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Fern Vale; or, the Queensland Squatter. Volume 3

by Colin Munro · English · Gutenberg #37559 · 397,509 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Fern Vale; or, the Queensland Squatter. Volume 3

Author: Colin Munro


        
Release date: September 28, 2011 [eBook #37559]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

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    FERN VALE

    OR THE

    QUEENSLAND SQUATTER.


    A NOVEL.

    BY COLIN MUNRO.

    IN THREE VOLUMES.
    VOL III.

    LONDON:
    T. C. NEWBY,
    30 WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
    MDCCCLXII.


    EDINBURGH:

    PRINTED BY THE CALEDONIAN PRESS,

    "The National Institution for Promoting the Employment of Women
    in the Art of Printing."

    SOUTH SAINT DAVID STREET.




FERN VALE.




CHAPTER I.

    "What sport shall we devise, here in this garden,
    To drive away the heavy thought of care?"

    RICHARD II., _Act 3, Sc. 4_.


Three days after that to which we brought down our narrative in the last
chapter the morning broke calmly and serenely over the wooded wastes of
the bush; and while the pleasant zephyr of the morning tempered the rays
of the sun, as he sped his course to the zenith, a happy party of
equestrians might have been seen cantering by the bridle path between
Strawberry Hill and Brompton. That party consisted of our friends,
Mrs., Miss, and Tom Rainsfield, and the Fergusons, accompanied by their
black boy Joey. The van was led by the first named lady, accompanied by
William Ferguson, while the others followed riding two abreast, having
paired off in a manner most congenial to themselves. The rear was
brought up by Joey and William's dogs, who coursed through the bush in
seeming delight at the prospect of wearing off a little of the rust that
had grown on them from their late inertness.

They had ridden for nearly four hours when they slackened their speed a
little as the noon-day sun became more powerful; while, at that moment,
they came to a beautiful little spot where a grassy slope terminated in
a lagoon, whose waters appeared to the travellers clear and refreshingly
cool. Here Mrs. Rainsfield drew up her horse, and proposed a halt for
tiffin; which being generally assented to, the party dismounted. The
bridles of their horses being each fastened round a tree, some
refreshments were produced by Tom from his valise; and the friends sat
down in a shady spot on the green sward, and partook with that hearty
zest that can only be appreciated by those who have been similarly
situated.

When perfectly refreshed they proceeded on their way, and arrived at
Brompton before the close of the evening. There they were hospitably
received by Mr. and Mrs. Smithers, and very graciously by Bob, who was
all urbanity for the occasion. They found several of the guests had also
arrived, those, who like themselves had arrived from a long distance;
and the house then was as much a scene of gaiety as if it had been the
grand reunion itself. The evening passed pleasantly enough; but, our
object being more particularly to picture to the reader the _fetes_ of
the following day, we will draw a veil over the company for the night,
and introduce them again on the morning.

The morning in due time came; and was simply a repetition of those
common to a Queensland summer. A cloudless sky spanned the horizon, in
which the sun had a tropical brilliancy, without the scorching power
incidental to most sunny climes. The air was genial and salubrious, and
the balmy breeze bore on its placid wings the aroma of the surrounding
acacia and mimosa. It was such a day as poets love to picture, but
which, to the incredulous matter of fact denizens of "foggy England," a
description only generates a confirmed and unqualified pyrrhonism. With
all the exercise, however, of the scepticism of our friends in the "old
country," it, nevertheless, does not diminish the lustre of such
glorious sunshine as, we again repeat, is to be found nowhere in such
tolerant perfection as in Queensland, and which marked the morning to
which we allude. Perhaps the weather was a little warmer than usual, and
the atmosphere drier; rather more so, in fact, than the settlers
desired, for their rivers and creeks were getting low, and many were
desiring rain to refresh their grass, and refill their water-holes and
courses. However, such desideratum had no consideration with the party
assembled at Brompton, whose sport at the time they seemed determined
nothing should mar.

The great _fete_ of the day was to be the races; and it was then that
the agrarian beauties of Brompton showed to advantage. It may be
remembered in an early chapter of our story we gave a cursory sketch of
the station, but in the event of its topography having escaped the
memory of the reader, we will again partially repeat the description.
For some considerable distance down the bank of the Gibson river the
land was almost perfectly level, and unusually free from timber. It was
fenced off into paddocks of considerable size. Towards the centre of one
of these was a swamp, from which the surrounding ground had just
sufficient rise to constitute it the reservoir for the drainage of the
land; while towards the river, and immediately on the bank, the land
rose in a little knoll. Here then was a naturally formed race course;
and, by the erection of a few posts, a course was marked out that for
amenity, level, turf, and convenience of sight, it would be difficult to
surpass.

