiment," replied Gilbert, rising. "Come, let us move on; it will be dark long before we get home."
It had been dark for some hours when they
Arthur Leslie did not venture to take another holiday during Gilbert's stay, and there was little to mark the remainder of his visit to Big Creek.
"Eyes of deep soft lucent hue, Eyes too expressive to be blue, Too lovely to be grey." — M. .Arnold
"Look, Nellie! what a sweet little bunch of violets I have got! I shall put them on papa's plate before he comes in to breakfast. I had no idea there were so many to be gathered, for when I last looked at the bed I could only find one or two. I suppose the warmth of the last few fine days has brought them out."
"Let me smell them," replied Nellie. "Oh! they are sweet, Ottalie," she added as her companion raised her purple treasures to Miss Nellie's nose.
It was a delicious September morning, and the two girls had stepped into the garden before breakfast to inhale the invigorating freshness of the spring air. The sun was bright and warm, though there was a tinge of sharpness in the atmosphere, such as is never experienced in summer, but which lends to
"Now, ma belle Nellie," said the first speaker, "do you ever have such a morning as this down in rainy Dunedin? Confess honestly that you do not, and that Pakeloa has some things to commend it."
"Pakeloa will always have a great many things to commend it so long as the Ewarts live there," said Nellie. "But why do you always abuse Dunedin, and think that this is the most favoured spot on the face of the earth? You know you might have to live in Dunedin some day, if a certain gentleman who shall be nameless is not allowed to break his heart."
"I don't in the least know who you mean, Nellie, and it is not kind of you to speak in that way when you know I don't like it."
"Come now, Tots, don't get angry; there's a good child! I shan't vex you by alluding to the subject again, but I had no idea it was so serious."
"There you are again, though," said Ottalie, looking almost ready to weep. "It is very nasty of you, Nellie, indeed it is, when you know I hate the very sight of the man. I am not to blame if an odious little wretch like Mr. Robinson presumes to become spooney."
"What are you girls falling out about?" asked a man's cherry voice from within; and the speaker,
"By the way, Ottalie," said Harry, as they stood chatting on the verandah, "I expect we may have visitors to-day. I forgot to mention it before, but I met Ramshorn when I was over at Muttontown last week, and he spoke of coming up. But come along and see if you can hurry on the breakfast, for the fresh air has made me unusually hungry."
"While the Ewart family and their visitor Miss Nellie Cameron are breakfasting, we may take the liberty of strolling round the premises. The house is a long, rambling, one-storied building of stone or cob plastered, with a wide verandah in front, on which the rooms open by French windows.
It stands facing the morning sun, and looking over a plain some four or five miles wide, which is bounded in that direction by a lofty range of rugged mountains. A similar range rises almost immediately behind the house, though there is space enough to the rear to allow the station huts and other outbuildings to stand at a convenient distance from the house. To the right a rocky spur runs from the mountain out into the plain a little way beyond where the house stands, shutting out any further view in that direction. A stream of pure water flows close by the foot of this spur towards the river which waters the plain, but which is not visible from Pakeloa.
The house itself stands in a trimly kept garden divided by numerous close-clipped hedges, and over the tops of some of these the young fruit-trees are beginning to appear. Along the bed of the creek a plantation of young trees has been made for some distance; none of them, however, have attained any size as yet, except at the back of the house, where grow a number of weeping willows, whose pendant branches are always tinged with the soft green of the half-opened leaves.
The view across the plain can hardly be called a pleasing one, for one only sees a wide stretch of yellowish withered-looking grass. The opposite mountain range is of the same hue, save where the bare rocks or the shadow of a deep gully imparts a darker shade.
Not a tree is to be seen, while only one human habitation is visible, and that so far off as to be hardly distinguishable without the aid of a glass. Nearer at hand, and away to the left, there stands the woolshed, but as that is a large sprawling building of corrugated iron, whose only redeeming feature is a turret which rises from the roof at one end to allow for working the screw of the wool-press, it does not add much to the picturesque in the scene, any more than does the funnel of the boiler for the sheep-dip, which rises to view from a hollow a little way down the creek. A greater contrast could hardly
Harry Ewart met the visitors at the garden gate, and after seeing the horses to the stables, they all proceeded indoors, Gilbert wondering the while if the young lady who had caught his eye in Dunedin would really prove to be Miss Ewart. As he bowed on being introduced, he thought she was the same; but when he came to inspect her a little more closely, he did not recognise in her the fair equestrian of his fancy. Not that she was not fair enough in every respect, for Gilbert could not but admire the trim lithe figure dressed in a plain morning dress of dark blue, relieved by a small bow of ribbon of deep cardinal red, as well as the beautiful little head with its golden hair poised gracefully on her shoulders, to say nothing of her bright honest-looking eyes, merry smiling mouth, and complexion like a peach blossom.
Ottalie's was not by any means a faultless face;
The ruddy golden shimmer of her hair was of itself almost enough to entitle her to the epithet of a "very pretty girl," which was universally bestowed upon her.
Her manner was frank and pleasant, and Gilbert, though inclined to be a little shy, soon found himself at his ease, and was chatting to her as though they had been old acquaintances.
If Ottalie was fair, so was Nellie Cameron, for the latter had a more legitimate claim to be described as beautiful than had the former. A painter would undoubtedly have chosen Nellie for a model rather than her companion. She was the taller of the two, yet not too tall, and her features were much less faulty and more regular than Ottalie's; but they were expressionless, and would have seemed as beautiful in the still stone of a statue as they did while forming the well-nigh equally immobile face of a woman. Miss Cameron was dark, and her dark brown eyes
"We propose going out for a ride this afternoon, Mr. Ramshorn," said Ottalie.
"Then don't let our arrival make any difference to your plans," he replied; "I am sure we shall both be most happy to join the party."
"Our party would only have consisted of Miss Cameron and Harry, and we shall be delighted to have the addition you will make to our squadron. I thought perhaps papa would have carried you off to see some of his sheep or something. By the way, do you know mamma has made a rule that no one must talk 'sheep' in the evening in the drawing-room, and you may be sure I never forget to remind either papa or Harry if they transgress, which is very often at present, though I hope they will improve in time."
"The rule is a capital one, Miss Ewart," replied Mr. Ramshorn; "for of all men for talking what is commonly called 'shop,' runholders are the worst."
Before the horses were brought round a message
"Why, Nellie, what a girl you are to ride!" said Ottalie, as she and Mr. Ramshorn came up to the others, who had halted by a curious collection of lagoons or water-holes, which were irregularly scattered over the plain, not far from the base of the range. The first arrivals had raised several paradise ducks, which were still flying round at no great distance from the intruders.
"Have I been going too fast?" asked Nellie innocently. "I do like to feel I am moving. I like a good canter, or gallop perhaps you would call it,
"Paradise duck," he answered; "are they not handsome birds? They seem to be remarkably tame here," he added.
"That is because we are on horseback," said Ottalie. "I have often heard Harry say he could not get within shot of them on foot, but that if he was on horseback they did not seem to mind him. The diggers from Muttontown come down here a good deal to shoot them, I believe, that is why they are usually so shy; but let us turn homeward again," she continued, and then immediately addressing Gilbert, told him that he should come and have some shooting in the season.
They rode on quietly chatting together for some distance, without taking any notice of their companions, till Miss Ewart exclaimed, "Look how far they are ahead! Nellie rides like a female Gilpin."
"She seems to prefer a Gilpin pace certainly, but it is a matter of choice, not necessity, in her case, I think."
"Oh! undoubtedly," replied Ottalie, "for she rides well; but she is the kind of girl from whom many gentlemen take their ideas of ladies' horsemanship, when they say that all women look upon horses as
Gilbert was about to make a complimentary reply, but he hesitated, as shy men will, and lost his opportunity.
How often men afflicted with shyness will do this! They think of some pretty speech to a lady, a well-merited compliment to a friend, or a smart repartee in general conversation. Before, however, the thought finds utterance in words the spirit of shyness whispers, "She will think yon flatter her," "He will doubt your sincerity," or "They will, perchance, misunderstand you, and think you rude;" and before this ill-omened sprite can be reasoned with, the "ladye faire" has turned and listened to undoubted flattery from another. The friend has said "Adieu," the conversation has flowed on, and the number of lost opportunities has been added to, while the shy man, poor soul, is deemed "Not a bad fellow, but very quiet," or even dull.
The cause of Gilbert's losing his opportunity of paying a compliment to Miss Ewart was a loud "cooee" from the direction of the hills, which caused them both to pull up and turn their heads in that direction. At first they saw no one, and were about to move on, when they perceived a man emerge from behind a rock and come towards them.
"I thought it might be Harry," said Ottalie, "for I know he was coming in this direction, but apparently it is some swagsman or digger."
"Why, I really believe that it is the old hatter that I saw working among the hills near Big Creek some time since. I wonder what has brought him here?" said Gilbert, adding "Good-day" to the man, who was now close to them.
"Hae ye ony baccy?" was the reply to Gilbert's salutation; but without waiting for an answer he stepped up to Miss Ewart's horse and laid his hand on the bridle, while he stared at her with a wild look.
"Leave Miss Ewart's bridle alone. How dare you touch her horse?" called Gilbert, riding round to the side where the man stood. Instead of replying to Gilbert, the fellow grinned at Ottalie with an idiotic leer, and said, "Miss Stewart! then it is my ain Maggie Stewart come back to me, though she dee'd lang syne."
"Oh! Mr. Langton," exclaimed Ottalie, "the man's mad."
"Mad! did ye say, ma hinney? Come, ma ain" —— Before he could finish his sentence Gilbert had struck the madman a blow with the butt of his whip which caused him to let go his hold of Miss Ewart's bridle; but he sprang at Gilbert, and catching hold of his coat, tried to pull him from his horse.
With a yell of delight the madman ran towards Gilbert as he lay seemingly helpless on the ground, while Blanche, with her ears erect and tail flying, galloped away across the plain. Ottalie, whose horse when freed from the grasp of the lunatic had started forward, finding Gilbert did not follow, and hearing the yell, looked round and saw the man standing over Gilbert's prostrate figure; and as the latter did not move when the madman kicked him, she was horror-stricken, thinking he was killed. She could not, however, leave even his body to be the sport of an infuriated maniac, and returned towards them, but she trembled again when she heard him say, "Get up, wull ye, and fecht it oot, or, if ye dinna, I'll cut yer thrapple;" and saw him produce a large knife, which he proceeded to open.
"Oh! don't, don't!" she exclaimed, and with a sudden inspiration she cried, "for your Maggie's sake, don't!"
"Oh! ma Maggie, lass! are ye there again? Bide a wee till I settle this chap."
"No, I can't; come with me at once, or I'll
"Aweel," said the madman, "I'll come wi' ye, ma bonnie lassie," and putting up his knife, he stepped towards her.
Ottalie continued to move homewards, followed by the madman, and ever and anon, as he got almost alongside, a touch of her whip made Rocket spring forward.
"Let me win till ye," expostulated her follower.
"My horse won't stand, you see; wait till we get further along, and I'll stop him and dismount," she replied.
Poor Ottalie never was so much afraid in her life, for once or twice the maniac made an attempt to spring forward and catch hold of her or her horse, so that She had to be careful to keep out of his reach, and yet keep near enough to speak to him from time to time, and so induce him to continue to follow. The road to the station seemed to be interminable, but she felt that Gilbert's only chance of life, if he was yet alive, rested on her efforts, and she resolutely continued her self-imposed and somewhat dangerous task. Ottalie's feeling of thankfulness can be better imagined than described when she saw her brother and one of the shepherds coming rapidly towards her,
Harry Ewart sent the shepherd back to the station for a dray, while he proceeded with his sister to where lay poor Gilbert Langton.
"Oh! Harry," she said, as she rode along, "I am afraid to go with you, and yet I feel I must know the worst."
"You had better go home, Ottalie," said her brother. "You are a brave girl, and you have, I expect, saved poor Langton's life by enticing the madman away."
"Nay, I am sure he is dead, he lay so still, and, oh! Harry, it was while he was protecting me that the accident happened. Oh! what shall I do?"
As they approached the scene of the disaster they saw Gilbert lying motionless on the road. "Ah! me," exclaimed Ottalie, "he is really dead."
Harry Ewart made no reply, but rode on; and when he saw Gilbert's white face lying in a pool of blood, he too exclaimed to himself, "He is really dead."
He jumped from his horse, and, stooping over poor Gilbert's lifeless form, found, to his infinite
"Thank Heaven, he still lives," he said; then turning to Ottalie he added, "You had better stay here, if you are not too nervous, and I shall start at once for Muttontown for the doctor. I can do nothing here, and if I start at once it will save time."
"Yes, go—go at once," she replied; but, as the sound of Harry's horse died away, poor Ottalie repented that she had acquiesced so readily. She would rather, she thought, have ridden herself fifty times for the doctor than have remained there alone in her excited state. For was she not alone, or worse than alone, with a dead or dying man, whom she was powerless to aid, lying close by her, and with a dangerous maniac lying on the road between her and her home? He, it was true, was bound hand and foot, but he might burst his bonds and come to her. She had read of the strength of a madman, and what was more likely than that he should break the weak straps which held him? If he did so, he would be sure to look for his Maggie.
"What! is that he coming?" Poor girl! she felt utterly helpless and despairing, as, when she
Oh! the relief she experienced when, instead of the madman, Gilbert's horse emerged from behind the rock, leisurely cropping the sweet grass which grew round it. Almost immediately afterwards, too, she descried a horseman riding rapidly towards her, and in a few minutes Mr. Ramshorn, with his horse foaming, pulled up alongside.
"I am so glad yon are come, Mr. Ramshorn. I was getting so afraid," said Ottalie.
"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Ramshorn; "he must have got a nasty cut, and is stunned to boot. I hope it will prove nothing serious. Where has your brother gone, Miss Ewart?"
"To Muttontown for a doctor, and I got such a fright with Mr. Langton's horse after he left," said Ottalie, beginning to cry. "I saw a bit of it behind the rock, which I made sure was that awful madman again."
"Dear Miss Ewart." said Mr. Ramshorn, "don't cry."
It was a stupid remark to make, no doubt, but
The truth was, Mr. Ramshorn loved Ottalie Ewart, and longed to take her in his arms and try to comfort his darling, but he dared not do so. It was a maxim of his, which he used to repeat if ever he heard of one of his acquaintances marrying beneath him, as he sometimes did, "I shall never marry till I can marry a lady;" and he would add that his then income did not justify his doing so. In this perhaps he was mistaken, but it is a mistake that only true-hearted men make. They do not like to ask a girl who has been brought up amid luxury and refinement to take what might appear a step downward on the social ladder, as though marrying a good and true man were not promotion to any loving girl, and a great addition to her happiness, even though she may want some luxuries to which she has been accustomed, and suffer some discomforts to which she has been a stranger in her father's house. There is little doubt but that a feeling of this kind has a good deal to do with many of the mésalliances which are not uncommon in the colonies; and though it makes some men remain in a state of celibacy, others take the course of marrying women who, though they may prove good and faithful wives, yet lack that inexpressible something, call it refinement or culture, or what you will, which is
But though Mr. Ramshorn's principles were such as we have indicated, Miss Ewart's tears proved too much for his caution, which had hitherto held his love under control. He tried to soothe her, but she continued to weep almost hysterically.
"Oh! Ottalie!" he exclaimed at last, "would that I could comfort you! I have admired your beauty of feature and character since first I knew you, and your courageous conduct to-day has, if possible, added to my admiration."
This speech had the effect of rousing Ottalie, so that she was enabled to control herself and stay her tears.
"Mr. Ramshorn," she said, "you surely forget yourself. I cannot think you are in earnest in giving expression to such feelings at such a time, and yet it would be a cruel, wicked jest, made in the presence of that poor senseless youth," she added, pointing to where Gilbert lay.
"I do not jest, Miss Ottalie. Pardon me if I have offended you by giving expression to the feelings your tears evoked; but tell me, surely you do not love that boy?"
"Mr. Ramshorn," said Ottalie stiffly, "you astonish me by your rudeness. I was introduced to that gentleman this morning. Though it seems an age since then," she added, as if speaking to herself.
"I ask your forgiveness, Miss Ewart," replied Mr. Ramshorn. "I have been excited by the strange occurrences of the day."
"Thank goodness, here comes the dray!" was Ottalie's only answer.
Mr. Ewart, senior, and a couple of the men accompanied the dray, in which a mattress and some pillows had been placed. Upon these they carefully deposited Gilbert, and returned slowly homewards, followed by Ottalie.
Mr. Ramsborn rode on to bear the intelligence to Pakeloa that Mr. Langton was still alive, though insensible.
"She played about with slight and sprightly talk and vivid smiles." . Tennyson
"I am so glad to see you up again, Mr. Langton," said Ottalie Ewart one day about a fortnight after the events recorded in the last chapter.
"Thanks!" he replied. "I am, as you may imagine, only too glad to get into the sitting-room once more, for I thought at one time that I should never do so."
"Indeed the doctor was afraid you would not get over it at one time, I think. But that was when you were in a high fever and delirious, and about that time you can remember nothing, I suppose."
"Oh! yes, I do," said Gilbert; "but the time when I thought I should never rise again was when I recovered consciousness, but felt so weak and miserable. If it had not been for Mrs. Ewart's kindness and excelleut nursing, I think I should have died of wretchedness."
"Mamma is a capital nurse," replied Ottalie;
"It is indeed, for I must have been a dreadful nuisance."
"You said, just now, that you remembered the days when you were delirious," said Ottalie. "I should think that was hardly possible, for mamma told us you spoke about your mother and sisters as though they were in the room."
"I don't remember that part of it, but I remember distinctly feeling as though I was floating on one of those lagoons we saw on the plain near where the accident happened. The strange part of it was, that although I had a conscious entity, yet I seemed to merge in and form part of the surface of the lagoon. I could not tell where I was nor where I was not, nor apparently could our enemy the lunatic, who stood on the bank with a kind of spear, which every now and again he thrust down into the water. He never seemed to succeed in striking me, for I felt nothing when his spear descended, but each time he raised it to strike I experienced a pang, feeling certain it would pierce my heart, and each time he struck I seemed to scream. It was a most agonising dream, as you may suppose, though no imagination can come near the horrid reality. How long this continued I don't know, but after a time an angel with large wings and golden hair, and
"How very dreadful it must have been!" said Ottalie; "but yet there is something of the absurd about it too."
"Yes, there is," was Gilbert's answer. "The only part of the whole dream which was not so was that the angel who saved me from the madman resembled you, for there is no doubt but that for your happy and courageous stratagem, I should have 'gone over to the majority' before this."
"Ottalie," said Mrs. Ewart, who had come into the room, "I fear you are letting Mr. Langton talk too
"Do you think so, Mrs. Ewart?" asked Gilbert. "If you do I shall retire at once, for you have been so kind to me that I must obey you faithfully."
From this time Gilbert rapidy gained strength. He, however, stayed on at the Ewarts' hospitable house for some time, as Mrs. Ewart insisted on his remaining till he was quite recovered. When he got over the feeling of weakness, he enjoyed his stay at Pakeloa greatly; but we shall probably learn more about the Ewarts and their guests if we take the liberty of looking over Miss Cameron's shoulder while she writes to her dearest friend Caroline Walton.
"My dearest Carry,—Very many thanks for your nice gossipy letter, which has quite raised my drooping spirits again. I have been feeling so very doleful ever since that nasty accident that I wrote you about, for ever since it happened every one in the house has been going about with a face of twice the usual dimensions. This has been for me decidedly cheerful. Young Langton has, however, been really ill, and was feverish and delirious for some time after he was thrown. I was afraid at first that it might be something catching, and you know I am awfully afraid an impression, which I think it is as well to deepen. Now of course this is in strict confidence, carissima mia, for I know you are to be trusted, and will understand the position of affairs exactly. So don't breathe a word of this to a soul, like a dear girl. There is not even an understanding arrived at yet, and I do not think it desirable that at present it should even be hinted that there is any engagement. The only son of a wealthy squatter must be handled warily. So soon as there is anything to tell, ma chère amie, you shall be the very first to hear of it.
"I don't remember whether you ever met the gentleman or not, but, from what I have already told you, you must see that he is an eligible parti. But, ah! my dear, I should infinitely prefer the other, I mean Mr. Ramshorn, the gentleman who came, as I told you, with young Langton, and who has been here again two or three times during Mr. Langton's illness. If only he and Mr. Ewart could change places, then everything would be perfect; for though at present he has no eyes for any one but Ottalie, yet I have no doubt I could, if I
"I wonder what Mr. Ramshorn sees to admire in Ottalie. I am sure, although she will probably be my sister-in-law some day, I must confess that I think her a very ordinary sort of a girl, and any pretensions she has to good looks she derives wholly from her youth, and by the time she is thirty, she will be quite plain, if not ugly, positively ugly, my dear; don't you agree with me? As I say, if she were not a goose she would appreciate Mr. Ramshorn at his true merits. Do you know that I really think I should be afraid to flirt with Mr. Ramshorn in case I should make a sentimental fool of myself, notwithstanding all our philosophical resolutions. Now, dear Carry, be sure burn this as soon as you have read it. I had been so dying to have a good talk with you, that I have written whatever came uppermost in my mind. Things look so very different, however, written than they do when said in a nice quiet talk between two such friends as you and I. I do so long for a chat with you now and again, but now that Mr. Langton is about again, things are improving, and we have had several very enjoyable rides.
