Chapter X. The Lonely Hut.

Like a beautiful gem in a rough setting, lies the clear expanse of Lake Hawea amidst the outlying spurs of the New Zealand Alps. On three sides the mountains sweep back from the shore in curvilinear form; but on the West their bases descend precipitously into the water. From their lofty pinnacles, ever capped with dazzling snows, there descend many streamlets, which glisten like threads of molten silver, as they glide adown the smooth rocks, or leap impetuously over scaur and precipice. Dark ribs of schist and slate seam the brown hill-sides, and patches of forest clothe the ravines. The translucent waters of the Lake, unbroken by islet or promontory, and undimmed by shadow, ripple softly in the sunlight, inviting to dreamy repose; save when the blustering Northern wind drives the ruffled waves, in long rollers on the pebbly beach, and dashes them in fury against the marginal rocks, around which they curl and toss white wreaths of spray. In either mood—savage or still—very beautiful is Lake Hawea.

At the foot of this Lake—far remote from the busy haunts of men—stood a lonely hut, built of roughly-hewn slabs of native timber and thatched with snow-page 174grass. Therein dwelt the shepherds and their collie-dogs,—either equally a part of the appliances whereby the squatter—(Anglicé grazier)—lordly tenant of the wilderness—realizes the fable of the Golden Fleece.

One night when the wind was at its wildest—when the trembling waves crept far up on the beach, as if seeking refuge from the tyranny of the furious blast, and perforce retreated with wailing sobs, to be again driven and hurried and dashed upon the steadfast shore;—as daylight was waning, a timid knock at the door arrested the attention of the solitary inmate.

Within the hut a log-fire roared, and blazed, and crackled, in the rade chimney. And the sparks flew out in wild profusion, as in sympathy with the external tempest. The billy was slung for tea, and a grey-headed shepherd was superintending the cooking of a huge panful of mutton-chops, which hissed and spluttered on the fire in wild jubilation.

Without ceasing from his occupation or even turning his head, he shouted "Come in!"

The door slowly opened, and a young man entered,—entered hesitatingly, as doubtful of his reception. His appearance was haggard in the extreme, and his eye gleamed with a scared, hunted expression. His unkemp hair was guiltless of all covering, and the left sleeve of his serge shirt was gone from above the elbow.

He stood awhile, still holding the door and silent. The wind rushing in disturbed the operations of the shepherd. "Steek the door!" said he: then first noticing the strange aspect of his visitor, he asked—"Weel, mon, wha are ye, an' what are ye wantin'?"

"I have lost my way, and I am tired, and hungry. Can you give me a feed, and a shake-down for the night?"

Thus said the stranger; to whom the shepherd made reply,—" I'm thinkin' ye're just a sun-dooner. Whaur did ye come frae last?"

Now, a 'sun-downer,' or 'tussocker'—for the terms are synonymous—is a pastoral loafer; one who loiters about till dusk, and then makes for the nearest station or hut, to beg for shelter and food.

"Why do you say that?"—He spoke in a distressed, fretful manner.—" I am willing to pay you. I can pay you. See, here is a note. Take it and give me food and lodging—till to-morrow."

And therewith he proffered a £1 bank-note.

"Weel, ye needna mak' sae muckle din aboot it!"—

The shepherd carefully inspected the note; and being satisfied of its genuineness, he deposited it in his pouch, and resumed the conversation in a more genial mood.

"I dinna keep a hottle, ye ken, but ye're vera welcome till a chop, an' a scone, an' a pannikin o' tea; an' if Jamie disna come hame the nicht, ye can turn intil his blankets. Sae come ben, laddie, an' sit ye doon."

The stranger ate of the ill-cooked, indigestible chops, sodden in fat, tough and juiceless; and of the scones, yellow and bitter with over much soda; and drank of the coarse tea, innocent of milk, and sweetened with the roughest and blackest of sugar; and all with an appetite to be envied by the luxurious gustator of a London Club.

His entertainer regarded him with unfeigned astonishment.

"Eh! but ye're awfu' keen, my mon. Ye maun hae fasted lang, surely."

Quoth the stranger,—"I have fasted long. I thank you for your hospitality. I am foot-sore and weary too. But I think I'll have a smoke before I turn in."

And the pair proceeded to burn Nicotian incense;—the shepherd, from a blackened cutty-pipe, the stranger, from a peculiarly dirty meerschaum.

"An' whaur's your bonnet, laddie?" speered the shepherd, after a few preliminary whiffs.

"Blown away—lost—gone. Never mind where. Why do you ask me?"

And he turned angrily upon his companion.