Towards eleven o'clock nearly all the expected guests having arrived,
and the ground became a lively scene as the gay and well-mounted
equestrians cantered in laughing and merry groups backwards and
forwards; some few, more exhilarated or pedantic than the rest, trying
the course and the mettle of their steeds. The guests of the Smitherses
were not the only ones who had congregated to witness the sport. Other
visitors of a more plebeian character, and self-invited, were there; all
those within a circuit of some thirty miles, who by any possibility
could obtain release from their work, had camped themselves in the
neighbourhood to be spectators. The company had ridden over the ground,
and had dispersed in all directions; when the horses "entered to run,"
decorated with their party-coloured rosettes, and led by their
respective riders carrying their saddles, were descried coming on to
the course; and speedily the scattered parties converged to the knoll we
have mentioned, and which now served for a grand stand.

The horses approached the post; and the necessary preliminaries having
been gone through, they assumed their places; when the few of the
spectative portion of the company, who still remained in the way,
speedily retired, responsive to the call of "clear the course;" and,
after the usual amount of "false starts," the signal was given that was
unanimously acted upon, and away went the horses.

Horse-racing is the same all the world over, at least in all parts of
the globe where the Anglo-Saxon race holds sway. Therefore we need not
tire our readers by giving a prolix account of this one in particular.
We will merely say that the usual excitement prevailed at the start,
when the horses and their riders received respectively their due amount
of praise from their various admirers, whose bets were interchanged on
the result of the struggle. That the exciting anxiousness in watching
the progress round the course was there equally apparent That the
various hopes and fears of the betters as they witnessed the pulling up
or the falling away of their respective favourites; the intensity of
excitement; the uttered remarks; and the increasing watchfulness, as
some slight rise on the plain or piece of heavy ground tried the mettle
of the high-blooded animals, were all to be seen and heard there; and
that the other excitements of such a scene were equally noticeable. That
breathless interest as the horses approach the straight run to the
winning-post; the last exciting struggle of man and beast, when the
impatience of the former is administered to the latter in whip and spur;
the shouts of the jockeys mingled with the snorting of the steed, when
both are blended in the thunder of the latter's hoofs, which shakes the
very turf; while the straining animals pass the post with the seeming
velocity of steam.

As the panting and foam-covered horses, and exhausted-looking riders,
returned to the scales, the tongues of the assemblage were loosened; the
groups reunited; and, in the interval between that and the next race,
cantered about; while some of the younger equestrians emulated among
themselves the previous competitors. A small tent had been erected on
the bank of the river for the dispensation of refreshments, and for a
shady retreat for the ladies; and thither many resorted.

At this period of the amusements our friends had formed themselves into
a group with Mr. and Mrs. Smithers; but without Bob, who had been a
rider, and was the winner of the late race. They had leisurely ridden
round the course, and had returned to the stand, when Eleanor expressed
to John Ferguson (in whose company she had been riding) a desire to
dismount, and take a seat in the tent. He was instantly out of his
saddle assisting her to the ground, and (after giving their horses in
charge of a black boy) handed her to a seat in the shade. Bob Smithers,
who had divested himself of his riding costume for his ordinary
habiliments, then entered; and rudely brushing past John, advanced to
the girl and took her hand, while he exclaimed:

"Come along with me, Eleanor, I want you."

The abrupt manner of his entrance, his forcible abduction of the lady,
and his uncouth behaviour to himself, rather annoyed John. But the look
of patient endurance, mingled with entreaty, which Eleanor cast upon her
rough protector, struck our hero as containing more melancholy and
suffering than was to be expected in a young affianced bride, whose
nuptials were speedily approaching. It more than convinced him that his
friend Tom was right when he said that Eleanor Rainsfield could never be
happy with Bob Smithers. With a mind strangely agitated between fears
and hopes John emerged from the tent to see the being he loved leaning
on the arm of his rival, and going through the ceremony of several
introductions.

She freely entered into conversation with her new-made friends; but the
party being augmented by some others, to whom we presume Bob Smithers
did not condescend to introduce her, he led her away; and they walked
arm in arm to another part of the ground, apparently in earnest
discourse. She was laying her hand upon his arm, while she looked in his
face, and seemed anxious to impress something upon him; while he
appeared to listen attentively to her remarks, though he ever and anon
burst out into a loud laugh and ejaculated a few monosyllables, which on
each occasion created a faint smile on the features of his lovely
companion.