"By the way, Carry, I must tell you a small anecdote of a new domestic, who arrived here a short while ago straight from an emigrant ship, and before being put on board she must have been caught in the wilds of some outlandish country or other, I can't think where, for she is tolerably white, and speaks an almost intelligible dialect of either English, Scotch, or Irish, I should not like to say which. She pretended she knew everything, but you could not imagine that any grown woman could be so ignorant. When first she arrived, Mrs. Ewart told her that something or other was to be served with melted butter, and asked if she knew how to make it, to which the slavey replied, 'Oh! yes.' However, just as dinner was being put on the table, she sent for Mrs. Ewart and said, 'I have put the butter in a cup, and it's melting in the oven; what would you like it sent to the table in?' Of course this imbecile gets good enamoured saucepan.' When this was told to Mr. Ramshorn, he laughed, and said that the word seemed to be a regular fixer, for he knew of a man who always spoke of 'emanuelled' dishes. But I can't vouch for the truth of this, for he also told a story, and Mr. Ewart's comment on it was that he 'might have taken the chill off that one,' a sentiment in which I concurred in more elegant if less expressive language. His story was that he knew a lady who had a new servant to whom she gave general instructions about setting the table for dinner before going out, and on leaving she said, 'And be sure, Maggie, you remember to put the mats on the table, for I am very particular about not having my table spoiled by the hot dishes.' The abigail promised attention, but judge of the surprise of the mistress when she returned home and found the table laid in a somewhat original style, with two door-mats from the hall in the middle of the table! Mr. Ramshorn vouched for the truth of his story, but I thought it was a little too good.
"Oh! dear me! am I not reduced to a pretty pass when I have to betake myself to anecdotes to eke out a letter? But your last was such an enjoyable epistle, that I was bound to give you quantity if Do write such another long newsy letter soon, there's a dear creature! When is the projected Bachelors' Ball to take place? If I had a dress I could wear I think I should at all hazards come down to it. But I can't afford a new dress just now, and every dress I have I am tired of, or else my friends are, so that I could not go without a new one. When I am Mrs.—you know who, I shall not have to stay away from a ball for any such reason as that.
"Au revoir, mon amie. Ever your affectionate friend,
Miss Cameron had barely subscribed her autograph when Ottalie put her head in at the door and said, "Are you going to write there all day, Nellie? Come to the drawing-room, like a good soul, and give us some music. I can't think whatever you can get to say in these long letters you seem to write. Mr. Langton says he is going away to-morrow, and I know he would like to hear you sing that song again which he admires. You know which I mean, 'Tender and true.'"
"Yes, I know; but I am sure Mr. Langton would much rather hear you sing than me. Has your brother come in yet?"
"Yes; he came in some time since, shortly after Mr. Ramshorn arrived," replied Ottalie.
"Has Mr. Ramshorn come here again so soon? There must be some attraction here, surely," said Nellie, unable to resist the opportunity to tease her companion. "I don't think that I am the loadstone, so it must be you, Tottie."
Miss Cameron always adopted the name by which Ottalie had styled herself in her very diminutive childhood, and which was still used at times by her father, whenever she was saying anything that she did not think Ottalie would relish. Ottalie did not relish Miss Nellie's remark on the present occasion, and showed that she did not by her reply.
"You are a disagreeable thing, Nellie, and if you won't come to the drawing-room I shall think it very unkind of you."
"There, now, was it vexed?" said Nellie. "I shall come with it at once, and make myself particularly agreeable to Mr. Ramshorn; but if I do, you must not accuse me of flirting with him, of which you say that at times I am guilty."
Shortly afterwards, when Nellie Cameron joined the party in the drawing-room, she overheard a conversation which removed any lurking doubts, if she had any, as to who was the attraction at Pakeloa for Mr. Ramshorn.
"Yes," he was saying, "I think Langton has been uncommonly lucky to be quartered here so long, even at the expense of a spill. I know, Miss Ewart,
"I hope you may never require to test such a remedy, Mr. Ramshorn," replied Ottalie, "for I fear you would find it not so efficacious as you imagine. And so you are going to take Mr. Langton back with you on Monday, he tells me."
"Oh! yes; he says he is quite well and strong again, and there is plenty for him to do just now down at Waitaruna. We shall only go on Monday as far as Muttontown, where I have a little business to do, and then home from there on Tuesday; so if Langton is still a little weak his strength won't be too severely tried."
"I must go then and look out some books I promised to lend him when he went. I have no doubt but that you will enjoy reading some of them too," said Ottalie, as she tripped away to ransack the well-filled book-shelves, in order to find some of her especial favourites, leaving Mr. Ramshorn to be entertained by Miss Nellie, who, if she did not flirt, certainly endeavoured to ingratiate herself with Mr. Ramshorn, perhaps all the more because Harry Ewart, who was talking to his father and Mr. Langton, did not seem to notice that she had come into the room.
"Gold, gold, gold, gold, Bright and yellow and hard and cold, Heavy to get and light to hold." — . Hood
Towards evening, on the Monday succeeding the events recorded in the close of the last chapter, Gilbert and Mr. Ramshorn were quietly jogging along the bridle-track which led to the thriving little diggings township rejoicing in the high-sounding title of Muttontown, which, although it was not in the direct route from Pakeloa to Waitaruna, lay about equidistant from both places, and not so far out of the direct line as to add very materially to the journey in making it a place of call.
Mr. Ramshorn and Gilbert had been amusing themselves by talking about the odd coincidence that the names possessed by many of the station owners and managers in the neighbourhood were in some way connected with sheep, and that even the diggings shared the same peculiarity. "For," said Mr. Ramshorn, "besides the name of the township,
"Let us push on," he continued, "for I never like riding near those diggings after dark, there are so many holes about, and the tracks sometimes wind among them in the most extraordinary manner. There's one now close by the path."
If the access to Muttontown by any other than the main road was not free from danger, there was nothing in the appearance of the place or its surroundings to repay one for visiting it.
The township was situated in the middle of a wide gully, into which several smaller ones debouched just above the town. The hills dividing these from one another were low, rounded, and grassy; and judging from the white heaps with which they were studded, were formed of a whitish clay mixed with gravel. These heaps, Gilbert learned, marked the shafts which had in the days of "the rush" been sunk all over the spurs and gullies in order to obtain the gold, but which were now mostly deserted, as the miners had almost universally taken to the plan of sluicing or washing away the hills bodily. The white heaps of "headings" marked the existence of holes clearly enough on the spurs, but in the bottoms of the gullies, where the vegetation was a little ranker, and the heaps of "headings"
"What in the world do they hoist their mutton aloft for?" said Gilbert; "no wonder that the place is called Muttontown."
"I don't think that that has anything to do with the name," replied Mr. Ramshorn; "those are the diggers' larders. They hoist their meat like that to keep it from the blowflies, which, strange to say, never
They rode a little way up the unmade street, and halted at the door of a large corrugated iron building, with a weather-board front. The signboard informed the public in general and travellers in particular that the edifice was the "All Nations Hotel," and that there was to be obtained "good stabling."
"This is the best place to stop," said Mr. Ramshorn, as they dismounted.
Gilbert looked along the street and saw that nearly every other building was a hotel, and that those which were not were mostly stores; but whether hotels or stores, all rejoiced in large signboards, if they could be so called, seeing many of them were formed of strong calico or canvas stretched on wooden frames. Whatever the material, they mostly bore inscriptions differing considerably from any that Gilbert had seen before. There was a store styled, "The Biggest Wonder of the World," "The Sluicer's Arms Hotel," "The Belfast Store," "The Who'd ha' Thought it Hotel," and the "Help me through the World Boarding House and Bowling Alley," which last mentioned was a hotel in all save the name and the possession of a licence; but this was not a great desideratum in those days, for liquor was openly sold in almost every house in the township, except the banks, and the blacksmith's and
The view from the street where they stood was contracted and uninteresting. Looking down the gully, the street seemed to end in a bank of white tailings washed down from the hill, while a bend in the gulley shut out any further prospect. In the other direction a low hill rose, on which stood the warden's house, a small cottage of weather boards, the police quarters, comprising three or four frame tents and the lock-up. The latter consisted of two very small rooms or cells, strongly built of wood. The whole of these erections were collectively styled "the camp." Above the hill on which they stood there rose a higher hill, along whose face there ran a couple of water-races; and, higher still, there rose a wild and stony range, the highest peak of which was known by the elegant name of "Mount Buster."
Giving up their horses to a drunken-looking loafer, who seemingly acted as groom and hanger-on at the "All Nations," they entered the "best hotel in the place."
There was no hall or passage of any description, but they stepped from the street into the bar, which was a spacious room occupying the full width of the
"Come and have a drink, mate," said the digger, and turning to the landlord said, "I'll shout for all hands, old man. Name your liquors, boys; mine's gin and raspberry."
Gilbert, thinking it best to be civil, thanked the man, but declined his offer.
"You must not take a shingle off," said the landlord, addressing him; "that won't do."
"No, no," said one of the others, "you must have a drink for the good of the house. Have something soft," he added, seeing Gilbert was apparently still reluctant, and looking as if meditating an escape, though in reality he was looking for Mr. Ramshorn, who had gone off to look after the horses. Seeing that the quickest way out of the difficulty would be to have something to drink, Gilbert said he would take a glass of beer; but the miner who was "shouting" did not seem to approve of this, for he said,
"All right, mate. Here's luck, boys," said his host, tossing off his "gin and raspberry."
Leaving the miners at their potations, Gilbert found his way round the end of the bar into the dining-room, a large long room lighted from the roof, with a partition of green baize running along each side. Half a dozen doors, of the same material in each partition, led to the bedrooms of the establishment, while another door in the end of the room opened into the kitchen. As Gilbert entered, a man, who had been sitting by the table rose and said, "Hullo! Gilbert, how are you?"
"Why, Arthur, who would have expected to see you here?" answered Gilbert.
"Well, I think you might have expected to see me here," replied Arthur Leslie; "for don't you remember I spoke of leaving Big Creek and coming here? But I have not left Big Creek yet. I only came here on Friday afternoon by the coach to get some things from the store, and I start back again to-morrow morning. I never travelled by coach before, and I don't care if I never do again," continued Arthur, "at least if all the roads are as rough
"You must have been sleepy indeed, if you could even doze with such a row going on as there is in the bar."
"Well, I am sleepy, and no wonder," replied Arthur; "and as for the noise, I am getting used to that. These fellows have been at it without stopping since ever I came here. After I had gone to bed on Friday night some of these men began gambling in this room, and, of course, I could hear every word and every noise through the baize wall of the
"What a pleasant place to live in this must be!" said Gilbert. "I notice," he continued, "that you are picking up a good many of the colonial phrases, Arthur."
"Oh! well, you must do at Rome as Rome does, you know and there is no use letting every one know you are a new chum."
Mr. Ramshorn came in from the stables, and was introduced to Arthur, and shortly afterwards they all had tea together. Fortunately none of the miners
After tea, as they sat chatting and smoking, a few of the inhabitants dropped in, having, no doubt, seen the strangers arrive, and being very desirous of learning all about them. The conversation, which was aided in its flow by periodical supplies of liquids, turned upon what was called the time of the rush.
"Ah! that was the time for making money," said the butcher. "I did uncommon well in those days, but I've since dropped what I made then."
"Well," said the blacksmith, "you should have looked after it better when you had it. I did, and though I don't wear a paper collar, I could buy up a good many who do."
"Come, now, Tom, what's the use of blowing? We all know very well that you are a hard 'un. Man alive! your own anvil's nothing to you."
"A deal's a deal," replied the man of iron. "I can make a bargain as well as most men, and he'll have to get up very early in the morning who wants to get to the wind'ard of me; but I'm none harder than other folk, except may be some flash card like you, Jack, who likes to fly round a bit when they've got a few notes."
"Oh! well, I'm not for saying a man should not
Whether it was the recollection of his having "had" the waggoner, or Jack's "shout" that mollified Tom the blacksmith was unknown, but when he had been supplied with a "nobbler" of port wine and brandy, which was his "particular weakness," he smiled to himself, and turning to the strangers said, "Yes, I got that iron pretty cheap, but that was by a fluke, you may say. It was this way it happened. I was out of iron, and was expecting some up from Dunedin, so I took a walk down to where the waggons camped, to see if the waggoner with the iron had got in the night before. I found out that he hadn't got in yet, but when I was looking round I saw a lot of sheet iron, just the very thing for hoppers for cradles, in one of the waggons camped there. I spoke to the drayman, and asked him what he was going to do with it. He said he did not know, but he had been told in Dunedin that if he put some sheet iron in the bottom of his waggon he would get a large profit on it at Muttontown; but says he, 'I don't know what they want it for.' Thinks I to myself, 'Here's a chance for me;' so says I to him, 'Well, I don't know what they told
"And there's no doubt," said Jack, "but what you did have him. Now," said he, turning to the others, "did I not tell you Tom was a hard 'un?"
Tom the blacksmith, having been started, was apparently quite ready to continue his stories of his
"After I had been here for some little time there was a rush broke out over at Blackman's, and some of the diggers began leaving here for there. At first they brought their spare picks and tools for me to buy, for the road from this over to Blackman's was a very rough one. I began buying them at first, but after a day or two, when the rush got bigger, I was afraid that I would have to go to Blackman's too, and I refused to buy them at any price. Most of the men, when they found I would not buy, would throw their picks down and say if I would not buy them I could take them or let them rip as I pleased. The rush was an out-and-out duffer, and the last of them was hardly away before they began dropping back again to their old claims about here. I did a big trade for some time in secondhand picks, and I sold them their old ones back again at rattling good prices. Ah! those were the days for making money, as Jack says."
"This place is greatly changed since then," said Jack. "You could hardly get along the street for the crowd, and if you wanted a drink, you had to fight your way into the bar. There was a rare old mob about here then, I can tell you."
"Well, Langton," said Mr. Ramshorn, "as we have
"I'll go too," said Gilbert; "and you, Arthur, must be quite ready for bed. Good night, old fellow, and come over to Waitaruna and look me up some time."
That night both Mr. Ramshorn and Gilbert Langton dreamed pleasant dreams, for they both dreamt of Ottalie Ewart.
"Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep, That wont to bleat and frisk and leap Beside your woolly dams?" — . Hood
"I have not been long in looking you up, old man," said Arthur Leslie, pulling up one morning at the yards where Gilbert and Dougal M'Lean were at work with some sheep.
"I am not the less glad to see you," replied Gilbert, "but I can't leave this for a bit. You'll find an empty stall in the stable over there, and by dinner-time Dougal and I will be finished with our work; so if you go down to the house and make yourself at home, I'll be down by and by."
"All right," said Arthur, moving off; but instead of going to the house after putting up his horse, he returned to the yards, and seating himself on the top rail, stayed chatting and smoking till Gilbert was ready to go down to the house.
"I am a gentleman at large for the present," said Arthur, as they walked towards the house.
"Mr. Ramshorn is away, so I can't do anything for you here," said Gilbert; "but if you stop till he comes back, I think, perhaps, he might be able to give you a job for a bit."
"Oh! thanks, old fellow; I shan't trouble him. I am going to try digging at Muttontown, as I spoke of doing before. By the way, do you know, after you left that morning, I made the acquaintance of another of the inhabitants of that lively town. She is lively, however, if the town is not."
"She! do you say?"
"Yes, she is a fine girl, too, I can tell you. She is barmaid in one of the many hotels, and her name is Miss Jenny Needham, but she is popularly known, I found, as 'Goodall's Stringer.'"
"What on earth does that mean?" said Gilbert.
"Can't you guess? I'm sure I saw through the meaning of the phrase at once, although I had
"You seem to be quite smitten, Arthur; but she would be hardly the kind of girl you would think of introducing to your uncle as Mrs. Leslie."
"Oh! bother my uncle, though he did send me a small remittance the other day," was Arthur's rejoinder; "but I'm not thinking of making Miss Jenny or any one else Mrs. Leslie. I'm none of your marrying sort, Gilbert. I have no doubt you will be spliced long before I am beginning to think of such things. Why, man, I can hardly keep body and soul together, so why should I think of keeping a wife? No, no! a fellow may have a bit of chaff with a girl without thinking of marrying her straight off. I'm not such a spoon as that quite. I intend putting up at Goodall's when I go over to Muttontown this time, however," continued Leslie, knocking the ashes from his pipe against his palm before entering the house for dinner.
Just then Dougal M'Lean came up to say that John Lamont had come up from the out-station unwell, and that he wanted some one to be sent
"What is the matter with Lamont?" asked Gilbert.
"She has not been well since a while, but she has not seen her since a long time, mirover, so she can hardly say," was Dougal's response.
After conferring with Dougal on the situation, Gilbert decided to send Mike to take Lamont's place for the few days, as he had the bullock dray already loaded with firewood to take over to the out-station, and both Dougal and John Lamont thought that Mike could be trusted to keep the boundary in the meantime; so Dougal departed to instruct Mike in his new duties.
"That fellow Mike is as great a cure as ever," said Gilbert as he entered the house. "Not long since Ramshorn discovered some Maori ovens with Moa bones in them, and he dug out a great many which he has taken with him to Dunedin for the Museum. We had Mike with us, helping to dig them, and I thought Mr. Ramshorn would have killed himself laughing when Mike asked quite gravely, 'An' sure, Mr. Ramshorn, d'ye tell me now that these are really Noah's bones?' "Ramshorn was not much better himself, for shortly afterwards he dug out a small fragment of the jawbone of a dog, and as he picked it up he called out, 'Look
Next day Langton and Leslie set out on an expedition to the out-hut to see how Mike was getting on, taking guns with them in the hope that they might find something to shoot in a small bush there was in one of the gullies which lay in that direction. As one of the hands on the station said he had seen some kakas there shortly before, they were not without some prospect of making a bag. They rode along talking of old scenes and events which had happened on the other side of the world.
"You'll go back and see all the old places some day, Gilbert," said Arthur, with a faint trace of sadness in his tone; "but no such luck for a poor beggar like me."
"Why not? Are you not going to make a pile at the diggings, and then you'll go home and make it up with your uncle again?"
"No fear," laughingly replied Leslie; "though I believe that would be the only way I could find favour in the old rascal's eyes. No; if I did have any such luck, I think I should enjoy crowing over the old boy, and always keeping before him the fact that all his prognostications about me had been falsified. Ha! ha! it would be a great lark to tell the old chap, in his own tone, 'That though I might
"Well, Arthur, my boy," said Gilbert, "I am sorry I can't do anything for you just now, but if ever I can I will. You should rise above your surroundings, and if you would not be so careless and flighty, I am sure you could do well."
"Very likely; but what's the odds so long as you're happy?" was Arthur's reply; and putting spurs to his horse he set off at a gallop.
"Look here!" exclaimed Gilbert a little later, "if that idiot Mike has not gone and upset the dray. I
"Hullo! Mike, what in the world have you been up to?" called Gilbert as they pulled up at the hut.
"Sure, thin, I haven't been up to nothin', for it's only the dray that's been down."
"Have you done any damage to the dray or the bullocks?" asked Gilbert.
"Niver a bit! I put half the load on last night, and brought the rest of it over this morning. I'm not long in."
"Not long in! then what about the sheep?"
"Oh! they're all right," was Mike's reply. "There they are on the front av the hill forninst ye."
Gilbert looked at the hill indicated, but could see no sheep, and said so.
"Do ye not see thim?" said Mike, pointing to the hill he had previously indicated.
"Why, you don't surely mean that you have been taking those stones for the sheep?" asked Gilbert.
"I've been thinking these were the sheep on the hill. Donald Lamont came back here after dinner yesterday, and whin I met him going back just before the dray was capsized, he said to me that he had brought the sheep down to that hill, and that they would want looking to the first thing in the morning; and so in the morning I looked, saw thim things you say are stones, and thinks I, when I saw they stayed on the hill, Lamont must have a nice easy billet. So away I goes to bring up the rist of the firewood, and whin I comes back, I sees the sheep there still, and that's all about it."
"Oh! confound you're stupid head, Mike! Were you not told to go along the boundary and turn the sheep back if they were heading that way, the first thing in the morning?"
"I was, thin; but says I, what's the use whin they are all sitting so quiet over there? But by the holy poker, I'm wrong intirely, I suppose."
"Here comes one of old Lambton's shepherds," said Arthur Leslie, who had listened to the foregoing colloquy with a somewhat amused air.
"What's the matter with Lamont?" asked the man coming up. "He's allowed a mob of your sheep to cross the boundary, and now they're boxed with ours. I saw them from the distance, but I
After some further conversation with the shepherd, Gilbert concluded that as the sheep were for the present irretrievably "boxed," nothing could be done; so he and Arthur, leaving Mike and the shepherd abusing one another, proceeded to the bush in quest of kakas. Striking up a spur behind the hut, they were not long in reaching the head of the wooded gully, where they expected to find the game. It bore a considerable resemblance to the waterfall gully they had visited at Big Creek, only its sides were if anything steeper.
"Here's a good place to hitch the horses," said Gilbert, dismounting on a small well-grassed plateau, studded with a few dead trees, whence the ground descended suddenly and precipitously from the very edge, as if to make amends for having been betrayed into allowing the existence of level land, though even for a few square yards only.
Selecting one of the strongest of the dead trees, Gilbert removed the bridle from Blanche and made her fast to the tree with a tether rope, which he had carried coiled round the mare's neck, and which he fastened so as to leave length enough to admit of her getting a bite of grass.
"I think I shall hobble my horse with one of the stirrup leathers," said Arthur; "he won't wander far
Having seen to the horses, they then scrambled down into the bush, which they traversed hither and thither, up hill and down, without so much as seeing the feather of a kaka or of anything else they could shoot, except a wretched bush-robin, which Arthur insisted on shooting, although it came so near that Gilbert declared it was sitting on the end of his gun, and which was so close that it was actually blown to pieces.
