Troubridge’s Station, Toonarbin, lay so far back from the river, and so entirely1 on the road to nowhere, that Tom used to remark, that he would back it for being the worst station for news in the country. So it happened that while these terrible scenes were enacting2 within ten miles of them, down, in fact, to about one o’clock in the day when the bushrangers were overtaken and punished, Mary and her cousin sat totally unconscious of what was going on.
But about eleven o’clock that day, Burnside, the cattle dealer3, mentioned once before in these pages, arrived at Major Buckley’s, from somewhere up country, and found the house apparently4 deserted5.
But having coee’d for some time, a door opened in one of the huts, and a sleepy groom6 came forth7, yawning.
“Where are they all?” asked Burnside.
“Mrs. Buckley and the women were down at Mrs. Mayford’s, streaking8 the bodies out,” he believed. “The rest were gone away after the gang.”
This was the first that Burnside had heard about the matter. And now, bit by bit, he extracted everything from the sleepy groom.
I got him afterwards to confess to me, that when he heard of this terrible affair, his natural feeling of horror was considerably9 alloyed with pleasure. He saw here at one glance a fund of small talk for six months. He saw himself a welcome visitor at every station, even up to furthest lonely Condamine, retailing10 the news of these occurrences with all the authenticity11 of an eye witness, improving his narrative12 by each repetition. Here was the basis of a new tale, Ode, Epic13, Saga14, or what you may please to call it, which he Burnside, the bard15, should sing at each fireside throughout the land.
“And how are Mrs. and Miss Mayford, poor souls!” he asked.
“They’re as well,” answered the groom, “as you’d expect folks to be after such a mishap16. They ran out at the back way and down the garden towards the river before the chaps could burst the door down. I am sorry for that little chap Cecil; I am, by Jove! A straightforward17, manly18 little chap as ever crossed a horse. Last week he says to me, says he, ‘Benjy, my boy,’ says he, ‘come and be groom to me. I’ll give you thirty pound a-year.’ And I says, ‘If Mr. Sam ——’ Hallo, there they are at it, hammer and tongs19! Sharp work, that!”
They both listened intensely. They could hear, borne on the west wind, a distant dropping fire and a shouting. The groom’s eye began to kindle20 a bit, but Burnside, sitting yet upon his horse, grasped the lad’s shoulder and cried, “God save us, suppose our men should be beaten!”
“Suppose,” said the groom, contemptuously shaking him off; “why, then you and I should get our throats cut.”
At this moment the noise of the distant fight breezed up louder than ever.
“They’re beat back,” said Burnside. “I shall be off to Toonarbin, and give them warning. I advise you to save yourself.”
“I was set to mind these here things,” said Benjy, “and I’m a-going to mind ’em. And they as meddles21 with ’em had better look out.”
Burnside started off for Toonarbin, and when halfway22 there he paused and listened. The firing had ceased. When he came to reflect, now that his panic was over, he had very little doubt that Desborough’s party had gained the day. It was impossible, he thought, that it could be otherwise.
Nevertheless, being half-way to Toonarbin, he determined23 to ride on, and, having called in a moment, to follow a road which took a way past Lee’s old hut towards the scene of action. He very soon pulled up at the door, and Tom Troubridge came slowly out to meet him.
“Hallo, Burnside!” said Tom. “Get off, and come in.”
“Not I, indeed. I am going off to see the fight.”
“What fight?” said Mary Hawker, looking over Tom’s shoulder.
“Do you mean to say you have not heard the news?”
“Not a word of any news for a fortnight.”
For once in his life, Burnside was laconic24, and told them all that had happened. Tom spoke25 not a word, but ran up to the stable and had a horse out, saddled in a minute, he was dashing into the house again for his hat and pistols when he came against Mary in the passage, leaning against the wall.
“Tom,” she whispered hoarsely26. “Bring that boy back to me safe, or never look me in the face again!”
He never answered her, he was thinking of some one beside the boy. He pushed past her, and the next moment she saw him gallop28 away with Burnside, followed by two men, and now she was left alone indeed, and helpless.
There was not a soul about the place but herself; not a soul within ten miles. She stood looking out of the door fixedly30, at nothing, for a time; but then, as hour by hour went on, and the afternoon stillness fell upon the forest, and the shadows began to slant31, a terror began to grow upon her which at length became unbearable32, and well-nigh drove her mad.