John Ferguson witnessed all this, and his heart sank within him. Never,
thought he, would woman hang on and talk thus with man, if she did not
love him. "Ah!" he mentally exclaimed, "she loves him devotedly; fool
that I was not to believe this before. Strange infatuation that led me
on to hope, when she herself told me as plainly as she could there was
no hope. I am doomed to disappointment I see; she never can be mine, for
she loves Bob Smithers." And with that melancholy solace John left the
spot of his soliloquy.

What was the nature of the conversation that so disturbed his peace of
mind we do not deem it necessary to reveal, but we are disposed to think
that our love-sick friend came to a too hasty conclusion upon the nature
of the communicant's symptoms. John Ferguson was not sufficiently versed
in women's little natures to be able to construe aright their motives in
their actions, or the impulses that actuate them in their deportment.
His dejection was, consequently, the more acute from the construction he
had put upon Eleanor's conduct. It was true she was engaged to the man
with whom he saw her converse, but he never dreamt to ask himself the
question, if that circumstance was not, in a great measure, owing to
his own dilatoriness; not to classify his supineness under a more
sheepish head.

He was sauntering away in his usual despondent mood when Tom Rainsfield
approached him from behind, administering, as he did so, a smart slap on
the shoulder, with the exclamation: "Why, John, what is the matter with
you? have you been visited by a myth? for you are as white as a sheet.
Come along with me, and I will give you some fun; William and I have
been looking for you all over the ground;" and, without waiting for an
answer or an objection, he led him off to where a party of gentlemen had
assembled to witness the next race. Amongst them were Dr. Graham, Mr.
Brown, and some others, which it is needless for us in our history to
trouble the reader by bringing forward.

When the race was finished they speedily made their arrangements for the
proposed sport Tom had alluded to, which was none other than a Kangaroo
hunt. Mounting their horses, accompanied by some powerful kangaroo dogs
(of which William's figured not the least conspicuously), and, with as
many guns as could be mustered on the station, they started into the
bush in a direction where they anticipated finding game.

These dogs, of which we have made mention, we may be forgiven for a
short digression to describe. They are a breed of the gaze-hound
species, though in many respects they are peculiar to themselves. The
stock was originally obtained from a cross of the Scotch staghound and
the English greyhound, and has made a race which combine in their
character the strength and courage of the former with the fleetness of
the latter, of whom, in colour and form, they have the greatest
resemblance. At the same time they are possessed of a muscular
developement which is essential to enable them to endure the severe
conflicts to which they are frequently subjected.

The party had not ridden far before they descried a herd of kangaroos,
though not within range of shot; the guns, therefore, were instantly
slung, and the dogs and riders gave chase.

The kangaroo as, doubtless, our readers are perfectly aware, is anything
but a graceful animal in its movements. Its fore legs are very short,
and, one would think, of little use, either for ambulation or defence;
but the paws are armed with strong and sharp claws, and in the
diminutive limb to which they are are attached, are possessed of
considerable strength, and can be used defensively with immense effect.
In their propulsion, however, these crural appendages are perfectly
unavailable; for the animals propel their unwieldy looking bodies by
long bounding leaps on their hind legs (which are long and powerful),
springing not from their feet, but by an impulsion from the whole leg,
from the hock joint to the toe, the whole of which length meets the
ground at every leap. In this motion, unsightly as it appears, they are
very fleet, frequently distancing the hardest rider, and only being
brought to bay by the dogs after a tedious chase.

The kangaroos were no sooner sighted by our party than they were away,
the dogs with the lead, down hills across gullies, and up slopes;
through thick underwood, where the exercise of the greatest care was
necessary for the rider to preserve his seat; over fallen logs, and
under pendent branches; dangers frequently occuring simultaneously,
overhead and under foot, and requiring the firmest seat, and the
quickest eye, to avert. All these, which would make the heart of many a
bold steeplechaser quail, but which are incidental to a kangaroo hunt,
were successively gone through by each member of the present party; and
after an hour's hard riding, the foremost horseman, who had with
difficulty kept the dogs within sight, halted when they came to a stand;
and the whole of the sportsmen collected to witness the fight.