"Poor little beggar! he's cooked," said Arthur, picking up a few feathers, and apparently already regretting having shot the bird; for he was one of those unfortunate individuals who seem always to act first and think afterwards, and who do very little of that even then; for with a philosophic "It can't be helped now," they seem to have the happy knack of banishing the subject from their minds. Lucky individuals! They are to be envied; for if they do not as a rule succeed in life, their want of success appears not to affect them in the slightest, and their griefs are as slightly rooted as those of children. They seem never to endure the dread torture of anticipated evil, which, to men of a more anxious temperament, is worse than the ill itself, nor yet even the recollection of it after it has passed.
"This is no go, and we must give it best!" exclaimed Leslie, seating himself on a half-fallen tree. "I think it's time to cry 'Smoke oh!' and then we'll go up, for I'm full on this shooting racket."
"You are an adept at slang, Arthur, and no mistake," said Gilbert, seating himself beside his companion.
"And yet a fellow told me the other day, he could tell at once that I had not been long in the country, or, as he phrased it, 'that I had not got the lime-juice out of me yet;' so it can't be colonial slang that I speak."
"Well, I don't know that colonials are worse than other people for speaking slang, but they have, of course, many words and phrases peculiar to themselves."
When they emerged from the bush a short time afterwards, they were surprised to see that Blanche had disappeared, and that Arthur's horse was alone on the little plateau.
"She must have been frightened by the shot, and broken her tether rope," said Gilbert; "it is a good thing that your moke has not gone off too. She can't be very far yet. But see here!" he exclaimed, "she has dragged the tree with her right up by the roots. Who could have thought that the tree would have given way like that?"
"But where can the mare be gone?" asked Leslie.
They followed the track made by the dragging of the tree through the grass for a few yards to the edge of the plateau, and there found the tree with the rope still on it, held fast by two others which grew on the very verge of the precipitous gully, and on looking down they saw, to their astonishment and grief, Blanche suspended by the tether rope, and apparently strangled, lying on her side below them. Arthur, without a moment's delay, cut the rope, which allowed the mare to slide down a little way farther, when her progress was stopped by the trees and bushes. Gilbert sprang down to her and cut the rope from her neck; but it was no use, for she was undoubtedly dead, hanged by her own tether rope. She must have been startled by the shot, and on her springing back the tree had given way and fallen, which must have added to her fright, and caused her to back over the edge of the gully at a place where the ground was too steep to allow of her keeping her footing properly, so that when the loosened tree caught in the others above, the poor brute had been unable to climb again to the level ground. The mare was thus left suspended in such a way that her weight caused the rope to choke her, and, after ineffectually struggling for awhile, as evinced by the marks on the
"If we had only come up out of the bush at once," said poor Gilbert, looking very woebegone, "instead of sitting yarning on that old log!"
"Well," said Arthur, "how could we have known that the confounded old tree would not hold? and it can't be altered now. Poor Blanche! she was a nice little mare, and her being dead means the loss of a few pounds to you."
Putting both saddles on Arthur's horse, they trudged wearily homewards, Gilbert looking all the way particularly crestfallen and melancholy, the only conversation he indulged in being to recount the virtues of his lost mare and to bemoan her death.
"The reason why so few marriages are happy is because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages."— . Swift
Ottalie Ewart sat alone in the darkened drawing-room at Pakeloa. The day was hot and sunny out of doors, but the room where Ottalie sat was pleasant and cool looking. Arrayed in a morning dress of pure white, with only a pale blue ribbon at the throat, she seemed to any one entering from the glare of the sunlight the very personification of coolness. She held a book in her hand, but she was not reading, for with half-closed eyes she seemed to be watching a narrow ray of sunlight which, coming in at the side of the blind, made a bright line on the opposite wall. Could we read her thoughts, we should know she was thinking of some one whom she could scarcely be said to love, but one who had caught her fancy and impressed her pleasantly, so that she was already disposed to love him if circumstances should afford
"I wonder if he cares for me," thought Ottalie.
She did not even ask herself in thought if he loved her. No; it had not yet come to that, but did he care for her? she asked. The answer was,
The spell of her dreams was broken by her brother's voice calling to her from the hall.
"What is it, Harry?" she asked, rising and opening the door.
"Oh! you are there, are you?" said Harry, "here's a letter for you, Totts. And I have one for Miss Cameron. Is she in the drawing-room too?"
"No, she went into the garden. Shall I take her letter to her?"
"No, thanks; you need not trouble. I am going out again, and will no doubt see her. Go and read your own letter, which seems to be from some of your old school-friends in town. What you girls get to write about is always a mystery to me." And off he went whistling an operatic chorus, shutting the front door behind him with a bang as he went out.
The garden looked white and hot in the bright sunlight. The walks and soil seemed equally baked and dry, and they both reflected the dazzling glare of the sun. The green of the hedges and shrubs lessened in some degree the general whiteness, but they would not have afforded much relief to the eye or sense of shade had it not been for the soft greenery of the weeping willows, now in full and luxuriant leaf, as they drooped their long, pendant, tress-like branches to the very earth. Beneath this leafy shade a rustic seat had been placed, and thither Harry Ewart directed his steps in search of Miss Cameron. He found Nellie, as he expected, enjoying the grateful shade of the trees, while she read an English magazine.
As he entered the grove Harry could not but admire the appearance of Nellie Cameron as she sat in an easy attitude, and looked so fresh and cool in her dress of light print.
On his approach she raised her eyes from her magazine, and as she looked up at him from under her broad-brimmed hat, she indeed looked very pretty, and to Harry she seemed inexpressibly so.
"How jolly you do look here, Miss Cameron!" said he; "you look as cool as a cucumber, and that is something to be desired on a hot day like this."
"Yes, it is pleasanter here than indoors, I think.
"There is more here than the softened light which is pleasant to the eyes, Miss Cameron," said Harry, making an awkward attempt to pay a compliment.
"Indeed!" said Nellie, and though his tone must have told her what he meant if his words did not, she added, "Yes, the light green of the willow leaves and the little gleams of sunshine are certainly very pretty."
"No doubt they are," replied Harry; "but you are the real sunshine here, Miss Nellie."
This was a much bolder attempt, and meant, as Nellie well knew, a great deal from such a man as Harry Ewart, who was of too genuine and sincere a nature to be always making pleasant speeches to ladies, as some men are, which, from them, however, as their lady friends soon learn to know, are absolutely meaningless. And yet, strange to say, the generality of women like to listen to the pleasant little compliments, even when they know thoroughly their insincerity and worthlessness. But in this perhaps they are no worse than a great many of the sterner sex, who are as susceptible to flattery as are womankind, though it is doubtless flattery of a different nature. Woman's most vulnerable point is her personal appearance, while a man's may be his strength, ability, bonhomie, or shrewdness; but whatever it may be,
Harry Ewart had never called Nellie anything before but Miss Cameron, and was almost surprised at his own temerity in calling her "Miss Nellie;" for though he had long admired the girl, and had during her present visit to the station paid her not a little attention as his sister's friend and visitor, yet he could hardly be said to have thought of her in any other light. He may have had a passing thought that Nellie would make a good wife, and a wife of whom any man might be proud, but he had never seriously contemplated taking upon himself the bonds of matrimony. Living happily at home with the pleasant companionship of his parents and sister, he had hardly as yet experienced the feeling that "it is not good for man to be alone."
Nellie's answer to Harry's compliment was a pleasant laugh, but she also replied in words, and said, "Then, Mr. Ewart, as you are such an admirer of coolness and shade, you had better retire from the presence of the sunshine;" at the same time she gathered up the skirt of her dress, so as to draw attention to the fact that there was plenty of room on the seat if Harry desired to sit down. Without so much as noticing the apparent invitation for him to do so, he unconsciously accepted it and seated himself by her.
"Ah! Miss Nellie," he said, "you are too severe. Your sunshine warms, but would never scorch."
Nellie cast down her eyes and blushed slightly, and then raising them again, looked Harry full in the face, when she said, a little gravely, "I am surprised at you, Mr. Ewart; I did not think you were given to flattery."
It was a perfect piece of acting. Harry did not doubt but that she was perfectly natural and guileless, and he answered warmly—
"Indeed, Miss Nellie, I never flatter. I mean what I say."
"Well, well!" said Nellie, "never mind. Let us talk of something else. You were speaking of going to live up at the lake district this morning at breakfast, but I did not know whether you were joking or not. I think that is why poor Ottalie has been so dull all morning; she does not like the prospect of losing you, and no wonder either. But do you know, Mr. Ewart, I am afraid that Ottalie has lost her heart to one of the recent visitors here, though she won't own it."
"Do you think so? I can't fancy our Tott married; and yet I suppose she will be so one day, and Ramshorn is a very good fellow. Though he is not well off, yet, if Ottalie loved him, I should be glad to see her married to him. Money is not by any means everything in such affairs,
"Oh! by no means," answered Nellie, "although I think it is a great mistake for girls to marry men who are really incapable of earning even a decent livelihood, as I have known one or two instances of; yet I do not like your mercenary girls, who won't look at a man, be he ever so good and true, unless he has a good balance at his banker's. My idea, Mr. Ewart, is, that if a man be one who is capable of success, and has enough to keep a wife in tolerable comfort, that he should, if he is attached to a girl, marry; and if the girl is what she ought to be, she will be a great comfort and assistance to him. But perhaps I am mistaken about Ottalie; at any rate, I am sure she is dull to-day at the idea of your leaving Pakeloa."
"Well, leave it I must; for my father has bought another station, and he wishes me to go and manage it. I am hardly required here, for we have an excellent head-shepherd, and with my father to refer to and consult, he will be able to manage capitally. It will be worse for me than for Ottalie, however, for I shall be all alone."
"How very lonely you will be!" said Nellie; "but you should get Ottalie up to keep house for u. I have no doubt she would enjoy the change; only perhaps she might not like to go so far away from Waitaruna."
"No, no! I would not ask Ottalie to leave home
"Perhaps you might find some one willing to do so if you tried, Mr. Ewart," said Nellie, looking down, and seemingly discovering something very interesting in the structure of a pebble lying at her foot, which she nervously rolled backwards and forwards with the toe of an exceedingly neat little boot.
Harry Ewart did not at once reply, but remained silent for some seconds, which to Nellie seemed an age. "Have I said too much?" thought she. "What if I have been too plain and frightened him? If I have, I shall have great difficulty in regaining the ground I shall lose."
She started like a guilty thing when Harry's voice broke the silence.
"Miss Cameron," he began with an unwonted tremor in his tone, "I have long admired you, and"—his tongue failed him, but his great brown hand somehow succeeded in getting hold of the tiny white fingers which lay in Nellie's lap. Her hand was not withdrawn, and the assurance thus obtained enabled Harry to exclaim, "Nellie dear, will you share my banishment?"
There was no reply in words, but he felt a gentle pressure from the little hand he held in his own; his arm crept unforbidden round her waist, and presently Nellie's glossy head was nestled on his shoulder, with her beautiful eyes turned timidly upwards towards his, which looked down lovingly. "My Harry!" she murmured, and he answered with a kiss, the first blest kiss of new-found love.
To say that he was happy would convey no idea of his state of mind. He was in a state of tranquil ecstatic excitement. It may be somewhat paradoxical to say so, but yet no other words would describe his feelings. How long they remained beneath the shade of the willows neither of them could have told, but it seemed a very short time, and they were astonished that it was so late, when they heard Ottalie calling from the verandah to Nellie that it was nearly time for luncheon.
"What will Ottalie think of me for stealing her brother?" said Nellie with a little laugh.
"Why, only that she has found a sister; shall we tell her now?" asked Harry.
"No, no; not just yet," said Nellie as they emerged together from beneath the trees.
"Why, Harry," exclaimed Ottalie, as he and Nellie came up the garden walk together, "have you been with Nellie all this time? I thought
Harry involuntarily put his hand into his coat-pocket, while Nellie said—
"What letter? I have had none."
"You don't mean to say, Harry, that you have never given Nellie her letter yet? You cruel fellow! it is, no doubt, from her lover," said Ottalie mischievously.
"Even if it were not addressed in a lady's hand, I could guarantee that it was not from Miss Cameron's lover. Could I not, Nellie?" said Harry, turning to her.
"You must tell her all," whispered Nellie; and adding, in a louder tone, "I must away and dress before lunch," she hurried to the house, leaving the brother and sister together.
"What is it, Harry, boy?" asked Ottalie, as soon as Nellie had gone.
"What is what, Totts?" was Harry's query in return.
"You and Nellie know best, I should say, judging from appearances, but I won't ask any questions if you don't want me to, only do tell me why you did not give Nellie her letter?"
"Well, Ottalie, if you must know, Nellie has promised to be my wife," said Harry gravely.
"O Harry! I am so glad to hear it," said Ottalie,
"You are quite wrong there, Ottalie," said Harry vehemently, "for I had not the least intention of doing what I have done when I looked in with your letter this morning."
But he might as well have held his peace, for Ottalie had tripped away to Nellie's room and heard not his reply. Harry's statement was nevertheless true, and he wondered within himself how it had all come about. "I am sure I shall be happy," he repeated to himself, "and I shall do my best to make Nellie so." It was a strange thought for one in Harry's situation. Surely he could not doubt but that he would find happiness where he so late had sought it. Why else did he seek to win Nellie as his wife? And yet, now that she was won, he doubted what the result would be. He looked gloomy and restless, and very unlike an accepted lover, as Nellie remarked when she reappeared; but her smile, her beauty, and the charm of her conversation quickly banished his dubious questionings.
Ottalie had found Nellie quietly reading her letter in her room, and apparently quite unconcerned by recent events; but, in reality, she too had her doubting thoughts.
She was afraid that perhaps she had precipitated matters a little too quickly, and that perhaps Harry would, when he came to think over their interview, see how she had led up to the proposal, and despise her for it. She did not fear his endeavouring to free himself, for she was certain that, whatever he thought, he would not try to do so, especially since Ottalie knew; yet still she feared that she might lose his respect, as she thought she must do if he knew all.
Nellie returned Ottalie's sisterly kiss with warmth, and said, "Am I not a lucky girl, Totts, to gain his love? I don't know whether you expected anything of the kind, but it was a very great and pleasant surprise to me."
"Not altogether a surprise, Nellie, surely," replied Ottalie.
"Yes, Ottalie dear; for though I admired and loved your brother, I did not think he cared for poor little me. Oh! I am so happy, Ottalie dear, and I hope you may be as happy when your turn comes, which I don't think will be long in coming."
"Oh! don't talk rubbish, Nellie. I can't leave papa and mamma, and won't do anything so foolish as you and Harry,—at least not just yet," she added as she left the room.
"The timid sheep submissive yield The fleecy covering that proves In stormy winter aye a shield." — . Anon
"What in the name of Fortune were you thinking of, Langton, when you let that blundering, wooden-headed Irishman take charge of the outstation?" asked Mr. Ramshorn, in no amicable mood, on his return to Waitaruna.
"It was a mistake, I confess," said Gilbert, who was busily engaged in copying a piece of music belonging to Miss Cameron, which he had undertaken to copy for Ottalie Ewart.
"You don't seem to be particularly put out about it, however," growled the manager. "You ought to have gone up yourself, and not left it to such a born fool as Mike. He'll have to take the Wallabi track to-morrow morning. I wonder how I came to keep such an idiot on the place."
"I don't think you need wonder at that," replied Gilbert, for Mike has always done his work well
"Well, you'll have to be sorry then," replied Mr. Ramshorn, thoroughly out of temper; "for as sure as he is alive at this present moment, Mike shall be sacked the first thing to-morrow morning."
"I was greatly annoyed when the affair happened," said Gilbert, "and I am very sorry it should result so seriously for Mike."
"It will be a lesson to you to attend to your business in the future, I hope," continued Mr. Ramshorn, "instead of riding all over the country with that ne'er-do-weel chum of yours, or dancing attendance on those girls up at Pakeloa."
"If you refer to Arthur Leslie, I don't see that he has in any way merited such a term."
"Oh! well, if he does not now, he will before long. I have seen too many of his sort not to know."
"And as for my 'dancing attendance,' as you call it, on the young ladies at Pakeloa," Gilbert went on, ignoring Mr. Ramshorn's interruption, "I have only been up there once during your absence, and I went to bid good-bye to Harry Ewart, who leaves after shearing to take delivery of the new station. I
"You only went up to say good-bye to Ewart, did you? I suppose it is to oblige him that you are copying that music, is it? But I am off to bed. If you are ever left alone here again, I hope you will think of your work first and your pleasure after," he added, in a little more kindly tone; and bidding Gilbert good night, he retired to his room.
As Gilbert Langton sat alone copying the music, he could not but admit to himself that he was deserving of censure at the hands of Mr. Ramshorn, but he nevertheless felt somewhat aggrieved that he should have been "pitched into" in the way he had been, and he wished he could attain a position in which he might be freed from such annoyances. If, he thought, he was in such a position, he might then think of "dancing attendance" on Ottalie Ewart, whose fair face rose before his mental vision. Would he win her, he asked, if he dared ask her to become his wife? His wife! When would he be able to marry? and such a prize as Ottalie would long before that time be gained by another.
"I really think," said he to himself, "that Ramshorn is in love with Ottalie, and one would almost fancy that he was jealous of me. But surely that can't be so. If I were Ramshorn, I should at once go in and win, or learn my fate."
He pondered thus for some time, till at length the thought occurred to him that if Mr. Ramshorn was really jealous of him, he must not look upon the possibility of having Gilbert Langton for a rival as something too remote to be feared. If, then, Mr. Ramshorn thought so, why should not he? There was really nothing to prevent his winning Ottalie for his wife; he might accomplish it. And thus, as he was wont, he sat and dreamed, and in all his dreams Ottalie Ewart, or perhaps Ottalie Langton, was the brightest figure.
Next morning Mike was dismissed. Gilbert saw him as he passed the stables with his blankets rolled up into the form of a gigantic horse-collar, after the most approved fashion among swaggers.
"The top o' the morning to ye, Misther Langton," said Mike cheerfully as he passed.
"You are not going without saying good-bye, are you, Mike?" called Gilbert, adding, as Mike stopped, "I am sorry you have got sacked, and I did not think you would have got into such a scrape when I sent you to keep the boundary."
"Oh! well, it's not meesilf that's caring very much about it at all, for sure I can't make it any better, and if my laving makes the manager any happier, I'm sure he's entoirely welcome."
"What are you going to do, Mike?" asked Gilbert, thinking that probably he would be anxious
"What am I going to do is it that you would be after asking?" replied Mike. "I'm thinking of going to the diggings at Muttontown for a bit, and I think I'll have a chance of making a rise there as well as any other man. I hear that Misther Leslie is in a good claim there."
"I wish you luck, then," said Gilbert; "but I must be getting off. I am going over to Big Creek with M'Lean to see about those sheep you got into trouble over. They are to begin shearing to-morrow, and I suppose a few days will see us hard at it too. Good-bye to you, Mike."
"Good-bye, sorr," said Mike, shouldering his "swag" as Gilbert trotted off after M'Lean, who had already started.
Gilbert was correct in his supposition that they would soon begin shearing, for on his return from Big Creek he found that they had in his absence began mustering, and that shearing was to be commenced next day.
Then began a busy time, but one which had for Gilbert the charm of novelty. He had seen sheep shorn at home, but he had never beheld such a scene as the shed at Waitaruna. The shed, a large
Meanwhile the "pickers up" were busy gathering up the fleeces as they fell from the bereft sheep and carrying them to the sorting table, where they
Mr. Ramshorn was anxious to get the shearing finished as quickly as possible; for besides his desire to get it over and the wool sent off, all the men had to be fed, which was a considerable item, and one which would be materially added to if wet weather should come on, for then, of course, everything would be stopped in the way of work, while all hands would still require to have "the run of their teeth."
During the morning, when there was a cessation of work for a few minutes for "smoke oh," a large bucket filled with tea and a number of pannikins were brought up to the shed, and with draughts of this beverage the shearers refreshed themselves, the bucket being replenished as occasion required.
When shearing had continued for a few days, rain came on one morning, much to the disgust of Mr. Ramshorn and of some of the shearers, while others seemed to be rather glad of the "spell." It cleared up again in the afternoon, but the sheep were wet, and nothing could be done for the rest of the day. Some of the shearers proposed that they should go out fishing for eels, which were reported as being plentiful in a creek not far from the station. Among the shearers was a Maori named, as Gilbert afterwards heard, Hoani Wetere Korako, but commonly called "Maori Jack," which was, strange to say, a legitimate contraction of his name. It is no uncommon thing to know a man
As, however, Hoani Wetere stood for John Wesley, the name Maori Jack was a proper contraction, though this was probably more due to a lucky
Gilbert was considerably interested in Maori Jack, as he was the first of the aboriginal race he had seen in the colony; for though still numerous in the North Island, throughout the South Island of New Zealand Maories are seldom seen.
Jack was a fine specimen of his race—tall, muscular, and, considering that his father had undoubtedly been familiar with the flavour of human flesh, a most intelligent man. To look at him, one could not but regret that he belonged to a doomed race, and that his people would disappear before the conquering white men. It was in talking to Jack that Gilbert learned of the proposed eeling expedition, which he decided to join.
The creek or stream which they intended visiting lay about two miles distant from the station, and was one which contributed a considerable volume of water to the river. It ran for some distance through an alluvial flat, through which it had cut a deep channel with precipitous banks from six to ten feet in height. The ground was thickly overgrown with large bushes of the native flax plant, and these on the fertile flat grew strong and luxuriantly. The stream, as it emerged from a gully in the hills, flowed rapidly, but it soon became more sluggish as it followed its sinuous course through the low land
Almost as soon as Maori Jack arrived at the creek he descried an eel, and he speedily rigged up a line by cutting a flax blade, which he tore into narrow threads and knotted them together; then having procured a number of earth-worms, he fastened them to the end of his rude line by tying a number of them tightly round the middle with a piece of scraped flax fibre. The worms twisted the free portion of their bodies round one another, after the manner of their kind, so that they resembled a round ball of animated cord. Thus baited, Jack threw his line into the water a little way above the eel, and let it drop slowly down the stream towards him. Leisurely the creature took it in its mouth, where it held the "bob" of worms a while, as though it were
One or two of the party had brought hooks and lines, but they found them less serviceable than the "bob," as it required anatomy to extract the hooks. The only disadvantage attending the former method was that those who were inexperienced in its use were rather apt to pull up the line before the bait was properly swallowed, in which case they were almost sure not to land their eel. But notwithstanding this, the "take" was a large one, and it had long been dark when they desisted fishing. The eels caught were mostly from two to four feet long; so
Fortunately the weather remained fine after this, and there was no other interruption to the shearing at Waitaruna.