At the first she understood that all these years of anxiety had come to a point at last, and a strange feeling of excitement, almost joy, came over her. She was one of those impetuous characters who stand suspense33 worse than anything, and now, although terror was in her, she felt as though relief was nigh. Then she began to think again of her son, but only for an instant. He was under Major Buckley’s care, and must be safe; so she dismissed that fear from her mind for a time, but only for a time. It came back to her again. Why did he not come to her? Why had not the Major sent him off to her at once? Could the Major have been killed? even if so, there was Doctor Mulhaus. Her terrors were absurd.
But not the less terrors that grew in strength hour by hour, as she waited there, looking at the pleasant spring forest, and no one came. Terrors that grew at last so strong, that they took the place of certainties. Some hitch34 must have taken place, and her boy must be gone out with the rest.
Having got as far as this, to go further was no difficulty. He was killed, she felt sure of it, and none had courage to come and tell her of it. She suddenly determined to verify her thoughts at once, and went in doors to get her hat.
She had fully35 made up her mind that he must be killed at this time. The hope of his having escaped was gone. We, who know the real state of the case, should tremble for her reason, when she finds her fears so terribly true. We shall see.
She determined to start away to the Brentwoods’, and end her present state of terror one way or another. Tom had taken the only horse in the stable, but her own brown pony36 was running in the paddock with some others; and she sallied forth, worn out, feverish37, halfmad, to try to catch him.
The obstinate38 brute39 wouldn’t be caught. Then she spent a weary hour trying to drive them all into the stockyard, but in vain. Three times she, with infinite labour, drove them up to the slip-rack, and each time the same mare40 and foal broke away, leading off the others. The third time, when she saw them all run whinnying down to the further end of the paddock, after half an hour or so of weary work driving them up, when she had run herself off her poor tottering41 legs, and saw that all her toil42 was in vain, then she sank down on the cold hard gravel43 in the yard, with her long black hair streaming loose along the ground, and prayed that she might die. Down at full length, in front of her own door, like a dead woman, moaning and crying, from time to time, “Oh, my boy, my boy.”
How long she lay there she knew not. She heard a horse’s feet, but only stopped her ears from the news she thought was coming. Then she heard a steady heavy footstep close to her, and some one touched her, and tried to raise her.
She sat up, shook the hair from her eyes, and looked at the man who stood beside her. At first she thought it was a phantom44 of her own brain, but then looking wildly at the calm, solemn features, and the kindly45 grey eyes which were gazing at her so inquiringly, she pronounced his name —“Frank Maberly.”
“God save you, madam,” he said. “What is the matter?”
“Misery46, wrath47, madness, despair!” she cried wildly, raising her hand. “The retribution of a lifetime fallen on my luckless head in one unhappy moment.”
Frank Maberly looked at her in real pity, but a thought went through his head. “What a magnificent actress this woman would make.” It merely past through his brain and was gone, and then he felt ashamed of himself for entertaining it a moment; and yet it was not altogether an unnatural48 one for him who knew her character so well. She was lying on the ground in an attitude which would have driven Siddons to despair; one white arm, down which her sleeve had fallen, pressed against her forehead, while the other clutched the ground; and her splendid black hair fallen down across her shoulders. Yet how could he say how much of all this wild despair was real, and how much hysterical49?
“But what is the matter, Mary Hawker,” he asked. “Tell me, or how can I help you?”
“Matter?” she said. “Listen. The bushrangers are come down from the mountains, spreading ruin, murder, and destruction far and wide. My husband is captain of the gang: and my son, my only son, whom I have loved better than my God, is gone with the rest to hunt them down — to seek, unknowing, his own father’s life. There is mischief50 beyond your mending, priest!”
Beyond his mending, indeed. He saw it. “Rise up,” he said, “and act. Tell me all the circumstances. Is it too late?”
She told him how it had come to pass, and then he showed her that all her terrors were but anticipations51, and might be false. He got her pony for her, and, as night was falling, rode away with her along the mountain road that led to Captain Brentwood’s.
