The state of terror and dismay into which poor Mary Hawker was thrown on finding that her husband, now for many years the BETE NOIR of her existence, was not only alive, but promising1 fairly to cause her more trouble than ever he did before, superadded, let me say, for mere2 truth’s sake, to a slight bilious3 attack, brought on by good living and want of exercise, threw her into a fever, from which, after several days’ delirium4, she rose much shattered, and looking suddenly older. All this time the Doctor, like a trusty dog, had kept his watch, and done more, and with a better will than any paid doctor would have been likely to do. He was called away a good deal by the prosecution5 arising out of that unhappy affair with the other doctor, and afterwards with a prosecution for perjury6, which he brought against the sawyer; but he was generally back at night, and was so kind, so attentive7, and so skilful8 that Mary took it into her head, and always affirmed afterwards, that she owed her life to him.
She was not one to receive any permanent impression from anything. So now, as day by day she grew stronger, she tried to undervalue the mischief9 which had at first so terrified her, and caused her illness; — tried, and with success, in broad daylight; but, in the silent dark nights, as she lay on her lonely bed, she would fully10 appreciate the terrible cloud that hung over her, and would weep and beat her pillow, and pray in her wild fantastic way to be delivered from this frightful11 monster, cut off from communion with all honest men by his unutterable crimes, but who, nevertheless, she was bound to love, honour, and obey, till death should part her from him.
Mrs. Buckley, on the first news of her illness, had come up and taken her quarters at Toonarbin, acting12 as gentle a nurse as man or woman could desire to have. She took possession of the house, and managed everything. Mrs. Barker, the house-keeper, the only one who did not submit at once to her kindly13 rule, protested, obstructed14, protocolled, presented an ultimatum15, and, at last, was so ill advised as to take up arms. There was a short campaign, lasting16 only one morning — a decisive battle — and Mrs. Barker was compelled to sue for peace. “Had Mr. Troubridge been true to himself,” she said, “she would never have submitted;” but, having given Tom warning, and Tom, in a moment of irritation17, having told her, without hesitation18 or disguise, to go to the devil (no less), she bowed to the circumstances, and yielded.
Agnes Buckley encouraged Dr. Mulhaus, too, in his legal affairs, and, I fear, was the first person who proposed the prosecution for perjury against the sawyer: a prosecution, however, which failed, in consequence of his mate and another friend, who was present at the affair, coming forward to the sawyer’s rescue, and getting into such a labyrinth19 and mist of perjury, that the Bench (this happened just after quarter sessions) positively20 refused to hear anything more on either side. Altogether, Agnes Buckley made herself so agreeable, and kept them all so alive, that Tom wondered how he had got on so long without her.
At the end of three weeks Mary was convalescent; and one day, when she was moved into the verandah, Mrs. Buckley beside her, Tom and the Doctor sitting on the step smoking, and Charles sleepily reading aloud “Hamlet,” with a degree of listlessness and want of appreciation21 unequalled, I should say, by any reader before; at such time, I say, there entered suddenly to them a little-cattle dealer22, as brimful of news as an egg of meat. Little Burnside it was: a man about eight stone nothing, who always wore top-boots and other people’s clothes. As he came in, Charles recognised on his legs a pair of cord breeches of his own, with a particular grease patch on the thigh23: a pair of breeches he had lent Burnside, and which Burnside had immediately got altered to his own size. A good singer was Burnside. A man who could finish his bottle of brandy, and not go to bed in his boots. A man universally liked and trusted. An honest, hearty24, little fellow, yet, one who always lent or spent his money as fast as he got it, and was as poor as Job. The greatest vehicle of news in the district, too. “Snowy river Times,” he used to be called.
After the usual greetings, Tom, seeing he was bursting with something, asked him, “What’s the news?”
Burnside was in the habit of saying that he was like the Lord Mayor’s fool — fond of everything that was good. But his greatest pleasure, the one to which he would sacrifice everything, was retailing25 a piece of news. This was so great an enjoyment27 with him that he gloried in dwelling28 on it, and making the most of it. He used to retail26 a piece of news, as a perfect novel, in three volumes. In his first he would take care to ascertain29 that you were acquainted with the parties under discussion; and, if you were not, make you so, throwing in a few anecdotes30 illustrative of their characters. In In his second, he would grow discursive31, giving an episode or two, and dealing32 in moral reflections and knowledge of human nature rather largely. And in his third he would come smash, crash down on you with the news itself, and leave you gasping33.