"For this relief much thanks." — . Shakespeare
The great event of the year was past. The wool was all safely baled and despatched by waggon to Dunedin, whence it would be speedily shipped to the world's market, London.
Even Mr. Ramshorn, though he had gone through not a few "shearings," was thoroughly glad when it was over; and as for Gilbert, although no very heavy work fell on his shoulders, he was very tired of the shearing before it was over.
Mr. Ramshorn intimated that he was going to see a neighbouring runholder who had spoken about buying some sheep, and he added casually that he thought he would call in at Pakeloa on his way to see if Harry Ewart was gone, as he wished to see him if possible before he left. What a convenient thing it is when a girl has a brother who can be made an excuse for numerous visits to her home! Ramshorn liked Harry Ewart very well,
But it is not brothers only who are thus of use, for Nellie Cameron had made a successful use of her supposed affection for Ottalie, which was far less genuine than that Mr. Ramshorn had for Harry. A tendency to matrimony is said to be a contagious disorder, and one engagement is frequently followed by others in the same circle. This perhaps had something to do with Mr. Ramshorn's half-formed resolve that he would woo, and endeavour to win, Ottalie Ewart for his wife. He had saved a little money since he became manager at Waitaruna, and he had made one or two fortunate speculations which had increased his little capital, and of this he had been induced to invest the greater part in a likely looking quartz mine, which promised to turn out something very good. His spirits were therefore elated somewhat, and he thought that the tide of fortune, which had long ebbed from him, had now turned, and would flow again all the stronger because of its lengthened retrogression. When he thought about his former ideas on the subject of
He said he would leave next morning, and as he had previously spoken to Langton about his taking a couple of the horses to Muttontown to be shod, the manager said Gilbert had better start at once, so as to be back as soon as possible, that they might not both be away from the station for long.
Gilbert accordingly, so soon as the horses were
Langton spent the greater part of the afternoon in knocking the ivory balls about in the billiard-room in company with one of the bankers; but in the evening, when they purposed renewing the contest, they found the table already occupied by some of the miners, and the atmosphere of the billiard-room so filled with tobacco smoke that they could hardly see the men who were sitting round the room blowing "clouds." A game of euchre in the dining-room was therefore resorted to as a pastime, and by and by the doctor and one or two others dropped in.
"There are several of the 'Rip and Tear Company's' men having a jollification down at Goodall's to-night," remarked the doctor. "I see that young fellow Leslie is in the crowd."
"Is he?" said Gilbert's partner, the banker.
"I fancy he is getting a little too fond of his beer."
"Well, I don't know," replied the doctor. "I don't know that he is any worse or better in that way than the rest of us. I think he is spooney on the 'Stringer,' that is what I think keeps him hanging round there so much."
Langton had been paying more attention to his game, at which he was only a novice, than to the conversation, but hearing the names of Leslie and the "Stringer" coupled in this way roused his attention.
"Who do you say is spooney on the 'Stringer'?" he asked.
"A young fellow, Leslie, who came here not long since, and who works in the 'Rip and Tear' claim. He is rather a pleasant, gentlemanly fellow. Have you come across him?" asked the doctor.
"I fancy," was Gilbert's reply, "that I know him very well. Is his name Arthur Leslie?"
"I should not wonder; but he's the only Leslie I know about here, so no doubt it's the man you know. He was trying to make another new comer 'shout' as I passed, coming up here, but seemingly the Irishman did not see it, for he kept saying, 'Bejabers, Mr. Leslie, and it's no money I have at all at all, nor toime neither, for I am just going to tether me horse, so I am.'"
"Why, I should not wonder if that was Mike
"Yes," said the police inspector, "a real Irish Irishman is as amusing a fellow as you will meet in a day's march. I've seen lots of them in the force, but though I've laughed at some of their sayings often enough, yet I never can remember them. But for all their 'bulls,' they are generally smart men."
"I don't think you need speak of 'bulls,' Pearson," said one of the others, "for I don't know what you can call it but a 'bull' to speak of an Irish Irishman, and it differs from an Irish Irishman's 'bull' in that it is one which is not amusing."
"Now, then, what are you sneering at?" asked Pearson. And apparently to divert the personal turn the conversation was taking he said, "I'll tell you one of those absurd things I have heard an Irish trooper say, and it was in reference to one of the most extraordinary narrow escapes I ever saw in my life. It was in the early days of the diggings, on the other side, when there was some sticking-up going on, that we were after a noted bushranger, who had bailed up a good many in the Bullarook forest shortly before. The gang had been scattered, and this trooper and I came up with 'Red Peter,' one of the worst of
"Well, Mr. Pearson," said Gilbert, "I think I can understand now what you mean by an Irish Irishman. Was there ever much of the 'sticking-up business,' as you call it, in this country?"
"Oh! nothing to speak of. This country's not adapted for it. What with the want of timber and difficulty in getting away, bushrangers would have a hard time of it here. There were a few cases, but most of the force here were from the other side, and they knew all the bad characters, and kept a very sharp lookout on them."
"You must have had some strange experiences, I should say, Mr. Pearson," continued Gilbert.
"Yes, I have seen some queer things now and again. Talking of sticking-up, now, I remember once, over in Australia, finding a couple of fellows just in the nick of time to save their lives. What took me off the track I don't remember now, but it was mere accident my leaving it. Not far in the bush I came on two men bailed up, and each tied to a tree. The ruffians had tied them with their hands behind them round the trees, and they had also put a strap round each of their necks, and passed them also round the trees. One of the men was much worse than the other; his head had fallen forwards, and he was insensible. It was a great marvel that he was not choked. His neck was fearfully swelled, and if I had been a little later in finding them, he would have been a gone coon. The other was not in quite so bad a state, but he was bad enough, for he could not speak till some time after he had had a drink. They had been bailed up for some three or
Gilbert also "turned in" when the inspector left, but as some of the others still remained talking, and he could hear every word as he lay in bed, he could not go to sleep. By and by the others all departed, and the only sounds to be heard were the click of the billiard balls, now distinctly audible in the quietened house, and the laughter and merriment from Goodall's hotel down the street; but after a time even these noises were silenced, but still Gilbert lay awake.
Whether it was the effect of the inspector's "nightcap," a luxury to which he was unaccustomed, or
Gilbert, however, knew naught of this as he lay hot, sleepless, and uncomfortable, both in mind and body, in bed at Muttontown. The current of his thoughts was changed by his imagining he heard some one calling. He raised his head to listen and heard nothing, but just as he lay down again, the cry was repeated; he was sure of it this time. He sat up in bed and listened. Once more he heard it. It came from some distance, and seemed to be the cry of some one in distress.
He thought of going to ascertain the cause, but then
Thus admonished, Gilbert cautiously groped his
"Are you there?" he called.
The reply came from no very great distance off. "Yes; but for Heaven's sake look where you go. I have fallen over that face and broken my leg, and I can't move."
"How can I get down?" asked Gilbert.
"Go back the way you came for a bit, till you reach the foot of the spur, and then follow up the gully," said the man; "but go cautiously, for any sake."
Gilbert did as he was directed, and soon reached the helpless miner, whom he found in a sorry plight, sitting unable to move, with one of his legs doubled right under him. Langton tried to raise the unfortunate man, but found he was unable to do so easily by himself, and the poor fellow groaned with the pain of this attempt to move him.
"I must go for assistance," said Gilbert. "Is there any one who lives nearer than the township?"
"Yes, there are some men live a little way from here in that direction, but the ground is all cut up with old tail-races between this and that; besides, they must all be either dead or drunk, for I cooeed loud enough to waken the dead for I don't know how long, and none of them ever stirred."
"I'll go and see if I can find some one," said Gilbert, setting out in the direction indicated.
He fell once or twice, but fortunately only over a heap of stones or "tailings," and he suffered no great harm. As soon as he approached the huts he sought, three or four large dogs began to bay furiously. Gilbert was afraid to advance closer, for many diggers keep savage dogs, and the sound of the voices of those he heard spoke to considerable bulk of body. He called out lustily once or twice, but the dogs only barked the louder. Presently, however, he heard a gruff voice swear in a sleepy kind of way at the barking dogs. "Hullo!" shouted Gilbert, "come and help a man with a broken leg."
"What's that you say?" was asked by the owner of the gruff voice in a less sleepy tone than he had used to the dogs.
"A man with a broken leg," was Gilbert's reply.
The only answer was the noise of striking a match, and presently Gilbert saw the light shining through the canvas gable of the erection, which was half tent, half hut; then the door opened, and a sleepy looking man stood in the doorway, sheltering a candle with his hand while he peered into the darkness. The situation was soon explained, and the owner of the hut lost no time in pulling on his boots and rousing his mates. Provided with a couple of
He was lifted carefully on to the back of one of the party, and, as they proceeded slowly to the township, he explained how he had been engaged, only the preceding day, to look after the water in the "Rise and Shine Company's" claim at night, and how in proceeding to his work he had, through want of a thorough acquaintance with the locality, mistaken the way and fallen over the face of some abandoned workings, a distance of some fifteen or twenty feet, and how, though he had been calling out for a couple of hours, no one heard him, or, if they had, had not paid any attention. They carried him to one of the hotels and sent for the doctor, and as he could render no more service, Gilbert retired once more to his couch, and this time to sleep.
"Detested sport that owes its pleasure to another's pain." — . Cowper
Next morning Gilbert found himself quite a lion in a small way, and he was complimented by numbers of the townsfolk on his having saved the man's life as he went along the street to visit the sufferer. He found the man's leg had not been set, as the break was a nasty compound fracture, and the limb was greatly swelled from the exposure and cramped position in which it had lain for so long.
A subscription had already been started for the poor fellow, and to this many of the miners had subscribed with their accustomed liberality. Putting down his name for a modest sum, Gilbert proceeded to Goodall's in search of Arthur Leslie. As he entered the bar he was greeted by a pert and rather buxom young woman, who bid him "Good morning" from behind the bar counter. Gilbert returned the salutation, and as he stepped forward to inquire for Arthur, he had an opportunity of inspecting the young lady) was popularly called.
She was not bad looking, though her complexion was rather florid. Her mouth was large, but her teeth were perfection. Her expression was pleasing, notwithstanding a certain air of boldness. But the chief feature in her appearance was her hair, of which she appeared to have an immense quantity. It was of a dark-brown colour, almost black, but the manner in which it was piled up over her head was astonishing to behold, while it descended again in a series of well-oiled worm-like coils or ringlets, which were disposed in a row all along her forehead, to which they were plastered in a truly marvellous manner. Gilbert could hardly take his eyes off this wonderful erection, and he felt disposed to ask Miss Needham if she slept in all that. For he could not imagine that such an elaborate structure was renewed daily, and concluded in his own mind that she must do like the Fiji mountaineers, who sleep with no pillow but a log of wood placed under the neck, so that the head may be kept from the ground and the coiffure be preserved from disarrangement. He, however, contented himself by inquiring if Mr. Leslie was about, and was rather startled by hearing the barmaid call along the passage leading into the house, "Arthur, here's a gentleman wishes to see you." Gilbert felt annoyed to think that this
"Ah! Gilbert, my boy, how are you?" said Arthur. "I wish I had known you were in the township last night and I would have looked you up. It would have enabled me to get away from Long Tom here and the rest of them, who were having a bit of a spree last night. It was too much for me, and I feel confoundedly seedy this morning."
"Well now," said "Long Tom," "I call that civil, after leading us all astray, to say he would have been glad to get away from us. That's just a little too good. Don't you think so, Jenny, my dear?"
"Yes, indeed, I think so," replied Jenny. "Arthur was the life and soul of the whole affair; but what you both want is a cocktail to pick you up."
"That's the ticket, Jenny, my woman," replied Long Tom. "I'll forgive you for buttering Arthur since you have made that good suggestion."
"Try one of Jenny's 'cocktails,'" said Arthur to Gilbert; "she fixes them up A-1."
"No, thank you; I am sorry to see you think you need one, Arthur."
"Oh! confound it, Gilbert, don't preach," said Arthur. "If you worked as hard as I have been doing lately, you would not grudge a fellow a little bit of amusement. Forking stones in a tail-race is harder than cooking a long sight, I can tell you. Here's luck!" he added as he tossed off the mysterious compound prepared by Miss Jenny. "By the way, old man," he continued, "you have got your name up, and no mistake, finding that poor devil with the broken leg. I wonder we did not hear him, Tom, when we were out at Mike's horse," he added, addressing his digger friend.
"By the way," said Tom, "it's about time we were going to look after that Irish friend of yours."
"Yes," replied Leslie; "let's walk over to his tent and see if he is back. It's such a lark," he continued, speaking to Gilbert; "come on and I'll tell you all about it as we walk along."
As they walked down the street together, Arthur informed Gilbert that Mike Donovan on being "sacked" from Waitaruna had come over to Muttontown, and had pitched his tent on the flat just below the township, and that he had lived there ever since, having got work in one of the claims. Mike's good nature and remarkable verdancy had, more than once since his arrival, caused him to be chosen as
"I fear," said Gilbert, when Leslie had recounted the events of the previous evening, "that you have got into rather a drunken lot, Arthur. You should take care what you do."
"Oh! I'm all right," was Arthur's reply; "besides; one must have some amusement in a dull hole like this."
"You may be all right now, and I have no doubt you are, but surely you don't intend being a digger all your life. And though you may go on in the way you are doing, merely for the fun of the thing, as you think, I should be greatly afraid you might acquire a liking for drinking before you were aware of it."
"Oh! no fear. What's the odds so long as you're happy?"
Before Gilbert could rejoin, Long Tom, who had lagged behind to speak to a friend, came up and said, "There's Mike, just got back from looking for what has never been lost."
"Well, Mike, how are you?" asked Gilbert, as they came up to that worthy.
"Och! and it's meesilf that's tried, so it is. Here's that ould horse of mine has gone and lost hisself, afther I had found him yesterday."
"Have you not found that horse of yours yet, Mike?" asked Long Tom, winking to the others. "I expect some one has taken a fancy to that new tether rope of yours, and has picked it up without noticing that there was a horse at the end of it."
"Do ye tell me that now?" said Mike. "By the piper that played before Moses, if I had the spalpeen here, I'd give him the tether rope in a way that would make him remember it to his dying day."
"They don't hang men even for horse-stealing in these parts, Mike," replied Long Tom, "and that rope of yours would hardly suit for the purpose, I think. Let's look at it."
"Sure now you're welcome to look at and for it too, for I've been looking for it all morning, and divil a bit av it I've seen."
"Yes; and how is that?" asked Arthur, feigning ignorance.
"Sure and haven't they stole me horse?" said Mike, in astonishment; "and have I not been tramping afther the mob looking for him all this blessed morning."
"And was he not with the mob?" asked Arthur. "But surely you did not expect that whoever stole your horse would turn it out with the township mob,
"Now, look here; it's game you're afther making av me, so it is. Wasn't the rope on the horse, and was it not bekase the horse was not with the mob that I know he is stolen. I was just going up to the camp to tell the sargint about it when you came. But it's going to be a shower of rain I think; come into the tint till it's over."
The shower was a smart one, and lasted for pretty nearly an hour, which they wiled away by smoking and talking about all sorts of conceivable topics; and though Long Tom and Arthur Leslie generally managed to give the conversation a turn so that they might have an opportunity of "taking a rise" out of Mike, yet he nevertheless hospitably lighted a fire, boiled his "billy," and made tea, and though he could only muster two pannikins, he entertained his visitors right well, if his efforts to induce them to scald their mouths by drinking boiling tea had nothing sinister in them.
When the rain ceased, Long Tom again referred to the lost horse, and asked Mike if he had ever looked for the horse where he left him.
"Av coorse," was the reply. "Wasn't it tethered over there forninst where that white one is?"
"Was the white one there when you tethered
"Niver a bit av it; come out and I'll show you where my horse was. By me sowl!" exclaimed Mike, "if the white horse hasn't gone and changed into a piebald!"
It was true enough; for the rain had washed off some of the pipeclay and imparted a peculiar streaky appearance to the animal. Long Tom and Arthur, who had both been bursting with suppressed laughter for some time, could no longer contain themselves, and fairly exploded with a loud guffaw.
Mike looked from one to the other in astonishment for a moment, and then a light seemed to dawn on him, for he ran towards the tethered horse, and before he reached it, he was satisfied that he was once more the victim of a practical joke. He drew his hand down the streaky neck of his steed, thus making a clearly defined darker line, when he turned again towards the bystanders.
"Ye're a set of dirthy blackguards, and I'd like to see the man that did the dirthy trick stand out here by hissilf, and I'll spile his ugly face for him, so that his own mother won't know him, so I will. But if he won't stand out," continued the irate Mike, seeing his auditors did nothing but laugh immoderately, "I'll fight the whole lot of yees altogether, one at onct."
"Well, Mike," said Gilbert, "you don't suppose I had any hand in it, do you? I think it was rather too bad to treat you so. Upon my word, I do."
"No, Mr. Langton," replied Mike, "I don't think you did it, but I think you knew and might have tould me about it."
"Well, I own I knew about it just before I came down to see you, but you had been out for some hours looking for your horse; besides, I don't know that even if you had not been, I should have interfered. I wonder you did not have a look at the white horse before you started."
"Well, thin, maybe I did and maybe I didn't; but it's not meesilf that's able to see through whitewash at all."
"Oh! well, Mike, there was a big crowd in the job, I hear, and you could hardly fight them all; but come on up to town and have a drink, and perhaps you'll hear who did it," said Long Tom.
"And give you and the rest of the mane dirthy spalpeens the chance to laugh at me? No, you don't get me this time," replied the still angry Mike. "I'll go to the Warden about it, that's what I'll do, and be jabers if there's law in the land I'll make somebody pay for it, that I will."
As it was impossible to pacify Mike, they returned to the township, and Gilbert, finding that the blacksmith had completed his work, bid "good-bye" to
"By the by, Langton," said he as they sat at dinner, "we have been talking here about getting up a pig-hunting expedition. I hear there are a lot of pigs between this and Big Creek, so two or three of us were proposing to have some sport with them. You had better come too; I'll send you over word when we have fixed to go."
"I shall be very glad to join you if I can get away at the time you fix. I have been awfully disappointed as to the amount of shooting I have been able to get in this country. I thought that I should have lots of sport here, but I find I am mistaken."
"It will be a good country for shooting one of these days, however," replied the doctor, "for they are turning out all sorts of game, and everything that is introduced seems to do well. We ought to have some fun with these pigs. I saw a fellow the other day who had been over there lately, and he said they were very plentiful. One old boar he described as having a mane on him like a lion. I should think, from all accounts, he must have been one of the original stock turned out by Captain Cook," added the doctor, laughing.
"I must be making a start if I want to get home to-night," said Gilbert, rising; "and I say, Doctor, if you can do anything for Arthur Leslie in the way of getting him out of the set he has got into, I shall be obliged, for I don't think they are likely to lead him into much good."
"Well, I'll look him up and see what I can do, but I don't suppose I shall be able to do much, for I think that he is really soft on that towsy-headed barmaid, and any man who could be spooney on a piece of goods like that is, I fear, beyond me. But if you are interested in him, I'll at least let you know how he gets on."
"And he alone is blessed who ne'er was born." — . Prior
Hawera Station looks a lonely place, as indeed it is. The house stands on the shore of the lake of that name, on a flat formed of shingle brought down from the mountains, which raise their rough and precipitous sides at no great distance. The lake is surrounded by mountains, which in many places go sheer down into the water, while at others there are a few acres of comparatively level land between their base and the lake; the largest of these tracts is that on which the homestead stands. Behind the house are frowning mountains, across the lake there are mountains partially clothed with bush, and though in reality they are a couple of miles away, they appear to be close at hand. Although a view of some extent is obtained down the lake, as well as up the valley of the river flowing into it at the upper end, one has a feeling of being hemmed in on every side.
The station and the few adjacent outbuildings are the only indications of the presence of man; and on a dull day with the clouds resting on the mountain tops, Hawera Station looks lonely in the extreme. And yet the scenery is beautiful, nay, grand; and any one who could derive enjoyment from the contemplation of Nature in her varied aspects would find in the landscape a never-failing source of pleasure. Were it nothing but the changeful moods of the water, which would one day be lashed into fury, and break upon the stony beach in front of the house with waves resembling in miniature the ocean's billows, and another the lake's surface would resemble a polished mirror of the bluest steel, or broken by some gentle breeze into tiny wavelets, it would glance and sparkle in the sunlight as though studded with a thousand gems. To a lover of Nature the lake is always beautiful, and the protean play of light and shade on the mountain sides affords an enjoyment that never palls.
Unfortunately for Nellie Ewart, she cared for none of those things, and she found herself very dull in her new home, where she had resided now for nearly three months. Yet she was influenced by her surroundings without her knowing it, and must have derived some unperceived pleasure from the smile on Nature's face; but she saw no beauty in her frown, and on a dull morning Nellie's own
Harry Ewart had been out for a couple of hours, and, with an appetite whetted by the keen morning air, he came in expecting Nellie to be waiting for him in the breakfast parlour, but as she had not appeared, he called out, "Come, Nell, are you nearly ready? It is past breakfast-time."