The sun was down, and ere they had gone far, the moon was bright overhead. Frank, having fully persuaded himself that all her terrors were the effect of an overwrought imagination, grew cheerful, and tried to laugh her out of them. She, too, with the exercise of riding through the night-air, and the company of a handsome, agreeable, well-bred man, began to have a lurking52 idea that she had been making a fool of herself; when they came suddenly on a hut, dark, cheerless, deserted, standing53 above a black, stagnant54, reed-grown waterhole.
The hut where Frank had gone to preach to the stockmen. The hut where Lee had been murdered — an ill-omened place; and as they came opposite to it, they saw two others approaching them in the moonlight — Major Buckley and Alice Brentwood.
Then Alice, pushing forward, bravely met her, and told her all — all, from beginning to end; and when she had finished, having borne up nobly, fell to weeping as though her heart would break. But Mary did not weep, or cry, or fall down. She only said, “Let me see him,” and went on with them, silent and steady.
They got to Garoopna late at night, none having spoken all the way. Then they showed her into the room where poor Charles lay, cold and stiff, and there she stayed hour after hour through the weary night. Alice looked in once or twice, and saw her sitting on the bed which bore the corpse55 of her son, with her face buried in her hands; and at last, summoning courage, took her by the arm and led her gently to bed.
Then she went into the drawing-room, where, besides her father, were Major Buckley, Doctor Mulhaus, Frank Maberly, and the drunken doctor before spoken of, who had had the sublime56 pleasure of cutting a bullet from his old adversary’s arm, and was now in a fair way to justify57 the SOBRIQUET58 I have so often applied59 to him. I myself also was sitting next the fire, alongside of Frank Maberly.
“My brave girl,” said the Major, “how is she?”
“I hardly can tell you, sir,” said Alice; “she is so very quiet. If she would cry now, I should be very glad. It would not frighten me so much as seeing her like that. I fear she will die!”
“If her reason holds,” said the Doctor, “she will get over it. She had, from all accounts, gone through every phase of passion, down to utter despair, before she knew the blow had fallen. Poor Mary!”
There, we have done. All this misery has come on her from one act of folly60 and selfishness years ago. How many lives are ruined, how many families broken up, by one false step! If ever a poor soul has expiated61 her own offence, she has. Let us hope that brighter times are in store for her. Let us have done with moral reflections; I am no hand at that work. One more dark scene, reader, and then. —
It was one wild dreary62 day in the spring; a day of furious wind and cutting rain; a day when few passengers were abroad, and when the boatmen were gathered in knots among the sheltered spots upon the quays63, waiting to hear of disasters at sea; when the ships creaked and groaned64 at the wharfs65, and the harbour was a sheet of wind-driven foam67, and the domain68 was strewed69 with broken boughs70. On such a day as this, Major Buckley and myself, after a sharp walk, found ourselves in front of the principal gaol71 in Sydney.
We were admitted, for we had orders; and a small, wiry, clever-looking man about fifty bowed to us as we entered the white-washed corridor, which led from the entrance hall. We had a few words with him, and then followed him.
To the darkest passage in the darkest end, of that dreary place; to the condemned72 cells. And my heart sank as the heavy bolt shot back, and we went into the first one on the right.
Before us was a kind of bed-place. And on that bedplace lay the figure of a man. Though it is twenty years ago since I saw it, I can remember that scene as though it were yesterday.
He lay upon a heap of tumbled blankets, with his face buried in a pillow. One leg touched the ground, and round it was a ring, connecting the limb to a long iron bar, which ran along beneath the bed. One arm also hung listlessly on the cold stone floor, and the other was thrown around his head, a head covered with short black curls, worthy73 of an Antinous, above a bare muscular neck, worthy of a Farnese Hercules. I advanced towards him.
The governor held me back. “My God, sir,” he said, “take care. Don’t, as you value your life, go within length of his chain.” But at that moment the handsome head was raised from the pillow, and my eyes met George Hawker’s. Oh, Lord! such a piteous wild look. I could not see the fierce desperate villain74 who had kept our country-side in terror so long. No, thank God, I could only see the handsome curly-headed boy who used to play with James Stockbridge and myself among the gravestones in Drumston churchyard. I saw again the merry lad who used to bathe with us in Hatherleigh water, and whom, with all his faults, I had once loved well. And seeing him, and him only, before me, in spite of a terrified gesture from the governor, I walked up to the bed, and, sitting down beside him, put my arm round his neck.
“George! George! Dear old friend!” I said. “O George, my boy, has it come to this?”