An "old man" kangaroo sat on his haunches in a swamp, with his back to
a tree, dealing blows right and left with his epitomized limbs to those
of his assailants who ventured within his reach. The kangaroo had got
into water of sufficient depth to enable him to sit up in it, and guard
himself in the manner we have mentioned, while the dogs were raised off
their feet, and had to attack him at considerable disadvantage. They,
however, were in point of number superior to the game, and the entire
pack (six in number) boldly rushed to the charge. Though they were
successfully beaten off on each attack, and nearly all receiving wounds
that would, probably, produce scars of no mean magnitude, they as
frequently rallied, and returned to the fight.

After looking on for some time, and perceiving that the "old man" was
too knowing for the dogs, one of the party despatched him with a shot,
when he was dragged from his entrenchments, his body deprived of its
tail (which was carried off as a trophy), and left for the dogs to do
the work of further demolition. The hunting party then returned to the
station, but, not being so hasty in their homeward progress as they were
in their outward, it was late in the afternoon before they reached the
scene of festivities. The company at the time was breaking up from the
race-course to return to the house to dine, which important business of
the day having been got over, the guests amused themselves in various
ways until the hour of the _coup de main_, the grand finale--the ball.

We have already explained that a short distance from the house stood the
wool-shed of the station; and at the time of which we write was
comparatively empty, so much so that the bales of wool waiting for
transmission down the country occupied only a small space in the
building, to which we will, with the kind permission of our readers, in
imagination, transport them. The external appearance of "the shed" was
not such as to give the beholder any very exalted idea of internal
splendour; consequently, upon an entrance the eye was instantly struck
with the taste and skill displayed in the ornate arrangements. The
bareness of the slab walls was relieved, if not entirely concealed, by
the tasteful manipulations of the foliate decorator. At the head of the
room, in the midst of a collection of variously tinted green foliage of
numerous forms and leaf, were displayed in letters, some with the yellow
blossoms of the acacia, the magic word "love," under which was entwined,
with the wild vine and the flower of the sarsaparilla, that emblem of
mutual affection, a true lover's knot. Above it was a star of palm
leaves and fern, radiating from a centre, which was concealed by an
immense stag's horn fungus. The side walls were similarly, though not so
elaborately, decorated, and on them shone forth "mirth," and "concord,"
accompanied by various other devices; while at the head of the room, at
the feet of love, stood a piano, which had been removed from the house,
to provide the "spirit of the ball."

The room was illuminated by a bunch of lights, hanging from a rafter in
the centre. Though simply an extemporized chandelier from the hand of a
bush carpenter, it had its material so tastefully hid, by the same
genius that had decorated the walls, that it answered the purpose
admirably for which it was intended. If it did not surpass in effect the
most brilliant crystals, it was at least pretty and unique, and, with
the emerald tints in its reflection, imparted a pleasing and subdued
light, which favourably contrasted its sombre illumination with the
trying glare of the sumptuous city ball-room. The seats were arranged
round the sides of the room, and had their rough nature concealed in the
bush fashion, by being overspread with scarlet blankets, which gave them
the appearance of comfortable ottomans, and afforded a pleasing relief,
both visual and corporeal. The opposite end of the building was
partitioned off by a suspended carpet, which, by being gathered up a
little in one corner, afforded a means of entrance to what appeared to
be the sanctum, but which, in fact, contained the supper and
refreshment tables, duly caparisoned and loaded with the good things of
this life.

The guests congregated in the ball-room at an hour that would have
shocked the sensibilities of English ladies of _haut-ton_. But ceremony
was a thing not worth studying by the lady-guests at Brompton; they had
no occasion to retire to their boudoir and spend hours in getting
themselves up for the evening, or, when their personal adornments had
been completed, to sit waiting until the arrival of a genteel hour, in
an agony of mind lest they should mar the perfection of their
soubrettes' art. Enjoyment was the order of the day at Brompton, and
when it was proposed, shortly after coffee was handed round in the
drawing-room, that the company should adjourn to the ball-room, the
guests made the necessary transition; and in a few minutes the house was
entirely vacated.

The ladies of the company were for the most part married; hence we may
not be accused of partiality in declaring that our two friends, Eleanor
and Kate, far surpassed in beauty all their compeers, and shared between
them the adulation of the sterner animals. It could not be
satisfactorily determined which was the belle of the evening; for the
admiration of the gentlemen was about equally apportioned, and it was
difficult to decide between two such blooming beauties.