Receiving no reply, he proceeded to the bedroom, where he found his wife still in bed.
"Not up yet, Nellie?" he exclaimed. "Why, I thought I was rather late, and that you would be getting tired waiting for me. Shall I order in the breakfast and give you yours in bed?"
"No, I'll get up. I hate breakfast in bed," was Nellie's ungracious reply. "And I wish you would not bawl through the house in that way; you quite startled me just now."
"Did I, dear? I'm sorry for that. I used to think it was one of the advantages of a house like this that one could carry on a conversation with a person in any part of it without the bother of going to them."
"Don't talk rubbish, Harry," said Nellie. And Harry by way of reply stooped over the bed and kissed his wife lovingly.
"You won't be long, dear, will you?" he asked as he left the room; "for I want to go up the valley to the Hut before dinner."
But he had a good half-hour to wait before Nellie made her appearance, and as he was hungry, he took the edge off his appetite by eating a piece of bread and butter, as he read a book by the window.
"At last, wife!" he said, when Nellie made her appearance, looking very fresh and pretty, notwithstanding a somewhat unamiable look in her eyes.
"You might have ordered in breakfast, if you thought I was so very long," said Nellie.
"No, Nellie; I enjoy my breakfast all the more, when I have my pretty wife as a vis-a-vis."
"That the compliment is an unmeaning one is evidenced by your having apparently already begun your breakfast."
"Oh! that was only a snack, I was so hungry; but come, let us begin breakfast, for I require all my time before dinner. I don't suppose you would care to ride up to the Hut, would you?"
"I suppose that's a polite way of saying you don't want me," replied Nellie.
"Nell! Nell! you must be joking. I got your horse in, in case you should want to go, and I thought you would not, as it looks like rain. Are you well enough, dear? for you do not seem like yourself this morning," he said with some concern.
"Oh yes, I am perfectly well; but I should say I could scarcely be expected to be pleased with the
"Well, Nellie, I'll be delighted if you will come with me. I daresay we shall get back before the rain; and, in case we should not, I'll strap your waterproof up with mine."
"Your proposal comes rather late, Harry. I see you don't want me, so I won't thrust myself on you."
"Now, Nellie, my dear, I know you don't mean what you say," said poor Harry; "do come, there's a dear girl. I can't well avoid going, or I should have put off doing so, in the hope that it might be better weather to-morrow."
"It does not matter, Harry, so there is no use saying any more about it. I have no desire to get wet, and sha'n't go with you; besides, I suppose, I must get used to being alone."
"I am sorry you should feel so lonely, Nellie, but, of course, I can't be always at home."
"Oh! of course not, nor should I wish it. But buried alive as I am here, and never having a soul to speak to but you, it is only natural that I should feel lonely."
"It is a lonely place, I know, dear," replied Harry; "but I thought we should have been company enough for one another. I want no one else when I have you, Nell."
"You can't enter into a woman's feelings, Harry, or you would never have brought a wife to such a place as this."
Harry Ewart could hardly believe his ears, and he gazed at his wife, with his cup half raised to his lips, for a moment, and then replacing it untasted in his saucer, said in an astonished tone, "You surely don't regret having married me, Nellie?"
Nellie thought that perhaps she had carried matters a little too far, for she had merely given way to a passing feeling of irritation; which, if she had loved her husband, she would have suppressed, or, at least, have prevented its ebullition in such a disagreeable manner, and she accordingly changed her tactics. Bursting into tears, she said, "I wonder, Harry, you can think, far less say such an unkind thing. You must remember that it is a great change of life to me, to leave all my friends and bury myself alive among these dismal mountains even with you, and one can't help feeling mopish a bit."
"I daresay, Nellie, you are right, and I have not been sufficiently considerate of your feelings, but, my darling, what can I do to make you happier? Shall we get up Ottalie or any of your friends from Dunedin for a visit? And after a time I hope to be able to take you down to Pakeloa for a week or two, and we might then manage to make a run down to town. I have no doubt but that
"I shall be glad to see a new face," replied Nellie, "but I am afraid it would hardly be worth while asking any one up from Dunedin, if we are going down there, but I daresay Ottalie would like to come up here for a short time. Shall I write and ask her?"
"Yes, if you would like it, dear," said Harry, as he kissed his wife before setting out for his ride. "I shall be back as soon as possible," continued he, "and hope to find you have recovered your spirits."
As Harry Ewart rode away from his home that morning, he could not but think of what had passed between him and his wife. On two or three occasions previously the idea had suggested itself that his wife did not love him; but he had at once, and resolutely, banished the thought, for he was of too loyal and loving a nature to be easily betrayed into a suspicion of one he loved. But now it was too apparent that his wife was tired of his society after three short months; and though he struggled to do so, he could not repel the thought that if her feeling towards him was love, it was love so weak as to be hardly worthy of the name. And he? Yes, he loved her, for if he had yielded to what was even at the time of his proposal to her no very deep or permanent passion, yet it had grown stronger and deeper during the
It must have been, he thought, because she supposed he was, or would be wealthy, and he cursed the foul lucre which had made Nellie accept him, and caused him most probably to lose that better wealth, a true woman's love. Now that these ideas had taken possession of his mind, he saw that he had really been caught by Nellie, without his knowing it; and his feelings towards her became almost bitter.
His path led him along the lake side, and thence up the spacious valley which ran from the head of the lake, where fed the few cattle belonging to the station; and though Harry was dispirited and appalled at the prospect of a life without love, yet
The valley was a beautiful one, watered by a clear and rapid river, bounded by rugged mountains, with now and again a stream leaping impetuously down their sides, while along the courses of the streams were clumps of birch trees, and away in the distance the hills were covered with bush; but all this was lost on Harry.
He had seen and admired it often, and would have done so again, had not a feeling as of a dull, inward, aching pain distracted him, and it was only when he roused himself to what were matters of business that he was able to find relief.
Before he turned his face homewards Harry Ewart had made up his mind philosophically to accept the inevitable; and he had still enough love left towards his wife, to resolve that she should not know the discovery he had made, and that his manner towards her should be the same, even though it would often entail on him the acting of a part.
About a week after the discovery by Harry Ewart of the real feelings entertained by his wife towards him, his father and sister arrived at the station. During the past week things had gone on very much as they had before, so far as outward appearances went, for Harry had been as kind,
"What a truly lovely place this is, Nellie!" exclaimed Ottalie the morning after her arrival. "The view is so much more varied and impressive than that we have at Pakeloa. Water, trees, and mountains are, I think, the three elements of scenery, and here you have them beautifully united, while at Pakeloa we only have the mountains."
"Yes," replied Nellie; "it is no doubt very pretty; but I must confess I find it a little dull at times. When Harry is out all day, as of course he often is, I would give a good deal to have a nice gossip with some of my old friends. Do you know that before you came, I was the only woman, besides Bella, the servant, within a day's ride from here? Have you had many visitors at Pakeloa lately, Ottalie?" she asked, without waiting for a reply to her former query; but before Ottalie had time to answer, Harry entered the room, and said—
"Would you girls like to cross the lake to the birch wood? I want to go over and see the sawyers
"Yes, I have, Ottalie," said Nellie; "for it blows so tremendously here at times, and seems to come on so suddenly, that I am in terror lest the boat should be capsized; but I think it will be rather nice to cross the lake to-day."
"Then get ready at once," said Harry, "and let us be off. Father has gone down to the boat already."
In a few minutes they were all on board, including one of the men who came to assist Harry in rowing. The lake, like the rest of the large lakes in Otago, is of an immense depth, and the ground goes down well-nigh precipitously from the beach, which extends merely a few yards into the water with a gentle slope, and then drops into almost unfathomable depths, while in some places the hills seemingly rise with a steep unbroken slope from the bottom of the lake. At the point where the Ewarts embarked the slope of the terrace was more gradual, owing, no doubt, to the deposit of shingle brought down by the creek near whose banks the station stood, and as the water was beautifully clear, they
The row was a most enjoyable one, and it gave a new view of her home to Nellie, who remarked that it seemed a very pretty, snug-looking place from that point of view. Their landing-place was a rude jetty, from which the sawyers launched the logs to be floated down the lake and river to the diggings towns. A short distance from the jetty stood a hut built of logs and slabs, which was the dwelling of the sawyers. The hut was, however, deserted, so the whole party struck into a path leading apparently into the inmost recesses of the bush, which was different from the ordinary New Zealand bush, as it was wholly composed of birch trees, and, except a few sapling birches, undergrowth there was none. Some of the trees were of considerable girth and looked quite patriarchal, especially when they were broken at the top, and gave indications of the trunk being hollow and decaying.
The track led to the saw-pit, and while Harry bargained about the timber he required, the others amused themselves by wandering about; so that they were all somewhat tired by the time they returned to the station.
"Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know." — . Shakespeare
Mr. Ewart, after a few days' residence at Hawera, decided on returning to Pakeloa, and Harry, who had to go to the hotel at the junction of the Hawera river and the Waitangi for the letters, resolved to accompany his father so far on his way. As they rode along near the foot of the lake they descried a solitary horseman quietly riding towards them.
"Who can this be?" said Mr. Ewart; "it must be some one to see you, Harry; for I should not think any one else in your neighbourhood received visitors."
"I expect it may be Ramshorn or Gilbert Langton, and it looks uncommonly like the latter, I think. They both promised to look me up as soon as they could. If it is Gilbert, I expect Ramshorn does not know that Ottalie is up here, or he would have come himself instead."
"You don't mean to say that Mr. Ramshorn has been making love to Ottalie, Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Ewart.
"Well, no; I can't say that, but I fancy he is disposed that way."
"Humph!" was Mr. Ewart's only rejoinder.
"How are you, sir?" exclaimed Gilbert to Mr. Ewart, as they met; "and how are you, Harry? I did not know you were in this part of the world, Mr. Ewart," he continued. "How did you leave all at Pakeloa?"
When their greetings were over, Harry informed Gilbert that he was going down as far as the post; and telling him that Mrs. Ewart and his sister would make him comfortable at the station, and that he would himself be back early next day, said, as he bade him good-bye: "You can't mistake the way. Keep along the shore where there is no track. You had better dismount when you come to Rocky Point, and lead your horse round."
"Shall I lose the track in some parts?" asked Gilbert.
"Yes," called Harry, turning round in his saddle; "but, if in doubt, take the lake."
Shortly after passing Mr. Ewart and Harry, the track, or footpath, for it was no more, led down to the shore of the lake; and he rode for a short distance along a shingly beach, but after a time this
Ascending the track where it left the shore, he followed it for a little way along the mountain side, when he saw before him what he had no doubt was Rocky Point; for the track, only a foot or two wide, led round the face of an almost precipitous cliff. It wound along, now higher, now lower, but straight above him rose the mountain, and just below was the lake, which, there, was of an immense depth, close to the shore. At one part Gilbert had to stoop to avoid striking his head against an overhanging rock, for he had not dismounted, according to Harry's advice, when he came to Rocky Point, and when he had once begun to ride round, he did not like to do so, as he had hardly room to get off his horse. The whole distance was not very great, and the track soon emerged into a wider and less dangerous path; but here a new difficulty arose, for it appeared to be conducting him straight away from the lake, and leading up a large gully, which he could see extended away back into the mountains. Gilbert knew, from what he had been told, that the station stood near the water's edge, and remembering Harry's words, "when in
"When I get round that point I should be able to see the homestead," he said to himself, "so I shall get in before dark." There was little fear of the horse wandering far, as at the foot of the gully there
He then went back along the shore of the lake, and by a short detour over some rough ground he gained the foot of the spur, which formed the side of the gully furthest up the lake. He found it exceedingly rough and rocky, but by dint of hard climbing he reached what had appeared from below to be the crown of the ridge; but this proved to be a delusion; for he saw instead of the station a rough gully, and a higher ridge beyond it. He was tempted once more to turn, but as he had had enough of turning for one day, he essayed to proceed. Following the ridge on which he then was, he climbed still higher, but he made very slow progress, as the spur was composed of large rough rocks, over which he had some difficulty in scrambling, and ever and anon he came upon a small thicket of dense scrub through which he had to slowly force his way. Gilbert began to fear he should be benighted, which would not prove at all pleasant. Daylight was beginning to fade when he at length emerged on open ground covered with short fern, where tired and heated he sat down to rest. Even then he could see nothing of the station, so after a few minutes rest
Gilbert thought of this, but he was so completely tired out that he decided to try whether it was deep or not by letting himself down from the branch of a bush, which was overhanging the water close to where he stood. Carefully he scrambled down the
Gradually it became shallower, till at length he emerged, dripping, on a loose shingly beach, along which he trudged wearily towards the light, which appeared, like an ignis fatuus, to retreat before him. At last he reached it, and, wet as he was, found his way to the back door, where he knocked, and was soon standing in the middle of the dimly-lighted kitchen, where a single home-made tallow candle guttered and swelled, making darkness visible.
It had afforded light enough, however, for Bella, the domestic, and her lover, one of the shepherds; and as the former ran to tell her mistress, the latter, holding the candle at arm's length, so as better to see the new-comer, exclaimed, when he heard whence Gilbert had come—
"Man! ye've mista'en the richt gate. Ma certie, it's a won'er ye was na drooned!"
Nellie and Ottalie both hastened to the kitchen to welcome their unexpected guest, whose arrival had been announced by the excited Bella, as though he had walked all the way from the foot of the lake under water.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Langton," said Nellie; "but, however, did you come?"
"I came up by the proper road so far, aud then I came over the mountains and through the lake. I must have made a mistake somehow, but I am thankful I shan't have 'the bracken curtain for my head' to night, as I at one time feared I should."
"You are very wet," said Ottalie, "and should change at once. You can get some of Harry's things for Mr. Langton, I suppose, Nellie?"
"Oh yes! I'll do so at once. Bella, show Mr. Langton his room, and then come and I'll give you some dry clothes for him. I am sorry," she added, "that we have not a drop of spirits of any kind about the place, but I can give you what Harry took one day when he came in cold and wet, if you like to try it."
"What is that?" asked Gilbert, seeing that Mrs. Ewart smiled and seemed to be doubtful as to the reception her proposal might meet.
"A glass of Worcester sauce," replied Nellie.
"No, thank you," said Gilbert, laughing. "I daresay Harry would like to have a companion in affliction, but as I have a crow to pluck with him about his misleading me to-day, I shall not gratify him further."
After Gilbert had made himself as comfortable as he could in the slippers and garments of another
The ladies made merry over poor Gilbert's wanderings, but that he did not mind; and when Mrs. Ewart remarked about ten o'clock that she supposed he must feel tired and sleepy after his wanderings, Gilbert replied that he did not, and that he supposed his having partaken of strong tea at a later hour than usual had driven away any feelings of sleepiness.
"Perhaps that is the effect of the tea, and perhaps it is the result of something else," said Nellie, with a wicked twinkle in her eyes, which had the effect of making both her companions feel uncomfortable, and causing Gilbert to say that when he came to think of it he did feel rather sleepy and would go to bed.
Next morning before breakfast Gilbert, by starting on the track leading from the house, found his way to where he had left his horse the previous evening. On the way thither he passed an exceedingly pretty waterfall, though it contained no great volume of water; but as the stream shot from the top of a precipitous rock, it fell for about fifty feet clear of it, when it came in contact with some huge grey masses of stone, over which it leaped and tumbled till it finally found a resting-place in a miniature lakelet in the valley below. This little lake, which was beautifully calm and still, was well-nigh surrounded by reeds and raupo, from amongst which Gilbert could see now and again a blue swamp-hen emerge, while a number of the small grebes were diving and disporting themselves in the open water. Gilbert lingered awhile watching the birds, but the fear that he might keep breakfast waiting hurried him on in search of his horse. He found his saddle and bridle without much difficulty, and he soon succeeded in catching his steed, which he saddled, and cantered back to the homestead.
Harry Ewart arrived home shortly before dinner, bringing with him the week's letters and papers; and when he heard of Gilbert's exploit he said, "I never thought of your going wrong there. It is fortunate that you did not try to go further than you did in the water, for you could float the 'Great
"O Harry! how can you joke about anything so horrible," said Ottalie; "you ought rather to be sorry that your wrong directions caused Mr. Langton to run such a risk and encounter so much difficulty."
Gilbert looked his thanks to Ottalie, who blushed and turned away her eyes as she met his eager gaze. But her simple remark somehow made Gilbert feel much happier than he had done before, and afforded new material for day-dreaming for days afterwards.
"Men some to business some to pleasure take." — . Pope
Among the letters brought by Harry Ewart, there was one from the doctor at Muttontown for Gilbert Langton, which must have been written the day after the latter left Waitaruna on his way to Hawera.
"Your lady love writes a bold hand, Langton," said Harry as he handed him the letter.
"Lady love! I—I've none," said Gilbert, blushing to the very roots of his hair.
"Oh! well there's no need to look so guilty, old man; but who else would follow you up with a letter so quickly? I expect you have posted a note at every post office on the way up here, if the truth were known. I am afraid you are a sly dog, Langton."
"Nothing of the sort; I write to nobody," said Gilbert testily. "I don't know who this is from any more than you do."
"There now, don't get huffy," said Harry in reply; "but go and read your letter."
Gilbert opened his letter and glancing at the signature "William Raymond," saw it was from the doctor at Muttontown, and that it ran—
"My dear Langton,—I daresay you will wonder at my writing to you at Hawera, but I happened to hear that you had just started off for that part of the world from Mr. Ramshorn, who appeared on the scene here to-day. But I promised to write and let you know how Arthur Leslie was getting on, and I was on the point of writing to you, when Ramshorn came in, so I have carried out my intention, and here I am. By the way, do you know that I think your boss has a soft place for a certain young lady at Pakeloa, who shall be nameless; for when he spoke of going there and I told him that I had just returned from visiting the old lady, who was the only one at home, as Mr. and Miss Ewart had gone to Hawera, his face grew longer by several inches; and I noticed that when he left the township he did not take the direction of Pakeloa after all. He looked very glum, too, I thought, for the rest of the time he stayed at Muttontown, though he should have been in rather good spirits, for the news from the quartz claim he is in, is first class, and I hear the prospects are A 1.
"But my object in writing was to tell you about Leslie, not Ramshorn. Things came to a climax
"If I have delayed writing I think I have made full amends by the length of this epistle, especially as I hardly ever write to a soul. I am nearly as bad as Leslie seems to be, with regard to my friends in the old country—but personal details can't interest you. You won't forget the pig hunt I spoke of, and if you can come round this way on your return from Hawera, I shall be glad to see you if I'm at home. I think that is worthy of your friend Mike, who has, by the way, gone off in search of fresh fields.
"Good-bye, my boy; take care of yourself, and don't let Miss Ottalie bewitch you.—I remain, yours ever,
"What a fool Arthur is!" was Gilbert's comment,
Gilbert had been left alone in the parlour as he read his letter, and his reverie was disturbed by Harry Ewart calling from the verandah.
"Come on, Langton, you have surely read that love letter of yours two or three times over by this time. I want you to come and look at a colt I have got."
"My letter is from Dr. Raymond, telling me that Arthur Leslie has gone and married a barmaid at
"He'll live to repent that step, I fancy," replied Harry; "but hurry up, old fellow, and come and have a look at the colt. I want to try and back the animal," he added, as soon as they were round the corner of the house, and out of the ladies hearing. "I have had him in for a day or two, but we have only been handling him a bit. We had rather an awkward job roping him at first, as owing to there being few cattle here, there is not a very good stockyard, but we managed it. He played up too, considerably, when we tried to get him into the stable."
"How's the colt doing, Tom?" asked Harry of the man at the stable, when they arrived.
"Oh! pretty well, but I'm feared he has a nasty temper," Tom replied.
With some difficulty they got a saddle put upon the horse, which was already bridled, and they then brought him out to an open piece of ground at the back of the stable where they "lunged" the colt for some time, after which Harry said he would mount him. Harry and Tom took the animal by the head and led him about for a little. Then stopping, the former began to pat the horse, and put his hand on the saddle. Then going alongside, he put a little pressure on the saddle, all the while speaking every
"He seems quiet enough, Tom," said Harry.
"Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't, though," replied Tom, who evidently thought that appearances were not always to be relied on.
"I'll try backing him now, at anyrate," said Harry, putting his foot in the stirrup, and after one or two preliminary attempts he seated himself in the saddle. "Lead him forward a little bit. And now," he added, "let go."
The colt stood perfectly still, and would not move even when urged on by the rider, but that was only for a minute, for when Harry gave him a vigorous dig with his heel, the animal snorted as though resenting an indignity, and suddenly sprang forward plunging and backing in his endeavours to rid himself of his burden. Harry was an expert horseman, and it was a pretty though exciting sight to watch the struggle for mastery between man and horse. Harry endeavoured to compel the colt to expend his energies on a gallop along the track leading over the saddle of the ridge which Gilbert had missed on his way to the station; but in this he was not successful, as the brute preferred to give an exhibition of his powers of buck jumping to stretching his limbs in a gallop.
"I was sure he was a rough 'un," said Tom, in a
It was true enough, for Harry was suddenly shot into the air, and fell in a cloud of dust.
They both ran towards where he lay, but before they reached him, they saw that at least he was not killed, for he began to pick himself up.
"Are you hurt?" asked Gilbert and Tom simultaneously.
"I don't think so, but I'll tell you presently. I stuck on till the girths broke, for you see I came with the saddle.
Harry was not seriously hurt, though he was bruised a good deal about the left shoulder, and there was a large abrasion on his face.
"You have had an ugly spill," said Gilbert; "but it is a good thing it is no worse."