I don’t want to be instructed in my duty. I know what my duty was on that occasion as well as any man. My duty as a citizen and a magistrate75 was to stand at the further end of the cell, and give this hardened criminal a moral lecture, showing how honesty and virtue76, as in my case, had led to wealth and honour, and how yielding to one’s passions led to disgrace and infamy77, as in his. That was my duty, I allow. But then, you see, I didn’t do my duty. I had a certain tender feeling about my stomach which prevented me from doing it. So I only hung there, with my arm round his neck, and said, from time to time, “O George, George!” like a fool.
He put his two hands upon my shoulders, so that his fetters78 hung across my breast; and he looked me in the face. Then he said, after a time, “What! Hamlyn? Old Jeff Hamlyn! The only man I ever knew that I didn’t quarrel with! Come to see me now, eh? Jeff, old boy, I’m to be hung tomorrow.”
“I know it,” I said. “And I came to ask you if I could do anything for you. For the sake of dear old Devon, George.”
“Anything you like, old Jeff,” he said, with a laugh, “so long as you don’t get me reprieved79. If I get loose again, lad, I’d do worse than I ever did yet, believe me. I’ve piled up a tolerable heap of wickedness as it is, though. I’ve murdered my own son, Jeff. Do you know that?”
I answered —“Yes; I know that, George; but that was an accident. You did not know who he was.”
“He came at me to take my life,” said Hawker. “And I tell you, as a man who goes out to be hung tomorrow, that, if I had guessed who he was, I’d have blown my own brains out to save him from the crime of killing80 me. Who is that man?”
“Don’t you remember him?” I said. “Major Buckley.”
The Major came forward, and held out his hand to George Hawker. “You are now,” he said, “like a dead man to me. You die tomorrow; and you know it; and face it like a man. I come to ask you to forgive me anything you may have to forgive. I have been your enemy since I first saw you: but I have been an honest and open enemy; and now I am your enemy no longer. I ask you to shake hands with me. I have been warned not to come within arm’s length of you, chained as you are. But I am not afraid of you.”
The Major came and sat on the bed-place beside him.
“As for that little animal,” said George Hawker, pointing to the governor as he stood at the further end of the cell, “if he comes within reach of me, I’ll beat his useless little brains out against the wall, and he knows it. He was right to caution you not to come too near me. I nearly killed a man yesterday: and tomorrow, when they come to lead me out —— But, with regard to you, Major Buckley, the case is different. Do you know I should be rather sorry to tackle you; I’m afraid you would be too heavy for me. As to my having anything to forgive, Major, I don’t know that there is anything. If there is, let me tell you that I feel more kind and hearty81 towards you and Hamlyn for coming to me like this today, than I’ve felt towards any man this twenty year. By-the-bye; let no man go to the gallows82 without clearing himself as far as he may. Do you know that I set on that red-haired villain, Moody83, to throttle84 Bill Lee, because I hadn’t pluck to do it myself.”
“Poor Lee,” said the Major.
“Poor devil,” said Hawker. “Why that man had gone through every sort of villany, from” (so and so up to so and so, he said; I shall not particularize) “before my beard was grown. Why that man laid such plots and snares85 for me when I was a lad, that a bishop86 could not have escaped. He egged me on to forge my own father’s name. He drove me on to ruin. And now, because it suited his purpose to turn honest, and act faithful domestic to my wife for twenty years, he is mourned for as an exemplary character, and I go to the gallows. He was a meaner villain than ever I was.”
“George,” I asked, “have you any message for your wife?”
“Only this,” he said; “tell her I always liked her pretty face, and I’m sorry I brought disgrace upon her. Through all my rascalities, old Jeff, I swear to you that I respected and liked her to the last. I tried to see her last year, only to tell her that she needn’t be afraid of me, and should treat me as a dead man; but she and her blessed pig-headed lover, Tom Troubridge, made such knife and pistol work of it, that I never got the chance of saying the word I wanted. She’d have saved herself much trouble if she hadn’t acted so much like a frightened fool. I never meant her any harm. You may tell her all this if you judge right, but I leave it to you. Time’s up, I see. I ain’t so much of a coward, am I, Jeff? Good-bye, old lad, good-bye.”