We think we hear some of our readers enquire, "how were the ladies
dressed?" On that point, fair mesdames, we would crave your especial
indulgence. We know that is a theme on which you love to dilate; but we
(though delighted to gaze upon your charming forms, graced by the
alluring symmetry of your well-fitting and becoming attire) confess
ourselves as ignorant as babes in the technicalities of habilimentary
detail. However, thus much our observations befriended us. We can affirm
that the chief characteristics of the costumes of the gentler sex were
becoming neatness and chaste simplicity, without that unblushing display
which we have so frequently noticed in gay circles; and which, we must
confess, does not accord with our exalted idea of female modesty,
innocence, and virtue. The manner of _our_ heroines was frank, candid,
and gay; without frivolity, affectedness, or coquetry; and their
costumes neat and ladylike.

The hand of Eleanor Rainsfield was so much desired in the mazy dance
that John sought in vain for an opportunity of soliciting a
participation with her in the pleasures of the evening, or even of
entering into conversation with her, until she had danced with nearly
all the gentlemen in the room. Then, she having been led to a seat near
where our despondent hero sat, he seized the occasion to ask her to
dance, which she promised to do after obtaining a short rest. During the
interval they fell into a sort of desultory conversation; but they were
not destined long to enjoy even this intercourse; for Bob Smithers
espying the occupation of his "lady-love," hastened to remove her from
an influence he in no way relished.

"Eleanor," said he, "I want you to dance with me."

"I am engaged for the next dance, Robert," she replied.

"To whom?" he asked.

"To Mr. Ferguson," she answered.

"Oh, never mind, you'll dance with me," said her lord. "Your engagement
with me always ranks in precedence of others; and I am sure Mr. Ferguson
will not mind looking for another partner."

"Mr. Ferguson has been waiting until I was disengaged, Robert," said
Eleanor, "on purpose to dance with me; so I must keep myself engaged to
him for the next dance, but will devote the following one to you."

"Well, as you like," exclaimed Bob Smithers, in none of the most amiable
moods; "if you want to dance with Mr. Ferguson you can, but I wanted to
dance with you myself;" and, casting a look of intense malignity on the
object of his detestation, and one of equal rancour on his affianced, he
strode to another part of the room.

Neither look had been lost on the parties to whom they had been
directed; in John they caused emotions of no pleasurable nature, whereas
Eleanor treated the truculence of Smithers with a calm benignity. The
moistened dewdrop, however, that gathered in the corner of her eye,
discovered to the anxious and watchful perception of John Ferguson the
hidden sorrow that rankled in her breast, and which she strove to
smother, dreading its discovery to the world.

As might be imagined, under such circumstances, the dance was gone
through with mere mechanical action, and with an undisturbed silence;
for the thoughts of both parties were too much occupied on matters
having no immediate connexion with the operation of dancing to indulge
in much conversational intercourse. Besides which they both, or at
least John, was conscious of the jealous eye of Smithers following them
in every movement; and therefore felt the more uncomfortable. It was a
relief to both when the music ceased, and John led his partner (who
expressed fatigue) to a seat; but she had hardly relinquished his arm
before she was pounced upon by Bob, who, as he carried her off, scowled
fiercely on his unfortunate rival.

John Ferguson was of an easy temper, but no man likes being grossly
insulted, and supplanted in the service of the one he loves, therefore
he felt the contumely to which he was subjected; and to calm his ruffled
temper, and to seek refreshment to his aching head, and an emollient to
his fevered brain, he walked out into the cool of the evening
atmosphere. He continued to wander, with his gaze fixed in a thoughtful
abstraction on the star-lit firmament, contemplating apparently the
argentuous brilliancy of the lunar orb travelling its ethereal course,
when his meditations were unceremoniously interrupted by the approach
of Smithers, who hastily confronted him with the following expression:

"I would like to have a few words with you, sir, and if you'll step into
the bush, out of hearing of our visitors, I will speak."

John replied, if he desired to say anything to him, he might have no
hesitation in saying it where he was; but that if he particularly wished
him to step a little on one side, he had no objection to do so.

Upon gaining a retreat from the possibility of being overheard Bob
Smithers began: "I have to request one thing of you, sir, and that is
that you discontinue your attentions to the lady to whom I am engaged.
On a previous occasion I made a similar request, as also did Mr.
Rainsfield; but both you seem to disregard; therefore, I have to make it
to you again, and to accompany it with a peremptory order that it be
complied with."