He followed this plan on the present occasion. He answered Tom’s question by asking —
“Do you know Desborough?”
“Of course I do,” said Tom; “and a noble good fellow he is.”
“Exactly,” said Burnside; “super of police; distinguished34 in Indian wars; nephew of my Lord Covetown. An Irishman is Desborough, but far from objectionable.”
This by way of first volume: now comes his second:—
“Now, sir, I, although a Scotchman born, and naturally proud of being so, consider that until these wretched national distinctions between the three great nations are obliterated36 we shall never get on, sir; never. That the Scotch35, sir, are physically37 and intellectually superior ——”
“Physically and intellectually the devil,” burst in Tom. “Pick out any dozen Scotchmen, and I’ll find you a dozen Londoners who will fight them, or deal with them till they’d be glad to get over the borders again. As for the Devon and Cornish lads, find me a Scotchman who will put me on my back, and I’ll write you a cheque for a hundred pounds, my boy. We English opened the trade of the world to your little two millions and a-half up in the north there; and you, being pretty well starved out at home, have had the shrewdness to take advantage of it; and now, by Jove, you try to speak small of the bridge that carried you over. What did you do towards licking the Spaniards; eh? And where would you be now, if they had not been licked in 1588, eh? Not in Australia, my boy! A Frenchman is conceited38 enough, but, by George, he can’t hold a candle to a Scotchman.”
Tom spoke39 in a regular passion; but there was some truth in what he said, I think. Burnside didn’t like it, and merely saying, “You interrupt me, sir,” went on to his third volume without a struggle.
“You are aware, ladies, that there has been a gang of bushrangers out to the north, headed by a miscreant40, whom his companions call Touan, but whose real name is a mystery.”
Mrs. Buckley said, “Yes;” and Tom glanced at Mary. She had grown as pale as death, and Tom said, “Courage, cousin; don’t be frightened at a name.”
“Well, sir,” continued Burnside, putting the forefinger41 and thumb of each hand together, as if he was making “windows” with soapsuds, “Captain Desborough has surprised that gang in a gully, sir, and,” spreading his hands out right and left, “obliterated them.”
“The devil!” said Tom, while the Doctor got up and stood beside Mary.
“Smashed them, sir,” continued Burnside; “extinguished them utterly42. He had six of his picked troopers with him, and they came on them suddenly and brought them to bay. You see, two troopers have been murdered lately, and so our men, when they got face to face with the cowardly hounds, broke discipline and wouldn’t be held. They hardly fired a shot, but drew their sabres, and cut the dogs down almost to a man. Three only out of twelve have been captured alive, and one of them is dying of a wound in the neck.” And, having finished, little Burnside folded his arms and stood in a military attitude, with the air of a man who had done the thing himself, and was prepared to receive his meed of praise with modesty43.
“Courage, Mary,” said Tom; “don’t be frightened at shadows.”— He felt something sticking in his throat, but spoke out nevertheless.
“And their redoubted captain,” he asked; “what has become of him?”
“What, Touan himself?” said Burnside. “Well, I am sorry to say that that chivalrous44 and high-minded gentleman was found neither among the dead nor the living. Not to mince45, matters, sir, he has escaped.”
The Doctor saw Mary’s face quiver, but she bore up bravely, and listened.
“Escaped, has he?” said Tom. “And do they know anything about him?”
“Desborough, who told me this himself,” said Burnside, “says no, that he is utterly puzzled. He had made sure of the arch-rascal himself; but, with that remarkable46 faculty47 of saving his own skin which he has exhibited on more than one occasion, he has got off for the time, with one companion.”
“A companion; eh?”
“Yes,” said Burnside, “whereby hangs a bit of romance, if I may profane48 the word in speaking of such men. His companion is a young fellow, described as being more like a beautiful woman than a man, and bearing the most singular likeness49 in features to the great Captain Touan himself, who, as you have heard, is a handsome dog. In short, there is very little doubt that they are father and son.”
Tom thought to himself, “Who on earth can this be? What son can George Hawker have, and we not know of it?” He turned to Burnside.
“What age is the young man you speak of?” he asked.
“Twenty, or thereabouts, by all description,” said the other.
Tom thought again: “This gets very strange. He could have no son of that age got in Van Diemen’s Land: it was eight years before he was free. It must be some one we know of. He had some byeblows in Devon, by all accounts. If this is one of them, how the deuce did he get here?”
But he could not think. We shall see presently who it was. Now we must leave these good folks for a time, and just step over to Garoopna, and see how affairs go there.
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1
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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42
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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48
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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49
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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