"A' weel it's a wild nicht, an' I'm no that exercised aboot a bit cap. Ye seem a bonnie laddie, but just a wee dour an' camstery. Nae doot it's a fearsome nicht to be abroad in, an' ye wi' nae victual in yer wame. Weel, weel! I've an auld bonnet o' my ain, I'se gie ye the morn."

The logs burned dim in the yawning fire-place. The stranger finished his pipe, clambered into the bunk appropriated to his use, and was quickly asleep. But in his slumbers he tossed from side to side, and muttered fragments of speech, having no relevancy or coherency; and threw his arms about in such strange fashion that he utterly amazed the sober old sheep-tender.

"The lad's no canny,"—such was his commentary. "I misdoubt he's a bit wrang in the heid."

He threw a fresh log on the fire, and lighted another pipe.

"If Jamie is comin' hame he'll no be that far aff the noo. I'll bide a wee for Jamie."

I think he was rather alarmed by the strange conduct of his uninvited guest.

And still singing as he entered, the long-expected errant Jamie appeared on the scene.

The old shepherd was well pleased at his coming; but it was not his humour to show it.

"What for did ye no come sooner?" he asked.

"I just gaed doon tae the toonship tae bring ye the news, and there it's for ye."

So saying, he tossed the paper to his crony. A newspaper,—a veritable scion of the Fourth Estate;—a small folio, printed on yellow paper such as grocers use;—an infant Hercules in swaddling bands.

"There's been an awfu' murder on the diggings," he continued. "It's just a Yankee scoondrel, Willie, that kilt a mon, and then pitchit him intil the Molyneux. But the police folk hae forgathered wi' him, and his craig will sune be strechit on the woodie for't."

Unobserved by the shepherds, the stranger raised himself on his elbow, and listened intently to their conversation.

"Eh, Jamie, they're an awfu' bad lot, thae digger page 178fallows. It's a sair pity that ever gold was found out, tae bring a wheen blackguards intil the kintra. Hoo did it happen?"

"Weel, it seems the twa had words anent some gold, an' the Yankee up wi' a tomahawk and gied the ither a cloot o' the heid wi't; and the neist day the body was foond in the river. Then the police gaed oot after the Yankee and cam' up wi' him at Alick's hut, on the Cardrona, an', after a fecht they slippet the irons on him. I dinna ken a' the richts o't. But there, ye'll read aboot it in the bit paper. I gied a haill saxpence for the wee thing, tae pleesure yersel', Willie."

"Pit it awa' till the morn, Jamie. My een are no that gude at readin' print by nicht."

An involuntary movement made by the stranger attracted Jamie's attention to him.

"Wha's yon?" he asked.

"Just a puir laddie that cam' till the hut i' the gloamin'. He was sair forfechten, sae I just gied him his supper, an' let him bide till the mornin'. I'll tak' my ain blankets on the floor for ance."

"Ye're awfu' kind tae stranger bodies tae dae the like o' that, Willie. D'ye no ken him ava? Gude guide us! We may hae oor weasons scraggit in the nicht."

"I'm thinkin', Jamie, ye maun hae had mair whuskey than's gude for ye; or else ye're fair doited wi' hearin' o' the murder the day."

"Na, na, Willie, I'm neither fou nor frichtened; but I dinna like strange folk in the hut."

Before Willie could make replication, the stranger thrust aside the blankets and sprang to the floor.

"You shall not give up your bed for me," he said. "I can lie anywhere! On the floor! Outside! Anywhere. What does it matter?"

And he laughed a laugh wherein was no merriment;—a discordant laugh, which grated harshly on the ear.

"Gang till your bunk, laddie," said the old shepherd.

"No.—I want to hear the news. What is this about a murder? I heard you telling of a murder. Where is the paper. Quick! quick, old man! Let me see it."

He clutched the paper with a trembling hand. Hurriedly glancing at its contents, he read only a single paragraph, which ran thus:—

"We understand that the man, Pellatt, is to be brought before our worthy Magistrate to-morrow on a charge of wilful homicide. It is clear that a dastardly crime has been committed in our midst, and evidence is said to be forthcoming of a nature to sheet the charge home to the prisoner. In the interests of justice, we refrain from saying more at present. Great credit is due to Sergeant, &c., &c."

He dashed the paper on the ground,—rushed to the door—threw it open, and disappeared in the darkness.

The shepherds gazed at each other in amazement.

Willie picked up the paper, closed and fastened the door, and returned to his seat.

"He's clean demented," he said.

"He's just a madman," answered Jamie. "Eh mon! ye've had a vera providential escape. Ye'll hae tae be a thocht mair conseederate wha ye tak' ben anither nicht, when I'm no wi' ye."

The stranger returned not. Out into the tempest he went, flying as from the fear of death, over the broad plain. And ever as he ran he cried,—"To-morrow! to-morrow! Oh, God! shall I be in time?"