"Yes, I suppose it is," said Harry; "for that is what every one says when anything happens. But instead of feeling thankful that it is no worse, I feel confoundedly enraged with that brute of a horse, for my shoulder pains me a bit, and with this mark on my face, too, the girls can't be kept in the dark; and it is best never to say a word about anything of this sort in the house, I think. What a brute to buck that is, to be sure. You need not tell me any more, Tom, that the New Zealand horses don't know how to buck."
"Well, I will say that that colt shaped better at it than any horse I ever saw out of Australia; but bless you, I've seen a horse on the other side buck himself clean out of the saddle without breaking the girths."
"Perhaps," said Gilbert, laughing, "you saw the man that I've heard of who was bucked off a horse, saddle and bridle and all, both of which he carried with him, and landed on the top rail of a fence with the reins in his hands and the saddle between his knees, and, what was more, with the girths round the rail, and yet not a buckle undone, or a strap broken."
"Oh! you may laugh; but I tell you, in New Zealand you don't know anything about buck-jumpers," said Tom somewhat surlily.
"Well, Tom," said Harry, "I wish you would take the mare and see if you can get that colt in again; if Simpson has got home he will lend you a hand. I don't like to be beaten, but I am afraid I sha'n't be fit for much in the way of horsebreaking for some days, at any rate. I think we had better go back to the house, Langton," he added. So leaving Tom to try and get the colt in again, Gilbert and Harry returned to the homestead.
As they approached the house they were met by Mrs. Ewart and Ottalie, who, tired of working, had come out for a stroll. They had both been engaged on different varieties of what is known as fancy
Women have, in the possibility of indulging in conversation over their fancy work, a great advantage over mankind, whose only substitute for that busy idleness is smoking; but a pipe is hardly so conducive to conversation. Matters are after all fairly balanced, perhaps, as from the soothing influence of the narcotic any meditations indulged in during the consumption of a pipe of tobacco may be more certainly pleasant than those ponderings which are interrupted by the counting of stitches or the matching of shades.
"What has happened to you?" exclaimed Nellie, as they approached. "Are you hurt, Harry?" she continued with a look of alarm, as she saw his abraded face.
"Oh! it's nothing much," replied Harry; "I have had a bit of a spill, but you see that I have only slightly injured my face."
"I am so sorry, Harry! Are you quite sure you are not hurt otherwise? How was it? How did it happen?" And Nellie volubly poured forth a string of questions, mingled with expressions of regret and condolence, without waiting for a reply. And then turning to Ottalie, who had not spoken,
An angry flush passed over Ottalie's face, but she made no reply. She with difficulty suppressed an angry rejoinder, for she felt within herself that in reality she was more concerned about her brother than his wife appeared to be, notwithstanding her fussiness; for while Nellie had been asking questions, Ottalie had stood by, longing the while to get Harry into the house that she might bathe the blood and dust from his poor face; but she had notions of her own about interfering, even in a matter of this kind, between man and wife, and she held her peace. However, when Harry said, "I must go in and wash my face," Ottalie could not refrain from saying—
"Shall I come and bathe it for you, Harry?"
"Thank you, Totts; I should be greatly obliged if you would," was his reply.
Nellie was now in her turn vexed that this little office should have been suggested by Ottalie, "Who," thought Nellie, "will pride herself on her superior thoughtfulness;" so Mistress Nell was unable to restrain a nasty remark, and said—
"You are honoured, Ottalie; Harry always thinks his mother and sister can do everything better than his wife."
"Come now, Nellie," said poor Harry; "I am sure you are only joking talking like that. I don't
"Please don't consider my wishes," said Nellie; "you have asked Ottalie to do it, and she had better do so."
"Nellie," said Ottalie gravely, "I am sorry if I have unwittingly offended you in any way, but I did not mean to do so, or to slight you in the least, by my proposal."
And as they all walked towards the house in silence, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, Ottalie wondered to herself what Nellie's conduct could mean, and whether it was that she spoke so nastily because she did not really love her husband, or whether, as Ottalie was inclined to charitably suppose, that it was because Nellie was upset by the fright she had got from Harry's appearance; but though she accepted that excuse as a satisfactory one, she could not dispel a feeling of doubt as to Nellie's sincerity and real affection for her husband.
"The farthest from the fear, the often nearest to the stroke of fate." — . Young
Harry's hurt did not prove any more serious than it at first appeared to be; it was, nevertheless, sufficient to debar him from any very active exercise for the next day or two, as his shoulder was considerably bruised, and consequently continued to be very stiff and painful for some days. This had the effect of keeping Gilbert more about the station than he would otherwise have been, for Harry was unable to ride out on the run, in which rides Gilbert would have accompanied him; and though the host was continually apologising and regretting that he was unable to take his guest about, and show him the lions of the neighbourhood, and the beauty and grandeur of the adjacent lake Whanaka, yet Gilbert, in his heart of hearts, was satisfied with the state of things as they were; and when he murmured a few conventional phrases in reply to Harry's apologies, such as, "I am enjoying myself immensely as it is;" "don't mention it;" or, "it does not in the least
Gilbert Langton was in the presence of the woman he loved, and what other enjoyment did he want? Yet he did want something more, for though it was bliss to enjoy so much of Ottalie's society, it was bliss which evolved pictures of a yet greater happiness, and caused Gilbert to long to tell Ottalie that he loved her. He was more than once sorely tempted to do so, but he was doubtful as to the reception which Ottalie might give to such a piece of intelligence, and therefore he remained silent. He had a feeling, too, that he ought not to speak, seeing the prospect of his being able to keep a wife was vague and uncertain, and he shrank from asking a promise when he could not on his side fix any time when it should be fulfilled.
His pleasure was not, therefore, without alloy, for many a time during his stay at Hawera, did he pass through a conflict of contending thoughts. For while love and happiness urged him to declare himself, prudence and honour, nay, even love itself in another form, held him back. The time passed pleasantly enough, and fortunately Nellie was amiability itself during the rest of the visit. But at last Gilbert's leave drew to a close; he had, at Mr. Ramshorn's request, fixed a day for his return to his duties at Waitaruna, and though he was
Next morning, after bidding good-bye to the ladies, Gilbert started on his way homewards, and as Harry and he rode down the lake side, the former had many a joke at Gilbert's expense concerning the mistake he made on his upward journey.
It was simply a perfect day. The sun was bright and warm, and the breeze which rippled the water was just sufficient to impart a feeling of freshness to the morning air, and prevent the sun from beating too strongly. Large white fleecy clouds floated slowly across the sky, their passage being marked by the darker shadows which stole quietly across the lake, and then crept gently up the distant mountain side.
As they rode along, Harry, who was in high spirits, led the way, as the track was in many places too narrow for more than one, and carried on a conversation by bawling over his shoulder to Gilbert in a loud tone, a proceeding which he varied every now and again by breaking into snatches of song. The conversation had reference chiefly to sheep and horses, both never failing topics of discussion, but other subjects also helped to beguile the way. Noticing a bird which was strange to him flying
"Well, you are not far out," said Harry; "for it is a kea, or green mountain parrot, and is first cousin to the kaka. The wretches," he continued, "have developed a new taste, that is, a liking for mutton. They actually attack the live sheep and peck holes in them, and how they learned to do that, if not by the exercise of the faculty of reason, I don't know. They may talk about instinct and reason as they please, but I am satisfied there is no very marked distinction between them, and that indeed they are only degrees of the same thing. These keas, or their forefathers, existed among these mountains long before there was a sheep in the country; and even after there were sheep here, they were not known to damage them. But the year before last, old Swainson, across the Whanaka, noticed the keas flying about a number of our sheep-skins that were drying on the rails of the yards, and pecking at them. Very likely they were blown a bit, and the parrots took to eating the grubs, and from that got to any little scraps of flesh which might have been left attached, and by this means they found out what a sheep-skin was. Very soon afterwards, Swainson saw them pecking at the skins on the sheep's backs, and they sometimes did this to such an extent that the sheep died. Some
"Undoubtedly," replied Gilbert. "Do you know, I think that the sailor's parrot which did not speak, but was 'a beggar to think,' must have been a kea."
"I expect he was," said Harry, laughing; "but the keas seemingly do not think their new accomplishment may cost them their lives; for ever since the new taste was developed every one in this district has, I am told, been waging a war of extermination against them."
"Well, the sheep have not many enemies, or even diseases, to contend with in this country," replied Gilbert, "and the keas are, I suppose, only found on the highest runs, for I never even heard of them
When the riders reached the foot of the lake they were a considerable distance from the river which forms the outlet for the waters of the Hawera, and which flows with great rapidity for a few miles, through a comparatively level piece of country, till it joins the river flowing from the neighbouring lake Whanaka. A rapid canter, however, soon carried them over the ground which lay between them and the river, on the other side of which was the hotel, whose landlord was the district postmaster. The hotel stood back some little distance from the river, and as Harry and Gilbert drew rein on the opposite bank they could not see any signs of life about the premises. They cooeed several times, but without any result,—at least no one showed himself.
"These people must either be all asleep or drunk," said Harry. "The last time I was here there were several shearers on the spree knocking down their cheques, besides several other swaggers, but to-day there does not seem to be a soul about the place. What are we to do?"
"We can't wait here all day, that's certain," said Gilbert; "but there is no necessity for my crossing here, as I can go a long way down on this side of the river, and get a boat at a lower crossing. As for you, I suppose you'll have to go home again."
"That I won't do without the letters, even though
"What! yourself?" asked Gilbert. "I would not risk swimming in that river for a good deal, and when there's no occasion for it, I don't myself see the fun of it."
"You need not do it," replied Harry, "but I shall. And if you wait here I'll bring the boat back, so that you can cross in it, and swim your horse behind it."
"Now, Harry, don't try it, there's a good fellow. I am sure Mrs. Ewart would not like your getting wet for the sake of her letters, to say nothing of the risk you run in crossing a swirling, eddying river like that."
"Pshaw! the risk is nothing. Do you think I have never swam a horse before? And as for my getting wet, I'm not likely to dissolve. I'll give one final cooee, and if no one turns up, then in we go."
They both cooeed lustily and waited for a few minutes, but still there was no response from the hotel opposite.
"Now, then, here goes," said Harry, riding down a breach in the steep river bank; "I'll be back presently with the boat."
Gilbert felt that further remonstrance was useless, and though he was uneasy about the matter, he said nothing more. Harry and his horse were soon in the water, which became deep very rapidly.
"I hope that I strike the opposite landing-place,"
Gilbert anxiously watched their movements, and felt relieved as he saw that the further bank was all but gained, though he also saw that the current had carried them below the usual landing-place. However, the banks did not seem to be very steep, so that all difficulty appeared to be passed. Suddenly, as he watched, Gilbert saw Harry slip from the saddle and begin to swim alongside the horse, seemingly holding by the mane. Gilbert supposed that Harry found some difficulty in getting out of the water, and that he had got off his horse so as the better to scramble out, and he expected momentarily to see him rise up on the bank. But as he watched he saw instead Harry disappear from his horse's side beneath the water, and a second later he heard a cry of agony from his companion. With bated breath Langton watched the place where his friend had disappeared, and as he watched, his eye caught something black which rose for a moment to the surface of the water a little way further down, but which rose only to sink once more into the depths of the treacherous river. The riderless steed
Gilbert was horror-stricken, but powerless. He put spurs to his horse and galloped down the river; but before he had gone far he heard a loud cooee, and looking round he saw a man standing on the river's bank in front of the hotel.
Gilbert Langton waved frantic signals to the man, and when he saw him begin to run towards the boat, the former again turned his horse's head down the stream. As Gilbert turned the man stopped running, till catching sight of the riderless horse on the river bank, and at once conjecturing that an accident had happened, he immediately set out for the boat, and jumping in, was carried by the current swiftly down the stream.
As soon as he came within hailing distance of Gilbert he called out, "What's the matter?"
To which Gilbert replied, "Mr. Ewart's drowned."
"Great heavens! is it so?" said the boatman, at once putting in to the bank where Gilbert was. "Come into the boat," continued the man; "we can do nothing to help poor Mr. Ewart; but come and tell me all about it."
Gilbert did as he was asked, and as the boat again
"Very little, I am afraid," replied the man; but he had hardly spoken before something black rose to the surface of the water close by the boat. "That's him," said the man in a whisper, as he stretched out his hand to seize the dark object. He caught it, and with Gilbert's assistance drew on board the lifeless form of Harry Ewart. Quickly they pulled to the bank, and making the boat fast to a flax bush, carried the burden ashore.
Gilbert had some knowledge of the treatment necessary to resuscitate the apparently drowned, which he at once put to practical use, and although his comrade shook his head and said, "No use," he rendered what assistance he could. From the evidences on his body it was plain that poor Harry had been struck by his horse while in the water, and so disabled, had been swept away by the current.
Gilbert persevered in his efforts to revive his friend till he was reluctantly forced to own that they were of "no use." He rose from the grassy bank where the lifeless body of his friend lay—his friend who so shortly before had been as hale and hearty as he was. Langton could hardly force himself to realise the fact that Harry was really dead. His face was paler than in life, but he had been
"We'd best put him in the boat," said the man; "and track it up as far as the hotel."
"Poor Harry," was all Gilbert could say in reply; for a lump had risen in his throat, and tears in his eyes. Stooping to hide his emotion, he began to raise the body, which with the assistance of the boatman was soon deposited in the bottom of the boat as carefully and gently as though poor Harry could have felt the least movement. Taking one of the oars, and placing the one end against the boat's prow, and the other in Gilbert's hands, so as to keep the boat out from the bank, the boatman took the rope over his own shoulder, and began to slowly drag the boat up the stream. Hardly a word was spoken till the crossing place near the hotel was gained, when after making the boat fast at its usual mooring-place, the man proceeded to the house for assistance, leaving Gilbert alone with the body. As he stood and looked at Harry lying quiet and still, the reality of the misfortune impressed, itself upon him, and tears rolled unchecked down his cheeks, while his lip quivered with emotion. But hearing voices approaching, he quickly struggled to master his feelings and conceal his tears as men will,
"This is an awful business," said the landlord of the hotel to Gilbert, as he came up. "Tom tells me that you cooeed for some time, too. I must have been sound asleep, I suppose. I was the only one about the place as Tom had gone out to bring in the cows, and the rest of my folks started for town to-day. So you see I was all alone. Bless my soul! it's a most awful bad job. I never heard the like of it." And thus he chattered in a manner which grated uncomfortably on Gilbert's ear.
Tom, who was the boatman, had brought a board down from the house with him, and also a swagger who had arrived at the hotel in the interval; so all that remained of Harry Ewart was placed upon the board, and then slowly carried by the four men up to the house.
"What will Ottalie say, poor girl?" thought Gilbert, as the burden was deposited in one of the rooms. "I must go back to the station and break the news." He shrank from the task, but who else could do it? Already he heard the landlord calling to Tom, who was apparently the cook of the establishment, to get the tea ready at once, and seemingly matters at the hotel would go on as though nothing had happened.
Gilbert asked that he might be put across the river again before tea, as he wished to catch his horse
"After you have put the gentleman across the river, Tom," said the landlord as they sat at tea, "you had better put the saddle on Nancy, and ride down to the township, and let the police know. I expect they will be for taking the body down there for the inquest, if they have one, for they could not get together a jury very well in these parts; so you had better see if you can get Tim Cossar to come back with you to take care of the place while we are away."
How the arrangement of these commonplace details jarred upon Gilbert. It was a relief to him to start on his mission of bearing the sad news to Hawera.
"The first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office." — . Shakespeare
It was past midnight when Gilbert Langton reached the station. The house was in darkness and everything was quiet. Harry had not been expected to return that evening, so Nellie and Ottalie had retired to rest early, without anxiety, and unconscious of what had befallen them.
"It is no use disturbing them at the house," thought Gilbert; "they will know soon enough without their rest being disturbed to-night."
He therefore took up his quarters at the men's hut, where his sad intelligence produced great consternation, for Harry Ewart was well liked by all his employés. For though he looked after the men pretty closely, and would never tolerate half-done work, yet he was one who always treated them with fairness and consideration, and as a natural consequence, being a good master, he generally had good servants.
"You had better see to the horses the first thing in the morning, Tom," said Gilbert; "for I shall let the ladies have breakfast before I tell them anything, and I expect they will want to start away at once, so it will be as well that everything should be ready."
"I'll see to that," replied Tom; "and it will be just as well to let the poor things have their breakfast before saying a word. They will be able to stand the journey better; for I expect if you told them first, it's not much breakfast that they would eat. Jamie," continued Tom, addressing the other occupant of the hut, "don't go and be telling Bella what has happened. You had better not say a word, for it's best they should hear it from Mr. Langton."
Jamie, who was already half asleep again, grunted acquiescence. Gilbert, exhausted by the fatigues and excitement of the day, pulled off his boots and lay down in a bunk in the hut, where he before long fell fast asleep. In the morning when he awoke, he had a feeling of dread, as though something was about to befall him, a feeling which he for a moment could not account for, till the events of the previous day recurred to him, and the recollection of the task he had taken upon himself asserted itself. He arose, feeling sad, wretched, and miserable. The excitement which had kept him up on the previous day was gone, and instead he felt appalled and desolate, and
He had slept long, and looking at his watch he saw it was not far from the breakfast hour at the house. Tom and Jamie were both gone, but they had left the teapot on the hob, while three large chops lay on a dish on the table ready for him to cook when he awoke. After washing and undressing and dressing again so as to refresh himself, Gilbert proceeded to avail himself of the possibilities of a breakfast, and by the time he had finished, he concluded that it was time he should go down to the house with his melancholy message.
As he went he wished that he had remained at the hotel, and sent word up by letter, and hoped that the men might have been unable to restrain their tongues, and through Bella have already conveyed the news to the ladies. But this hope was dispelled when he reached the verandah and heard Ottalie's well-known voice singing quietly to herself—
"I love my love, because my love loves me."
To reach the door Gilbert had to pass the open window of the sitting-room whence the sounds proceeded, and as he did so he saw Ottalie standing at the table arranging flowers in a vase, while Nellie was sitting by the window working.
"Mr. Langton!" they exclaimed simultaneously,
"Lost again, Mr. Langton?" But observing his grave look, she added more quietly, "Where's Harry? have you left him at the stable?"
"No," said Gilbert; "he has not returned with me," and then he paused awkwardly.
"Why not? Where have you been?" asked Nellie, alarmed more by Gilbert's manner than his words. "Has anything happened?"
"Yes," said Gilbert, "I am grieved to say something has happened. There has been an accident." And once more he paused and looked at the carpet, as though seeking inspiration or intelligence there.
"What accident? Is Harry hurt? Oh! tell us what it is!" exclaimed Nellie anxiously.
"Yes," continued Gilbert, raising his eyes to the anxious faces of both his auditors; "Harry has been hurt—seriously hurt. In short, he—oh! how can I tell you?" Then he added with a tremulous voice, "Harry's dead—drowned in the river."
Nellie answered with a scream, as she fell prostrate on the floor. Poor Ottalie's face showed how she felt the shock, but though the tears rose to her eyes, and her lips quivered, no sound of grief escaped her as she quietly stepped to Nellie's assistance, and with Gilbert's aid raised her to the sofa. Nellie had
"My dear, brave, thoughtless brother," said Ottalie. "Our parents will be heart-broken. Oh, my Harry!" and she wept quietly, while Nellie, calling for her husband, renewed her more violent demonstrations of grief. Then suddenly starting up she exclaimed—
"Gilbert Langton, you drowned my husband."
Gilbert was too much startled to make a reply; but when Mrs. Ewart reiterated her accusation, he started to his feet indignantly, and said—
"Mrs. Ewart, you must be mad to make such a statement. How dare you say such a wicked thing?"
"She doesn't know what she is saying, and is beside herself with grief," said Ottalie apologetically. And then turning to Nellie, she said—
"Nellie dear, we must go to Harry. Calm yourself, and let us go."
"Yes, let us go at once," said Nellie, rising from the sofa, and hurrying from the room.
"Pardon me, Miss Ewart," said Gilbert; "if I spoke rudely, and I trust Mrs. Ewart will do so too. Poor thing, she suffers greatly from her loss."
"You need not have been so very indignant, I think," replied Ottalie, "but I hardly know what I am saying. I must go and assist Nellie to get ready to start;" and she too left the room.
It was over. The news was broken, awkwardly enough, thought Gilbert, but he was glad it was over. But a new horror took hold of him. He had been accused of drowning Harry. It was true that it was the wild accusation of one temporally insane, and that there was not even the shadow of a ground to support it, but had he not failed in making any effort to save poor Harry? It was impossible for him to do so, but though he knew that, could those who had seen nothing of the occurrence realise that he had been powerless to render any aid? What did Ottalie think? Perhaps she, too, thought that he had drowned Harry, not actively, certainly, but by passively standing by and seeing him drown. "She must hate—certainly could never love—the murderer of her brother!" Oh! the agony that Gilbert endured. Oh! the misery that such thoughts occasioned. He wished that he had accompanied Harry in his mad attempt to cross the river, or, when he saw he was drowned, that he too had plunged in and shared the same fate, even although he was powerless to render assistance. He had better be dead than be deemed a cowardly cur by the woman he loved.
These agonising thoughts were interrupted by the return of Ottalie in her riding habit, looking so sweet and lovely with her sad face, that poor Gilbert took courage, and thought that he had been wronging her to fancy that it was possible that she could imagine anything so unkind as the thoughts he had been supposing she might harbour.
"How is Mrs. Ewart?" he asked, as she entered; to which Ottalie replied—
"She is calmer, and anxious to start. Will you see about the horses, please. I am going to look for a flower in the garden."