That was the last we saw of him; the next morning he was executed with four of his comrades. But now the Major and I, leaving him, went out again into the street, into the rain and the furious wind, to beat up against it for our hotel. Neither spoke a word till we came to a corner in George Street, nearest the wharf66: and there the Major turned back upon me suddenly and I thought he had been unable to face the terrible gust87 which came sweeping88 up from the harbour: but it was not so. He had turned on purpose, and putting his hands upon my shoulders, he said —
“Hamlyn, Hamlyn, you have taught me a lesson.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “I have shown you what a fool a tender-hearted soft-headed fellow may make of himself by yielding to his impulses. But I have a defence to offer, my dear sir, the best of excuses, the only real excuse existing in this world. I couldn’t help it.”
“I don’t mean that, Hamlyn,” he answered. “The lesson you have taught me is a very different one. You have taught me that there are bright points in the worst man’s character, a train of good feeling which no tact89 can bring out, but yet which some human spark of feeling may light. Here is this man Hawker, of whom we heard that he was dangerous to approach, and whom the good chaplain was forced to pray for and exhort90 from a safe distance. The man for whose death, till ten minutes ago, I was rejoicing. The man I thought lost, and beyond hope. Yet you, by one burst of unpremeditated folly, by one piece of silly sentimentality; by ignoring the man’s later life, and carrying him back in imagination to his old schoolboy days, have done more than our good old friend the Chaplain could have done without your assistance. There is a spark of the Divine in the worst of men, if you can only find it.”
In spite of the Major’s parliamentary and didactic way of speaking, I saw there was truth at the bottom of what he said, and that he meant kindly to me, and to the poor fellow who was even now among the dead; so instead of arguing with him, I took his arm, and we fought homewards together through the driving rain.
Imagine three months to have passed. That stormy spring had changed into a placid91, burning summer. The busy shearing-time was past; the noisy shearers were dispersed92, heaven knows where (most of them probably suffering from a shortness of cash, complicated with delirium93 tremens). The grass in the plains had changed from green to dull grey; the river had changed his hoarse27 roar for a sleepy murmur94, as though too lazy to quarrel with his boulders95 in such weather. A hot dull haze96 was over forest and mountain. The snow had perspired97 till it showed long black streaks98 on the highest eminences99. In short, summer had come with a vengeance100; every one felt hot, idle, and thirsty, and “there was nothing doing.”
Now that broad cool verandah of Captain Brentwood’s, with its deep recesses101 of shadow, was a place not to be lightly spoken of. Any man once getting footing there, and leaving it, except on compulsion, would show himself of weak mind. Any man once comfortably settled there in an easy chair, who fetched anything for himself when he could get any one else to fetch it for him, would show himself, in my opinion, a man of weak mind. One thing only was wanted to make it perfect, and that was niggers. To the winds with “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and “Dred” after it, in a hot wind! What can an active-minded, self-helpful lady like Mrs. Stowe, freezing up there in Connecticut, obliged to do something to keep herself warm — what can she, I ask, know about the requirements of a southern gentleman when the thermometer stands at 125 degrees in the shade? Pish! Does she know the exertion102 required for cutting up a pipe of tobacco in a hot north wind? No! Does she know the amount of perspiration103 and anger superinduced by knocking the head off a bottle of Bass104 in January? Does she know the physical prostration105 which is caused by breaking up two lumps of hard white sugar in a pawnee before a thunderstorm? No, she doesn’t, or she would cry out for niggers with the best of us! When the thermometer gets over 100 degrees in the shade, all men would have slaves if they were allowed. An Anglo–Saxon conscience will not, save in rare instances, bear a higher average heat than 95 degrees.
But about this verandah. It was the model and type of all verandahs. It was made originally by the Irish family, the Donovans, before spoken of; and, like all Irish-made things, was nobly conceived, beautifully carried out, and then left to take care of itself, so that when Alice came into possession, she found it a neglected mine of rare creepers run wild. Here, for the first time, I saw the exquisite106 crimson107 passion-flower, then a great rarity. Here, too, the native passion-flower, scarlet108 and orange, was tangled109 up with the common purple sarsaparilla and the English honeysuckle and jessamine.
In this verandah, one blazing morning, sat Mrs. Buckley and Alice making believe to work. Mrs. Buckley really was doing something. Alice sat with her hands fallen on her lap, so still and so beautiful, that she might then and there have been photographed off by some enterprising artist, and exhibited in the printshops as “Argia, Goddess of Laziness.”
They were not alone, however. Across the very coolest, darkest corner was swung a hammock, looking at which you might perceive two hands elevating a green paper-covered book, as though the owner were reading — the aforesaid owner, however, being entirely invisible, only proving his existence by certain bulges110 and angles in the canvas of the hammock.
Now, having made a nice little mystery as to who it was lying there, I will proceed to solve it. A burst of laughter came from the hidden man, so uproarious and violent, that the hammock-strings strained and shook, and the magpie111, waking up from a sound sleep, cursed and swore in a manner fearful to hear.
“My dearest Jim!” said Alice, rousing herself, “What is the matter with you?”
Jim read aloud the immortal112 battle of the two editors, with their carpet bags, in “Pickwick,” and, ere he had half done, Alice and Mrs. Buckley had mingled113 their laughter with his, quite as heartily114, if not so loudly.
“Hallo!” said Jim; “here’s a nuisance! There’s no more of it. Alice, have you got any more?”
“That is all, Jim. The other numbers will come by the next mail.”
“How tiresome115! I suppose the governor is pretty sure to be home to-night. He can’t be away much longer.”
“Don’t be impatient, my dear,” said Alice. “How is your leg?”
Please to remember that Jim’s leg was broken in the late wars, and, as yet, hardly well.
“Oh, it’s a good deal better. Heigho! This is very dull.”
“Thank you, James!” said Mrs. Buckley. “Dear me! the heat gets greater every day. If they are on the road, I hope they won’t hurry themselves.”
Our old friends were just now disposed in the following manner:—
The Major was at home. Mary Hawker was staying with him. Doctor Mulhaus and Halbert staying at Major Brentwood’s, while Captain Brentwood was away with Sam and Tom Troubridge to Sydney; and, having been absent some weeks, had been expected home now for a day or two. This was the day they came home, riding slowly up to the porch about five o’clock.
When all greetings were done, and they were sat down beside the others, Jim opened the ball by asking, “What news, father?”
“What a particularly foolish question!” said the Captain. “Why, you’ll get it all in time — none the quicker for being impatient. May be, also, when you hear some of the news, you won’t like it!”
“Oh, indeed!” said Jim.
“I have a letter for you here, from the Commander-inChief. You are appointed to the 3-th Regiment116, at present quartered in India.”
Alice looked at him quickly as she heard this, and, as a natural consequence, Sam looked too. They had expected that he would have hurra’d aloud, or thrown up his hat, or danced about, when he heard of it. But no; he only sat bolt upright in his hammock, though his face flushed scarlet, and his eyes glistened117 strangely.
His father looked at him an instant, and then continued —
“Six months’ leave of absence procured118 at the same time, which will give you about three months more at home. So you see you now possess the inestimable privilege of wearing a red coat; and what is still better, of getting a hole made in it; for there is great trouble threatening with the Affghans and Beloochs, and the chances are that you will smell powder before you are up in your regimental duties. Under which circumstances I shall take the liberty of requesting that you inform yourself on these points under my direction, for I don’t want you to join your regiment in the position of any other booby. Have the goodness to lie down again and not excite yourself. You have anticipated this some time. Surely it is not necessary for you to cry about it like a great girl.”
But that night, after dark, when Sam and Alice were taking one of those agreeable nocturnal walks, which all young lovers are prone119 to, they came smoothly120 gliding121 over the lawn close up to the house, and then, unseen and unheard, they saw Captain Brentwood with his arm round Jim’s neck, and heard him say —
“O James! James! why did you want to leave me?”
And Jim answered. “Father, I didn’t know. I didn’t know my own mind. But I can’t call back now.”
Sam and Alice slipt back again, and continued their walk. Let us hear what conversation they had been holding together before this little interruption.
“Alice, my darling, my love, you are more beautiful than ever!”
“Thanks to your absence, my dear Sam. You see how well I thrive without you.”
“Then when we are ——”
“Well?” said Alice. For this was eight o’clock in the evening, you know, and the moon being four days past the full, it was pitch dark. “Well?” says she.
“When we are married,” says Sam, audaciously, “I suppose you will pine away to nothing.”
“Good gracious me!” she answered. “Married? Why surely we are well enough as we are.”