The journey down to the hotel was performed with unusual rapidity, as though Harry's life depended on it. Once only, during their progress, did they come to a standstill, and that was when Nellie asked a question relative to the accident, and drew rein to hear Gilbert's reply, which involved his recounting minutely the whole occurrence, in doing which he put special stress on the fact that he had done all in his power to dissuade Harry from attempting to cross the river, and that as the accident happened so quickly, and at the other side of the river, he was powerless to render any assistance. He felt as though he was guilty of treason to the dead, in giving such prominence to poor Harry's foolhardiness, but he only stated what was true; and had he not been haunted by the idea that Ottalie might
"We have no doubt you did everything in your power, Mr. Langton; but surely my brother was a better judge than you could be as to the advisability of swimming the river or not. The horse having struck him appears to have been the cause of the accident, and that of course was a pure accident, and could not have been foreseen."
These words lifted a great load from Gilbert's soul, and yet he was pained by them, and with a tumult of emotions going on within him, he remained silent.
When they arrived at the hotel, they all went straight to the room where the body of poor Harry had been laid. There it lay just as Gilbert had last seen it, still dressed in the wet clothes, just as he had been brought from the river. Nellie exclaimed, "My Harry!" and stepped forward to kiss him, but when her lips touched his cold and clammy mouth, she screamed aloud and fell fainting on the body of her husband, whence she was carried senseless to another room.
Ottalie had brought a couple of beautiful little white rosebuds from the garden at Hawera, and
When she recovered from her faint, Mrs. Ewart gave way to a paroxysm of hysterical grief, which was heard all over the house.
"How awfully cut up poor Mrs. Ewart is," remarked Gilbert, as he sat in the parlour before retiring for the night.
"Yes, she is pretty bad," remarked one of those present; "but, bless you, those women that make most fuss are those who soonest get over anything of the sort. I would almost be prepared to bet that that woman will be married again before the year is out."
"Hush!" said Gilbert sternly. "How dare you talk like that?"
"Well, well, I meant no harm," persisted the fellow; "and there's no law I know of against a man speaking his mind. Now, there's Miss Ewart, she does not make any noise over it, and I expect she'll carry a real sorrow to her dying day, long after the other one has forgotten all about it, or only looks back upon it as an unpleasant dream."
"For goodness sake, stop talking, man!" exclaimed Gilbert, starting to his feet. "If it was not for the sake of the ladies, and the fact that poor Mr. Ewart lies cold and dead in this house, I would not allow you to talk like that."
"Take it easy, young man, take it easy. There's no need for exciting yourself," replied the other with a smile, who, though seemingly only a "swagger," was evidently from his speech a man of some education. He was probably one of that class who are too common in the colonies—men who, having failed in life elsewhere, have tried the colonies, or who have, perhaps, after a short career of "fast life" as
Gilbert, as he saw that this man was not altogether sober, did the best thing he could under the circumstances, and retired to his bedroom.
A few days later the body of Harry Ewart was laid in the grave by his heart-broken relatives and mourning friends. Ottalie and the young widow returned to Pakeloa, where, amid their own grief, every one showed the greatest kindness and consideration to the latter. Mr. Ewart took immediate steps for the sale of the Hawera station, and appeared to be considerably aged by the sudden loss of his son. After giving his evidence before the coroner, Gilbert felt relieved in a measure from the nightmare which had haunted him that Ottalie would think him morally guilty of Harry's death, and this feeling was almost entirely removed when, on the day of the funeral, Ottalie came to him with a message from Nellie asking him to "pardon her wild words, which she felt had pained him." If Gilbert had only known that the authority to bring this message had been obtained by dint of Ottalie's repeated asking, he would have valued it all the more, and would have been completely relieved from the question which ever recurred to him, "What does Ottalie think?"
"Oh! be advised! thou know'st not what it is With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, Whose tusks never sheathed, he whetteth still Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill." — . Shakespeare
About a couple of months after the events recorded in the last chapter Gilbert Langton received a note from Dr. Raymond, telling him that the long-talked-of pig-hunt was to come off in a day or two, and asking him to join the party. The hunting ground chosen was over in the direction of Big Creek, where in some of the rough gullies, pigs were reported to be numerous. So after obtaining leave of absence from Mr. Ramshorn, Gilbert started for Muttontown the day before that appointed for the expedition.
Ah! I am so glad you have come," said the doctor on his arrival; "for I was beginning to fear that the whole affair would fall through. But now, we shall have a splendid time of it, I am sure. Old Sam Morrison, who lives out Big Creek way, and who is continually at the pig hunting, will come with us, and his dogs will be a great assistance; and
"And who, besides the dogs, Sam Morrison, and ourselves, are to be of the party?" asked Gilbert.
"Well, that's just it, you know," said the doctor. "I don't think we shall have any one. All the rest of those who were coming have been prevented by one cause or another, and that's why I was afraid the expedition would fall through, for I shouldn't have gone alone with old Sam."
"I suppose we shall make an early start," said Gilbert.
"Yes, we must be away by daylight in the morning," replied the doctor; "we'll pick up Sam Morrison on the way."
"How is Leslie getting on as a benedict?" asked Gilbert, as they went into the "All Nation's Hotel."
"Very well, indeed, and that girl makes him a capital wife. Leslie is very much quieter, and one seldom sees him up town of an evening since he was married. He is doing very well, too, at the mining, and is now a claim holder himself. His wife had a few pounds that she had saved, it seemed, and when little Dan wanted to sell out of the Perseverance Company, who should buy his share, but Leslie. He had to borrow some of the money on the share, but if he keeps steady and works himself, there is no fear of him, and he will soon clear it all off."
"I should like to go and look him up," said Gilbert; but he had to abandon the idea, for he learned that Arthur's hut was some distance up the gully near the Perseverance Company's claim, so that he had not time to go there before dark. As he did not relish wandering among the workings after nightfall, he therefore decided to defer calling on the bride till his return from the pig-hunt.
Before daylight, next morning, Gilbert was roused by the doctor calling out: "Now then, tumble up, old fellow; it's time we were making a start."
"It is uncommonly cold," said Gilbert, when he got outside; "but what have you got here, doctor?"
"Only a tent and a frying-pan," was the reply. "I don't relish sleeping in the open air altogether, and as I have a pack horse, we may as well do the grand and take our culinary apparatus, and a pack of cards, so that we may have a game of poker in the evening."
"Rather an odd collection, Doctor; but we shall want something more than what you have named, I fancy, if we are to camp out over night."
"I'll take care of that, my boy," said the doctor, who was quite excited, and talked as though he had suddenly regained the power of speech after having lost it for a long time, and was determined that if exercising his tongue would do any good in preserving his linguistic abilities, no effort should be spared on his part.
They had to saddle their own horses, as no one was stirring about the hotel, and in a short time they were ready to start, and were soon raising the still slumbering Muttontonians as they cantered up the street. Rather more than an hour's ride brought them to a roadside public-house or shanty where they hoped to breakfast. The inhabitants were not long up and breakfast was not ready, but on entering the bar they found a man apparently already under the influence of liquor. He was seemingly a station hand engaged in the insane occupation of "knocking down" his cheque.
The landlady, a stout, jolly-looking woman, was saying to her customer, as the doctor and Gilbert entered, "There's nothing like a good stiff nobbler first thing in the morning for picking you up."
"Right you are, old woman!" was the reply. Then seeing the new-comers he added, "Come and have a drink, it's time you changed your breath this morning."
But though the doctor got the credit at Muttontown of never refusing a drink, and seldom "shouting," he on this occasion was steadfast in his refusal, greatly to the man's disgust.
The breakfast which was put before the pig-hunters was far from inviting either in itself or its surroundings, especially as the half-tipsy man sat down opposite them, and made a pretence of eating.
"That is about the roughest place I ever was in," remarked Gilbert as they rode away.
"Yes, it is not an inviting place, by any means," replied the doctor; "and yet the landlord has made money; chiefly, I fear, by poisoning with bad grog a number of his customers. The way some of these land-sharks will keep an unfortunate man in a state of intoxication for weeks, so long as he has any money, is horrible to contemplate, and then when his money is done they will kick him out remorselessly. The rubbish, too, which they keep in the way of spirits is something abominable, and is, I am sure, a source of a good deal of lunacy. But come, let us get off again."
Another hour's riding brought them to the gully where Sam Morrison lived, and as they approached they could hear his dogs yelping eagerly, as though they already knew there was to be some sport for them. The gully was a rocky one. Here and there huge masses of grey rock rose in fantastic shapes,
Old Sam stood in the doorway smoking a short black pipe, and as the riders halted he muttered something which sounded like "Morning."
"Good morning, Sam," said the doctor. "I suppose you are ready. We had better move on, had we not?"
"I'm ready this long time," said Sam; "but you'll have a pannikin of tea and something to eat before you go on, won't you?"
"No, thank you," replied the doctor; "we had breakfast not long since, and as we have a good bit to go, we should not waste any time."
"Very well," said Sam, fastening his door behind him with a piece of string, and proceeding towards a rough-looking little horse which was tethered and grazing close at hand. The horse was soon saddled, and Sam and his dogs joined the party.
One of his dogs, however, had seemingly some old score to settle with the dog accompanying the doctor, so the two engaged in a fierce battle, and were with difficulty separated.
"The pigs have been here not long since," remarked Sam after they had ridden for some distance; "but I think we should camp in a gully I'll show you, a mile or two from this."
"How do you know that the pigs have been here lately?" asked Gilbert.
"Can't you see where they have been rooting among the spear grass over there?" was Sam's reply.
"There is a pig over on the spur there," remarked Sam after they had ridden some distance further; "there's a chance for you, doctor. As you blow about what you can do with the rifle at a long range, let us see what you can do with that fellow. Lie down, dogs."
The pig was quietly rooting, apparently oblivious of the proximity of danger; and the doctor in answer to old Sam's challenge dismounted, and putting a cartridge in his rifle, lay down on the ground and, taking a steady aim, fired.
The report startled the pack-horse, and caused it to kick and plunge to the imminent danger of his load. "Woa! stand, you brute!" roared Gilbert, who happened to be holding the halter at the time, and who was by the jerk nearly dragged out of his saddle. Fortunately his own steed was a quiet one, or he would have been compelled to let the pack-horse go, but as it was he was enabled to keep his seat and quieten the other animal with some assistance from Sam.
When this was accomplished they looked to where the pig had been, and found that it had disappeared.
"What has come of the pig, doctor?" asked they.
"Oh! he is off over the ridge," was the reply. "I am sure I hit him, for I fancy I saw the beggar limp."
"You must have frightened him, at any rate," said Sam.
"I did more than that," replied the doctor; "for I am positive I hit him, and can't imagine how he travelled as he did. Ah, well! let us get on, or we shan't reach our camping place to-night."
When they arrived at the place where Sam proposed that they should pitch their tent, they found that the spot he had chosen was at the junction of two gullies of almost equal size, one of which was bare and ferny, while the other was in some parts overgrown
It did not take long to choose a sheltered nook as a site for the tent, which was speedily fixed and a fire kindled before the door. While this was being done, Gilbert, after having hobbled the pack-horse and also the doctor's, and turned the whole of them adrift, took the billy down to the creek to fill it, but as he was getting the water he was startled by the barking of the dogs in the scrub close by. He at once dropped the billy and ran in the direction of the sound. He had scarcely entered the scrub when old Sam joined him.
"Look out for the pig," muttered he, as he came up. "By George! a sow and litter," he exclaimed immediately; and at the same time Gilbert descried the cause of the disturbance in the shape of an old sow with her back against an impenetrable clump of scrub, and several young ones by her, while she resolutely kept the dogs at bay. Gilbert drew his revolver and was about to fire, when Sam said, "Don't, you might kill the dogs—leave her to me;" adding, "Catch her, boys," to the dogs.
Thus encouraged, one of them made a feint as though to spring at the pig, and as she turned towards him, the other quick as lightning sprang in and caught her by the ear. Sam drew a small tomahawk from his belt, and stepping up to the pig,
"Now for the squealers," said he, and both he and Gilbert set to work chasing the little pigs, and cutting their throats as they caught them. They succeeded in securing seven, but though one or two escaped, they were satisfied, and returned to the camp with a portion of their spoil.
The doctor was rather irate when he found he had, as he phrased it, "missed the fun," and was only pacified when Sam told him they were sure to get a boar or two the next day, which were worth his while to look at, and that an old sow and young ones were hardly good enough for him.
That evening after supper they proceeded by Sam's directions to cut a large quantity of the dry bracken, with which they covered the ground in the tent; and by the time it was dark they had made everything very snug and comfortable.
"I've seen the time when I would not have bothered so much," said Sam, as they sat in the gathering darkness round the fire smoking; "but I have had a touch of rheumatism, so I always like to be as snug as possible."
By and by the doctor proposed that they should light the candles and have a game at euchre in the
"You think it a queer way of killing a pig with a tomahawk, do you?" said Sam. "Ah, well! many's the one I've polished off in that way. But once I put a tomahawk to a different use, for I tried it on a man over on the other side."
After giving utterance to this piece of information Sam lay silently sucking his pipe, which made an audible noise, and this, besides the smell, was the only indication that he was smoking, as it was too dark to see the smoke, and a cap which he had on the pipe he used hid any glow from the burning weed. Gilbert was lying next to the old fellow, and he waited in silence expecting him to resume his "yarn," but Sam said no more.
"Perhaps I am rubbing shoulders with a murderer," thought Gilbert, and he felt an eerie, indescribable feeling come over him; but he wished to know the worst of it, so he asked Sam what was the occasion of his trying the tomahawk in the manner he had spoken about.
"Well, you see," said Sam, "it was in this way. I was on the Ironbark diggings once, and we had
"I should think not," said Gilbert, laughing at the cool style in which Sam narrated the adventure. his pigs to market, and I am very sleepy. Good night."
"Good night," replied Sam; and they were all soon fast asleep.
Next morning, after an early breakfast, they set out in search of pigs, but without much success in the early part of the day; for though the doctor got a shot at an old boar and hit him on the shoulder, yet such was the thickness of the "shield" of pig-skin that the ball glanced off, leaving the animal apparently unharmed.
Later in the day, as Gilbert and the doctor were wandering over a ferny spur, Sam having gone to saddle the horses, they heard the dogs giving tongue in the gully below; and the doctor, who had not yet accounted for a pig, ran towards the sound, exclaiming excitedly, "I shall have this one, and I'll bet it is a boar!" Gilbert followed the doctor, who soon came to the edge of a steep gully with apparently a level bottom, in which grew an impenetrable mass of scrub interlaced with bush-lawyers round the edge, and from the midst of this thicket the noise of the dogs' barking came. Without a moment's hesitation, and without pausing to look for a spot whereby he might gain an entrance, the doctor leaped down the bank and sprang upon a thick tangled growth of bush-lawyers which sustained his
"It's only one of the dogs, doctor," said Gilbert; "there's nothing to hurt you there."
The doctor's only reply was a renewed struggle, by which he succeeded in partially extricating himself, and with Gilbert's assistance he was dragged out of his awkward position, with torn clothes and scratched limbs, but he was in such an abominable temper that Gilbert speedily left him to the amusement of extracting thorns innumerable from his bleeding wounds.
Selecting an opening between two bushes, Gilbert was able to gain an entrance into the thicket, but it was so dense that he had to proceed in a crouching hors de combat in any way, his own chances of getting out of the gully alive were small. Yet though tempted to retreat at once, he did not like to do so; he thought he would risk a shot, and did it. From the position of the boar, Gilbert was unable to take aim at any place but its head; he waited for some minutes in the hope that he would get a chance of shooting it behind the shoulder, but it was no use, so he resolved to aim at its eye. He lay down and took as steady an aim as he could, seeing he was haunted by the dread of being ripped by the savage-looking tusks of the creature if he missed. Gilbert fired; he heard a shriek from the pig, accompanied by the sound of a rush and crashing of branches, and through the smoke he saw the huge boar hurling itself towards him. He thought his hour was come,
Gilbert heaved a sigh of relief when he realised that the formidable animal was really dead. He stayed a few seconds to examine its long tusks and bristly mane, which told that the boar was a patriarch of its kind. "He is evidently what the doctor calls 'one of Captain Cook's original lot,'" muttered Gilbert to himself, as he crept out from among the bushes. He found the doctor had gone back to the camp, whither he followed to get old Sam's assistance to aid him in securing the tusks as a trophy. When this had been done they rejoined the doctor, who was still in an abominable temper, which was not improved by a little quiet chaff from Gilbert and Sam, as they rode homewards.
Not counting the youngsters, they had killed only six pigs among them, and not one of them all owed its death to the doctor. So the subject of pig-hunting was for long one which was carefully avoided by him, yet it was at times thrust somewhat obtrusively under his notice by some of the would-be witty Muttontonians.
"Was ever woman in this humour woo'd, Was ever woman in this humour won?" — . Shakespeare
Mr. Ramshorn had been in great spirits for some time. The news from the Halcyon Quartz Mine was most encouraging. The shares had risen steadily in value, and were now at an extravagant premium, although Mr. Ramshorn would not have used that adjective. On the contrary, he thought that the shares must be well worth the money which had been in a few instances paid for them. If, reasoned he, it pays any one to buy at these prices, how much better will it pay me to hold, and he refused tempting offers which were made to him to sell out. The trial crushing had commenced, and the result would be known in a day or two. When they were to "clean up" he did not exactly know, but he was positively excited while expecting the news. While in this state of mind he proposed to Gilbert that they should ride over to Pakeloa, where neither of them had been since Harry's death.
On their arrival at the Ewarts, they were received by Ottalie in the dining-room, and Gilbert thought he had never seen her look so beautiful as she did in her plain black dress, with a sadness in her sweet face, and a pensive expression in her soft eyes.
Mr. Ramshorn greeted her heartily, as though he was very glad to see her, while she returned his salutations but coldly. Thinking that the presence of Gilbert had awakened unpleasant memories, and remembering that he had not seen Ottalie since the sad event, Mr. Ramshorn murmured a few platitudes about Harry's death, in a voice which contrasted strangely with the jollity of his previous tone.
The evening was rather a dull one. Old Mr. Ewart was suffering from a severe cold, and both the ladies were inclined to be sad and silent. They were, however, as hospitable as ever, and pressed their guests to stay at least over the Sunday, which was next day. This they readily agreed to do, as it had been their original intention,—Mr. Ramshorn having only been induced to speak of returning home on the Sunday morning by the evident dulness of his entertainers. Next morning Ottalie was much brighter, and proposed that they should go to a neighbouring station a few miles off, where a passing clergyman was to hold service.
"I suppose you won't care to leave papa, mother," she said; "but if Mr. Ramshorn and Mr. Langton
Ottalie would fain have rebelled against this arrangement, for she did not fancy the idea of riding with Mr. Ramshorn; but she saw no way of getting out of it without making a fuss, and that was one of the things she detested.
Accordingly the party shortly afterwards set out, in the manner arranged by Mrs. Ewart. The day was fine and bright, with a keen air which was most enjoyable and exhilarating; and Ottalie, who had not ridden since her return from Hawera, felt tempted to allow her steed to go off, as he was eager to do, at a smart gallop, but she feared a tête-à-tête with Mr. Ramshorn, and so rode alongside the buggy all the way.
After service, which was held in the wool-shed, they had luncheon at the station, and then set out for Pakeloa in the same travelling order, but they had not proceeded far on the homeward way before Ottalie was compelled to fall to the rear, as her
"I can hardly suppose, Miss Ottalie, that you are ignorant of my feelings towards you."
Ottalie, when she heard these words, knew that there was no escape from what she dreaded, and yet she affected not to understand what Mr. Ramshorn meant, and replied—
"I know that you are a very good friend, Mr. Ramshorn."
"Only a friend?" said he; and then not knowing what to say, he plunged at once in medias res, and continued: "Something more, much more than a friend. Ottalie dearest, I love you. I have long loved you, and would have told you so long ago, only I shrank from asking you to leave a comfortable home for such an one as I could offer you. Had I been as well off as I once was, I should have spoken thus to you long ago. But now I think I shall be able to offer you such a home as you should have; will you share it?"
"I am very sorry, Mr. Ramshorn," was all that Ottalie replied. He rode quietly by her side for a few yards, and then laying his hand on her rein, and staying both of their horses, he looked in her face with an eager gaze, and said—
"Yes, Ottalie! I have great hopes of making a rapid fortune, for I am a shareholder in the Halcyon Mine, which every one who knows anything about it says will prove a fortune, and all that I have and may acquire shall be yours."
"Mr. Ramshorn, I thought you knew that a woman's heart could only be exchanged for something of greater value than gold or silver. Do you think that if you had the wealth of Crœsus, it could make any difference to my feelings for you?"
"That is all very true, Ottalie. Love is of course the first thing, but don't you think that money is a not unimportant, though secondary consideration? Romantic ideas are very nice in their way, but in real life one must also look at the pounds, shillings, and pence."
"I don't know why we should discuss such a subject; and I have a great objection to your calling me by my Christian name."
"Pardon me, Miss Ewart. I know I have been talking nonsense, but I only meant to explain why it was I had not spoken to you before, though I have loved you for so long. I shall not press for an immediate answer, for I can understand that you would be sorry to leave your parents, especially after their recent bereavement. But, O Ottalie! I trust that you will, in your own time, give me a favourable answer."
"Mr. Ramshorn," said Ottalie, stopping her horse, "you have misunderstood me, and on such a matter as this there should be no misunderstanding. I do not love you. I could never marry without love."
Oh! how she longed to be able to end this interview, but she could not escape. Had her horse not been lame, a cut from her whip would have terminated the scene, but even that resource was not available.
"Nay! say not so, Miss Ewart. The proposal no doubt startled you—you had better think over it. I
"Then," said Ottalie, irritated by his persistence, "you will have to remain miserable, for I can't help you. I am sorry that it should have come to this, but I am in no way to blame for it: I shall thank you never to mention the subject to me again. If we are to remain friends, you must never do so, and I should not like it to be otherwise, for my poor brother's sake, for I know he liked you."