“Most excellently well, my darling,” said Sam. “I wish it could last for ever.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Alice, almost inaudibly though.
“Alice, my love,” said Sam, “have you thought of one thing? Have you thought that I must make a start in life for myself?”
No, she hadn’t thought of that. Didn’t see why Baroona wasn’t good enough for him.
“My dear!” he said. “Baroona is a fine property, but it is not mine. I want money for a set purpose. For a glorious purpose, my love! I will not tell you yet, not for years perhaps, what that purpose is. But I want fifty thousand pounds of my own. And fifty thousand pounds I will have.”
Good gracious! What an avaricious122 creature. Such a quantity of money. And so she wasn’t to hear what he was going to do with it, for ever so many years. Wouldn’t he tell her now? She would so like to know. Would nothing induce him?
Yes, there was something. Nay123, what harm! Only an honest lover’s kiss, among the ripening124 grapes. In the dark, you say. My dear madam, you would not have them kiss one another in broad day, with the cook watching them out of the kitchen window?
“Alice,” he said, “I have had one object before me from my boyhood, and since you told me that I was to be your husband, that object has grown from a vague intention to a fixed29 purpose. Alice, I want to buy back the acres of my forefathers125; I wish, I intend, that another Buckley shall be the master of Clere, and that you shall be his wife.”
“Sam, my love!” she said, turning on him suddenly. “What a magnificent idea. Is it possible?”
“Easy,” said Sam. “My father could do it, but will not. He and my mother have severed126 every tie with the old country, and it would be at their time of life only painful to go back to the old scenes and interests. But with me it is different. Think of you and I taking the place we are entitled to by birth and education, in the splendid society of that noble island. Don’t let me hear all that balderdash about the founding of new empires. Empires take too long in growing for me. What honours, what society, has this little colony to give, compared to those open to a fourth-rate gentleman in England? I want to be a real Englishman, not half a one. I want to throw in my lot heart and hand with the greatest nation in the world. I don’t want to be young Sam Buckley of Baroona. I want to be the Buckley of Clere. Is not that a noble ambition?”
“My whole soul goes with you, Sam,” said Alice. “My whole heart and soul. Let us consult, and see how this is to be done.”
“This is the way the thing stands,” said Sam. “The house and park at Clere, were sold by my father for 12,000L. to a brewer127. Since then, this brewer, a most excellent fellow by all accounts, has bought back, acre by acre, nearly half the old original property as it existed in my great grandfather’s time, so that now Clere must be worth fifty thousand pounds at least. This man’s children are all dead; and as far as Captain Brentwood has been able to find out for me, no one knows exactly how the property is going. The present owner is the same age as my father; and at his death, should an advantageous128 offer be made, there would be a good chance of getting the heirs to sell the property. We should have to pay very highly for it, but consider what a position we should buy with it. The county would receive us with open arms. That is all I know at present.”
“A noble idea,” said Alice, “and well considered. Now what are you going to do?”
“Have you heard tell yet,” said Sam, “of the new country to the north, they call the Darling Downs?”
“I have heard of it, from Burnside the cattle dealer. He describes it as a paradise of wealth.”
“He is right. When you get through the Cypress129, the plains are endless. It is undoubtedly130 the finest piece of country found yet. Now do you know Tom Troubridge?”
“Slightly enough,” said Alice, laughing.
“Well,” said Sam. “You know he went to Sydney with us, and before he had been three days there he came to me full of this Darling Down country. Quite mad about it in fact. And in the end he said: ‘Sam, what money have you got?’ I said that my father had promised me seven thousand pounds for a certain purpose, and that I had come to town partly to look for an investment. He said, ‘Be my partner;’ and I said, ‘What for?’ ‘Darling Downs,’ he said. And I said I was only too highly honoured by such a mark of confidence from such a man, and that I closed with his offer at once. To make a long matter short, he is off to the new country to take up ground under the name of Troubridge and Buckley. There!”
“But oughtn’t you to have gone up with him, Sam?”
“I proposed to do so, as a matter of course,” said Sam. “But what do you think he said?”
“I don’t know.”
“He gave me a great slap on the back,” said Sam; “and, said he, ‘Go home, my old lad, marry your wife, and fetch her up to keep house.’ That’s what he said. And now, my own love, my darling, will you tell me, am I to go up alone, and wait for you; or will you come up, and make a happy home for me in that dreary desert? Will you leave your home, and come away with me into the grey hot plains of the west?”
“I have no home in future, Sam,” she said, “but where you are, and I will gladly go with you to the world’s end.”
And so that matter was settled.
And now Sam disclosed to her that a visitor was expected at the station in about a fortnight or three weeks; and he was no less a person than our old friend the dean, Frank Maberly. And then he went to ask, did she think that she could manage by that time to — eh? Such an excellent opportunity, you know; seemed almost as if his visit had been arranged, which, between you and I, it had.
She thought it wildly possible, if there was any real necessity for it. And after this they went in; and Alice went into her bedroom.
“And what have you been doing out there with Alice all this time, eh?” asked the Captain.
“I’ve been asking a question, sir.”
“You must have put it in a pretty long form. What sort of an answer did you get?”
“I got ‘yes’ for an answer, sir.”
“Ah, well! Mrs. Buckley, can you lend Baroona to a new married couple for a few weeks, do you think? There is plenty of room for you here.”
And then into Mrs. Buckley’s astonished ear all the new plans were poured. She heard that Sam and Alice were to be married in a fortnight, and that Sam had gone into partnership131 with Tom Troubridge.
“Stop there,” she said; “not too much at once. What becomes of Mary Hawker?”
“She is left at Toonarbin, with an overseer, for the present.”
“And when,” she asked, “shall you leave us, Sam?”
“Oh, in a couple of months, I suppose. I must give Tom time to get a house up before I go and join him. What a convenient thing a partner like that is, eh?”
“Oh, by-the-bye, Mrs. Buckley,” said Captain Brentwood, “what do you make of this letter?”
He produced a broad thick letter, directed in a bold running hand,
“Major Buckley,
“Baroonah, Combermere County,
“Gipps-land.
“If absent, to be left with the nearest magistrate, and a receipt taken for it.”
“How very strange,” said Mrs. Buckley, turning it over. “Where did you get it?”
“Sergeant Jackson asked me, as nearest magistrate, to take charge of it; and so I did. It has been forwarded by orderly from Sydney.”
“And the Governor’s private seal, too,” said Mrs. Buckley. “I don’t know when my curiosity has been so painfully excited. Put it on the chimney-piece, Sam; let us gaze on the outside, even if we are denied to see the inside. I wonder if your father will come tonight?”
“No; getting too late,” said Sam. “Evidently Halbert and the Doctor have found themselves there during their ride, and are keeping him and Mrs. Hawker company. They will all three be over tomorrow morning, depend on it.”
“What a really good fellow that Halbert is,” said Captain Brentwood. “One of the best companions I ever met. I wish his spirits would improve with his health. A sensitive fellow like him is apt not to recover from a blow like his.”
“What blow?” said Mrs. Buckley.
“Did you never hear?” said the Captain. “The girl he was going to be married to got drowned coming out to him in the Assam.”
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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3
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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streaking
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| n.裸奔（指在公共场所裸体飞跑）v.快速移动( streak的现在分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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17
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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19
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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20
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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meddles
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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23
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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24
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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25
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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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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28
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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29
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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32
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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33
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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34
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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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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36
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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37
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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38
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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41
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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42
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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43
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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44
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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45
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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46
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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47
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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48
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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49
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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50
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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51
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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52
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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53
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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54
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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55
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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56
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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57
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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58
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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59
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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60
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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61
expiated
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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63
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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64
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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65
wharfs
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| 码头，停泊处 | |
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66
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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67
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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68
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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69
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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70
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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71
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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72
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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74
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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75
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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76
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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77
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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78
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
reprieved
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| v.缓期执行（死刑）( reprieve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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81
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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82
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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83
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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84
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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85
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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87
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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88
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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89
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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90
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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91
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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92
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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93
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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94
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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95
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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96
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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97
perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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99
eminences
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| 卓越( eminence的名词复数 )； 著名； 高地； 山丘 | |
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100
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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101
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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102
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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103
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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104
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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106
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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108
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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109
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bulges
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| 膨胀( bulge的名词复数 )； 鼓起； （身体的）肥胖部位； 暂时的激增 | |
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111
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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113
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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114
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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115
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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116
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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117
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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119
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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122
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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125
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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127
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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128
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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129
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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