Mr. Ramshorn felt he was completely and finally rejected. It was no use saying more, and he rode on in silence. He was bitterly disappointed, for he had felt certain he should be successful in his suit. He was one of those men who are always either elated and sanguine, or else sunk in the depths of hopelessness, and of late he had been exceedingly sanguine regarding everything. Ottalie was not to blame, he thought. No, she could not help being beautiful, and fascinating, and lovable, she could not have prevented his falling in love with her. It was after all only his usual luck. He looked most woe-begone and dejected, and wore at the same time such a comical expression, that Ottalie felt equally inclined to burst into tears or laughter. She had sufficient self-control to prevent herself doing either, and after a short time, to end their mutual embarrassment, she asked Mr.
That afternoon Mr. Ramshorn suddenly remembered that it was necessary he should see the shepherd M'Lean, who was to start from Waitaruna the following morning to take delivery of a lot of sheep, and he was therefore obliged to return home that night. Gilbert was loath to leave his comfortable quarters, and pointed out that the weather was threatening, and that it would be dark long before they could reach the station; but Mr. Ramshorn was not to be dissuaded from setting out. A cold wind sprang up from the south-west, bringing with it dark, black clouds which obscured the sky.
"I fear we shall catch it before we get home," said Gilbert, after they had bid adieu to Pakeloa, and had ridden for some time without speaking.
"Very likely!" was the curt reply.
Gilbert saw plainly that Mr. Ramshorn was a very different man from what he had been when they rode up the day before, and he asked if he were well.
"I'm well enough," laconically replied the manager; and Gilbert, finding his efforts to converse evoked no response, desisted from the attempt and gave himself up to day-dreams, in all of which Ottalie Ewart was a prominent figure.
As they had been so late of starting, they determined not to go round by Muttontown as usual, but to take the shorter though much rougher way across the range, which Gilbert had never before taken and which Mr. Ramshorn himself had seldom traversed. But as he asserted it was a much shorter route, they determined to try it.
Darkness came on when they were still many miles from the station; and, no doubt owing to each of them having his attention engrossed by his own thoughts, neither Mr. Ramshorn nor Gilbert noticed that they had wandered from the track. It was not till all landmarks had been lost and they found themselves on the verge of a steep gully, barely discernible through the thick darkness, that they knew they had made a mistake.
The sky was without a star, except now and again when one peeped for an instant through a rift in the fast flying clouds. The wind was bitterly cold, and everything indicated an approaching snowstorm. The two horsemen rode along the edge of the gully for a short distance, in the hope of ascertaining where they were; but they were unable to do so, although Mr. Ramshorn dismounted and, stooping down, tried to discern the outline of some known peak or hill against the sky. Presently the snow began to fall, at first only a few straggling flakes, which became
"We are in for it!" said Gilbert. "What are we to do now?"
"Do nothing, I suppose," replied Mr. Ramshorn surlily; "for if we try to get out of this we are bound to break our necks. Not that that would matter much to any one, so far as I am concerned."
"Can't we manage to make the station somehow?" asked Gilbert.
"I would not advise you to risk it; I won't, I know. I'd rather be frozen to death quietly here, than wander about the snowy ridges till I dropped exhausted," growled the manager.
"Well, I suppose you know best; but can't we get into a more sheltered place than this?"
"Yes; we might descend into the gully, and so get out of the blast. Even if we are buried in the drifting snow it will be more comfortable than being cut in two by the wind."
So saying Mr. Ramshorn dismounted and proceeded to lead his horse down the slope, followed by Langton. In the gully they were fortunate enough to find a few bushes of taumatakoura, on the sheltered side of which they sat down, drew their coats over their heads, and longed for daylight. With some difficulty they succeeded in starting their
Benumbed with cold, they could scarcely scramble into their saddles, and their cold, dispirited horses seemed hardly able to carry them home. When they arrived at Waitaruna, Gilbert thought that he had never felt so wretchedly miserable in his life. Mr. Ramshorn made for the whisky bottle, and was annoyed when he found that there was nothing more than the smell left in it, and that it was the last of the case.
A roaring fire and a steaming breakfast, to which they shortly sat down, thoroughly warmed them, and they then both retired to bed to endeavour to make up for their lost repose.
"Man never is but always to be blessed." — . Pope
Fortunately neither Mr. Ramshorn nor Gilbert felt any the worse for their night's exposure. Mr. Ramshorn growled and grumbled a good deal about the climate, and expressed his regret that he had ever seen what he was pleased to term the "confounded country," so often, that Gilbert felt sure that something more serious than the snowstorm had ruffled his temper. He did not, however, divine the true cause, although he might have suspected it from the abruptness of their departure from Pakeloa. But Mr. Ramshorn's cup of bitterness was not full. Among the letters which were brought from the mail there was one which he opened eagerly. It was from one of the shareholders in the Halcyon Quartz claim, who had promised to let Mr. Ramshorn know the result of the trial crushing.
"Ha! here is some good news from the Halycon! What do you say is the result, Langton? Two ounces to the ton, eh?"
But before Gilbert could reply, Mr. Ramshorn exclaimed—"What's this?" His face lengthened as
Gilbert found that the letter ran—
"Dear Sir,—I greatly regret to inform you that the result of the Halycon crushing was under two pennyweights, which of course would not anything like pay working expenses. I can't understand how it is, that it should have proved such a complete and utter failure, after all the trials we have had in crushing small quantities. Were it not that I know that Hardcastle, the manager, has put every sixpence he could raise into the concern, I should say that he was a rogue and that we were duped, but as it is, I fear it is worse, and think that he is a fool, and that we are more than ditto. He has gone off to town in disgust, and as he has borrowed money to buy shares, I expect he will come to grief, or clear out. I could have sold him mine at a fair premium a few days ago. What a blamed idiot I was not to do so! I am too riled to write more.—Yours faithfully,
"I am awfully sorry," said Gilbert, as he handed back the letter; "won't they try again?"
"Oh! I don't know; but how can they? They have spent their bottom dollar, and are in debt to the bank, and I don't see where they are to get any more money. I am the most unfortunate dog that ever was. I think I'll do like Hardcastle—clear out."
"Why should you do that?" asked Gilbert; "you
"As for paying money," was the reply, "I have none of that to do, for my shares are fully paid up, but I am sick of this wretched country. Look how we were nearly buried alive in the snow last night, and it's always either blowing, or raining, or snowing, or doing something disagreeable. I'll tell you what it is, this country wants roofing-in badly. I am going back to Australia, and from there I think I'll go to South America. Wherever I go, it will be to some place where there is a better climate than here, and where it will be warm enough for a man to die straight."
"Oh! nonsense, Mr. Ramshorn; I am sure the climate is a splendid one, though we do have some sudden changes, and other disagreeables. It is better than I have been accustomed to in the old country, and from all I have heard you say of hot winds and droughts in Australia, I am sure I should not like to live there."
"Well, I daresay, I am inclined to speak badly of the country, because things have gone against me, and very likely if I had been successful here, I should have looked on things with different eyes. But I have made up my mind to go, and shall start for town to-morrow morning. If the agents can manage to let me go, I shan't come back here
"I shall not object to promotion," said Gilbert honestly, "but at the same time I am sorry you are going, especially under such circumstances as the present."
Mr. Ramshorn and Gilbert chatted some time about the approaching departure of the former, and many directions and suggestions were given as to the future management of the station. The rest of the day was spent by the manager in making preparations for his journey, and next morning he made an early start, Gilbert accompanying him a short way.
On his return to the station Gilbert found that Mike Donovan had arrived in his absence, and had been blowing to Mrs. M'Lean about his great success at the "diggings."
"Hullo! Mike," said Gilbert, as the Irishman approached and held out his hand, to shake hands in the most nonchalant manner possible. "What brought you here?"
"Sure, thin, an it was my grey mare, so it was."
"Have you got a real grey mare now, Mike?" asked Gilbert.
"Be jabers, and it was a mane thrick to play on a dacent boy, that same was. I did not think that you would have taken a hand in it, Misther Langton, neither I did. But they won't play that thrick on me
"That was a good idea of yours, Mike," said Gilbert, laughing; "but what if they were to make a chestnut of her with a little red ochre?"
"Ochre, did ye say, Mr. Langton? What the divil that is I don't know, but I would like to see the man that would put ochre on my mare. Besides, they can't put anything on her, for whenever I get her in now, I always put her in the stable. Do ye see that now?"
"Then I don't see why you need have got a grey mare, Mike, if you take such precautions."
"Oh! may be not, but then it was not you that was wandering all over the country looking for your horse, or you would take precautions too," said Mike, getting nettled. "I always thought that Mr. Leslie was a gintleman till he did that dirthy mane turn to me."
"Well, well, don't get your dander up, Mike. Let us drop it. How have you been getting on since I saw you last?"
"I've done first rate, thin, that I have! I bought a share in a claim over at the Sowburn, and it has turned out first class. Afther getting any amount of gold out of it, I sold out to the very man I bought from for a bigger price than I gave; and as I heard Mr. Leslie wanted to sell his share, I came down to Muttontown, and I have bought it. But before setting
"You have bought out Mr. Leslie, have you? and what is he going to do now?" asked Gilbert.
"Have you not heard of his last move? He has bought the shanty on the road as you go up to where old Sam Morrison lives. I expect that you know where I mean. Him and his missus went over there a fortnight ago, putting a man in his claim till it was sold. One of his ould mates told me that Jack, the packer, who goes past that way, had told him that Mr. Leslie had got on the spree at their opening supper, and had been at it pretty well straight on end since thin. So I'm thinking he'll be his own best customer."
"Do you mean to say that Arthur Leslie has become the landlord of a low bush public-house? You must be making fun of me, Mike!"—exclaimed Gilbert in astonishment.
"Niver a bit. And if the public house is low, it is good enough for the likes of Mr. Leslie, who is not a gintleman at all at all. But I must go and see all the boys before I go back. I'll see you over at Muttontown some time, Mr. Langton, I expect."
"Yes, no doubt," replied Gilbert, "good-bye, Mike, good-bye."
"Poor Arthur Leslie!" thought Gilbert, as he turned away. "I little thought he would ever come down so low in the social scale as to become a shanty-keeper, and yet, I fear he has not reached carpe diem' temperament about me. But yet!—I am becoming morbid."
Lighting his pipe, Gilbert said to himself, "Ah! Ottalie, if I had you for my wife, I should be a different man." And then he began to conjure up all kinds of scenes of conjugal felicity, in which he and Ottalie filled the most important parts. And the possibility of the fulfilment erelong of some of
Some ten days after Mr. Ramshorn's departure Gilbert received two letters by the mail, one from Mr. Ramshorn himself, and the other from the agents of the station—offering him the appointment of manager, at a salary, however, rather lower than what Mr. Ramshorn had drawn. This was a disappointment, but he consoled himself with the thought that after a trial they would probably raise his pay to a higher figure. In the other letter Mr. Ramshorn again bid his former cadet good-bye, and amongst other pieces of news he mentioned that he had seen Harry Ewart's widow, who was looking very well and very pretty, and that she seemed already to have got over her bereavement, and was said to be carrying on a flirtation with a young doctor with an eye apparently to business, so far as she was concerned. "So," said Mr. Ramshorn, "I think there is little doubt but that she will lay aside her weeds before the year is out."
"She is a designing baggage," was Gilbert's comment; "and poor old Harry was a thousand times too good for her. I think I must take a run up to Pakeloa and let the Ewarts know of my promotion. The old people have always been very kind and hospitable to me."
"A heaven on earth I've won in wooing thee." — . Shakespeare
Gilbert Langton had been manager of Waitaruna station for some twelve months or more when it became necessary to send a mob of sheep to Dunedin; and as he had never visited town since his first arrival nearly five years ago, he resolved to avail himself of the present opportunity. Accordingly, when the sheep had been got in and drafted, or as Dougal M'Lean phrased it, "quartered into three halves," one of which mysterious divisions was destined for town, Gilbert started to give notice to the different stations along the route that the sheep were coming, leaving Dougal installed in charge of Waitaruna till his return.
He found that Dunedin had increased and improved greatly since he last saw it, and had every appearance of being a thriving place.
Ascertaining from the waiter at his hotel what was going on in the way of amusements, he selected the opera, and found his way to the theatre, where an Italian opera company were to play "Il Barbière."
Yes; there without doubt sat Ottalie, and from that moment the music's charms were lost on Gilbert. He had not known she was in Dunedin, for though he had been a pretty frequent visitor at Pakeloa, he had not been there for at least a couple of months, having been too busy to get away for even a day.
Ottalie's companion was a gentleman of about thirty-five, very good-looking; and he was seemingly bent on making himself very agreeable to his fair neighbour. Two other ladies, who evidently belonged to the party, sat on the other side of Ottalie, but though she now and again addressed a remark to one of them, she conversed most with her gentleman friend, and seemed to enjoy his conversation thoroughly.
"These must be some of Ottalie's school friends,
Little did poor Ottalie know how closely she was being watched, nor yet by whom her every motion was being eagerly scanned. By and by the gentleman left his seat to speak to some one else, and Gilbert at once made for the vacant place.
"Good evening, Miss Ewart," said he, as he sat down; "you appear to have found pleasant companions."
"Ah! Mr. Langton, this is an unexpected pleasure," said Ottalie, turning towards him, and blushing slightly from the pleasure and excitement of meeting him; while in Gilbert's eyes it was a sign of shame at having been caught by him in the act of carrying on a flirtation.
"I did not know you were in Dunedin," said Gilbert. "When did you come?"
"Oh! I have been here for nearly three weeks, but I am going home soon. Papa has just come to town to do some business, and take me back. How do you like the opera?"
"Immensely, but I suppose it is not such a treat to you as it is to me, for I noticed that you seemed to have a great deal of amusing conversation."
"Yes, do you know, I felt quite annoyed with
So Gilbert was introduced to the Smith family, and was even invited home to supper after the opera. He gladly accepted the invitation, and why it was he hardly knew, yet the mere mention of Mrs. Smith's name had removed a weight from his mind.
It was very fortunate for Gilbert that Ottalie happened to be in town, for he, through her, came in for a fair amount of gaiety, which he would otherwise have missed, as he knew scarcely any one in Dunedin.
He enjoyed himself immensely, but his holiday drew to a close, and he had regretfully made up his mind that he must start for Waitaruna in a couple of days. After having come to this resolution, he called to say good-bye to the Smiths, where Ottalie was still staying.
While he was there Mr. Ewart came in, and after a hurried greeting he said—
"Ottalie, my dear, we must go home at once. I have a letter from your mamma, and she has not been well, and wishes us to go back. I don't know what to do, for I have not finished my business, and
"Oh! let us go at once," said Ottalie; "you can come back and do your business, or do it by letter, or Mr. Smith or Mr. Langton could perhaps see after it."
"I shall be most happy if I can be of any service," said Gilbert, who was the only one of the two gentlemen named by Ottalie then present.
"I am much obliged, but I fear this business must be attended to by myself. There's your mamma's letter, Ottalie, you will see from that, she is only wearying for our return, and will probably be in robust health by the time we get home. I'll tell you what, Langton, if you are ready to leave town, you might drive Ottalie back, and leave your horse for me. I shall then be able to do my business, and reach home almost as soon as you will. What do you say to that?"
"I shall be very glad to do so," said Gilbert, "if Miss Ewart has no objections. I had decided on leaving Dunedin at any rate," he added in order that Mr. Ewart might not see how he caught at the proposal.
"You are sure you won't be more than a day behind us, papa dear, will you?" said Ottalie.
"No, I won't, dear. You need not start before to-morrow morning, and I think I shall be able to leave in the evening. You had better get off by daylight, Langton. Come, we shall walk down as
As they walked down to the stables Gilbert felt as though he were walking on air; and instead of feeling regretful that he had to leave Dunedin, he was now counting the hours which must elapse before he started.
Next morning, shortly after dawn, Gilbert was ready with the Ewarts' buggy and pair at Mr. Smith's door waiting for Ottalie, who did not keep him long, but appeared on the doorstep dressed in a neat, well-fitting travelling dress of dark homespun.
"Good morning, Mr. Langton," she said brightly. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting, but it is a most unusual thing for me to get up at this hour, and in the Smith household I don't think such a thing has ever been heard of before."
They were soon away, trotting rapidly through the silent streets. The morning was rather raw and cold, and the travellers were at first disposed to be silent, but after a time, when they began to ascend the hill, which rises from the valley at the north end of the town, and the pace of the horses was of necessity slackened, they found a little more opportunity for conversation. Ottalie was in capital spirits, and appeared to have got over any little anxiety she had about her mother.
"When I read mamma's letter again, I saw papa was right in thinking she was only a little out of sorts, and that I made an unnecessary fuss about
The chief events of the visit to Dunedin afforded an almost exhaustless topic of conversation, and they brought several of those events under review as the horses toiled up the hill. When they gained a higher level Ottalie called Gilbert's attention to the place whence they had come, by remarking that the view of Dunedin from that point was a good one. Looking back, Gilbert checked the horses and paused to admire what was indeed a beautiful view. In the foreground was the wooded hill sloping downwards from where they stood to the green, bush-fringed valley below, while beyond it lay the white and silent city. Even on a dull grey morning such as this, when some of the higher hills were cloud-capped, and everything looked cold and sombre, the view was a fine one. On the level ground the buildings clustered closely, with here and there some public edifice rising into prominence, while on the hills ascending from the bay the white houses were thickly scattered, and seemed in many instances to be nestling among the trees. Away beyond were seen grassy hills, the line of white sand dunes, and the dark deep blue of the ocean.
"Dunedin is really a very pretty place," said Gilbert, again starting the horses; "and the views from different parts of the town looking down the
"You will see a fine view a little further on," said Ottalie; "the prospect in the other direction, looking over Port Chalmers and the Heads, is one I never tire of. We shall see it immediately. Ah! how disappointing!" she exclaimed, as they came to where she expected to see the landscape lying below them; for instead of seeing the beautiful harbour of Port Chalmers with its picturesque islands, and the peninsula with its varied outline and wooded hills, they saw instead that the whole valley below was filled with a dense white mist which hid the bay.
If they were disappointed, they were also pleased, for the sight which met their eyes was a most singular one. They appeared to be upon an island, and the compact and fleecy mist formed a calm and milk-white sea, from which the peaks and summits of the peninsula hills rose like so many little islets. The illusion was perfect, but that away in the distance on the horizon was displayed a broad line of dazzling brightness between the misty sea and sky. It was the ocean reflecting from its restless surface the low rays of the morning sun. The mist hung along the coast, and at some distance from the land there was none. The effect was marvellous, and involuntarily Gilbert again stayed his horses, while he and his companion gazed in wondering silence on the scene.
"How strange!" "How wonderful!" were their exclamations; but even as they gazed, a change set in. The mist began to break, and through a rift, which quickly closed again, they had a momentary glimpse of the lake-like harbour at their feet.
A slight breeze sprang up, before which the mist began to roll away in masses and disclose the hidden beauties of the landscape.
"We have a long day before us and must not linger here, however," said Gilbert, touching his horses with the whip; "we shall never get on if we have much more scenery to admire."
"Oh! there are many pretty views on this road," replied Ottalie.
Nevertheless, they did not attract much observation from Gilbert, who was very silent for some time. At length he said, meditatively, "If you had not been with me I should not have known what was hidden by that mist, and its breaking might have shown either a perfect picture or a dreary waste. … I feel as though I were standing looking down on such another mist which covers my future and hides either a paradise or a purgatory."
"But you can surely guess which it covers," said Ottalie; "are there no hill-tops from which you can form some idea of what lies below?"
"Yes, there are, and I do so guess. Your very reply is a hill-top that promises well for what is hidden," said Gilbert, and then suddenly stopping, he remained silent for some moments.
The silence was oppressive to both, but Gilbert knew not what to say, and he received no assistance from his companion. At last he said abruptly—
"I love you, Miss Ewart. I hope you won't think me presumptuous in asking if you will promise to be my wife." He waited a moment for a reply but no answer came, and he said, nervously, "I don't think that you are indifferent to me. If you cannot give me a favourable answer, give me some hope. I do so love you, Ottalie!"
Gilbert had not dared to look at his fair companion while he spoke, but as he mentioned her Christian name he glanced towards her, and though her downcast face was suffused with blushes, her expression was not one of displeasure. Gathering courage from her look, he said—
"Say yes, Ottalie—only yes," and he took her hand. She looked up timidly into his face, and before he heard her whisper, "Yes, Gilbert;" he had seen through the mist by the windows of her violet eyes and knew that paradise lay before him.
"Hullo! there," sounded along the road, almost drowning Ottalie's answer, and causing them both to start like guilty things. They could see nothing for the hood of the buggy, but they heard the sound of an advancing vehicle. Gilbert had barely pulled to the side of the road when Cobbs' coach, crowded with passengers, rolled past.
"What a fright I got, Gilbert," said Ottalie, as they returned to the middle of the road and
"Ah! Ottalie, my love, it is so pleasant to hear you call me by my name."
"Is it, Gilbert? but I have often called you by your name before, I think," she replied, looking archly at him.
"You are a darling girl, and have made me so happy by your answer. I was half afraid that you wouldn't give me one, which would have made it awkward for you for the rest of the day, to say nothing of my feelings."
"It was really too bad of you, Gilbert, to take advantage of me in the way you did. When I saw what you were aiming at, it was impossible for me to retreat if I had wished."
"But you did not wish to retreat, Ottalie. Did you, dear?"
"No, Gilbert. But will the future be paradise or purgatory, do you think?"
"You know which," he replied; "I am sure you will make me a better and happier man. And my own dear Ottalie, if the future is not as near paradise as this world can be, it will not be from any fault of yours."
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