"I can't see, Mr. Smithers," said John, "that because I am called upon
by Mr. Rainsfield and yourself to break off my friendship with the
lady, that I am of a necessity compelled to comply; so long as I am
honoured by the friendship of Miss Rainsfield I shall make all your
demands subservient to the dictates of my own heart. While she holds out
the hand of cordiality to me I consider the privilege and pleasure
accruing too great to refuse to grasp it; but if Miss Rainsfield desires
our intercourse to cease, then, of course (however painful such an
estrangement would be), my courtesies would be discontinued."

"Well, sir," said Smithers, "I have only to repeat that they shall be
discontinued at once, or I will take steps to prevent their recurrence.
The lady is engaged to be married to me, and I have a right to dictate
whom she shall recognize as her friends."

"When you are married to the lady I shall not dispute your right," said
John; "though even then, if your wife should so far honour me as to rank
me among her list of friends, all your monitory language and manner
would not induce me to behave cavalierly to her whenever we should
chance to meet. But at present I heed not your request, unless it be
reiterated by the lady herself."

"That, sir," said Smithers, "you shall not have the satisfaction of
hearing, and you will instantly renounce all pretensions to the lady's
favours or leave the station."

"The first portion of your request I have already informed you I cannot
comply with; and the other, notwithstanding your gross insolence to me,
I could not offer such an affront to your worthy brother and his
inestimable lady, as to obey it."

"Then, by heavens! you shall fight me," exclaimed the exasperated
Smithers. "I'll be on this spot with pistols in ten minutes; so you may
make the most of your time, and obtain a friend."




CHAPTER II.

    "Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled;
    Is there no pity, no relenting Ruth?"

    BURNS.

            "But I remember now
    I'm in this earthly world; where to do harm
    Is often laudable."

    MACBETH, _Act_ 4, _Sc._ 2.


The suddenness and hostile nature of Smithers' challenge so took John
Ferguson by surprise that for some few minutes he could not utter a
sound; and, when he had sufficiently recovered himself to speak, his
adversary was out of hearing, on his mission to prepare the instruments
of death. Left to a calm consideration of his position all its
unpleasantnesses in a moment flashed across his mind. Here he was
involved in a broil the result of which might prove fatal if persevered
in, and with the brother of his kind entertainer. The successful suitor
of the girl he adored, he was called upon to meet in deadly strife. John
felt he could not leave the place to compromise his honour, and insult
his host; at the same time he looked upon a hostile meeting with Bob
Smithers with great repugnance. Much as he had been contemned by Bob,
and many as were the indignities offered to him, John bore him no
animosity; and he could not reconcile to his conscience the idea of
steeping his hands in the blood of a fellow mortal; even in the act of
self-defence, when that defence became culpable by his voluntary
exposure. Yet he feared not death; no, he could stare the grim tyrant in
the face, and unflinchingly meet his shafts. He even felt he could court
his embrace now that he was to lose the only being he deemed life worth
living for.

"Oh! Eleanor! Eleanor!" he exclaimed. "Oh! that I had not known thee!
cruel fate, that I should be drawn into the vortex of thy charms only to
be suffered to estimate thy worth, and then have my hopes crushed on the
rocks of despair. With thee life would be an Elysium; without thee 'tis
a perpetual blank; a dismal future looms in the distance like the shades
of stygian darkness. Oh, cruel fates! would that thou had'st bereft me
of life while yet I breathed in the delicious dream. But yet a door of
hope is left me to escape this bondage. I will meet the fire of your
favourite, and let him, if he so desires it, release my wearied spirit."
Thus John soliloquized as he walked back to the ball-room in a state of
mind bordering on insanity, and reduced to the lowest depths of
love-sick despair. But a "still, small voice" faintly prompted reason,
as his agitated feelings somewhat subsided, and he ceased to
apostrophize his idol, as he approached the building.

He entered the room, and casually casting his eyes round the company
rested them on his brother; whom, upon his obtaining an opportunity, he
called out unobserved by the mass of the guests, and in a few words
explained to him the incident we have just described.

"But, surely, John, you do not intend to accept the challenge?" said
William.

"I have already done so," replied his brother.

"Why, you must be demented! my dear John," exclaimed the other. "Because
a coarse, blustering fellow like that chooses to insult you, and then
call upon you to present your body as a mark for him to shoot at, surely
you are not going to forget all respect for yourself, and commit an open
violation of the laws both of God and man."

"With regard to dyeing my hands in his blood you need have no fear,
William," said John.

"Then why sacrifice your own life?" asked his brother.

"I could with very few regrets submit now to that dissolution which
sooner or later must take place; but I am convinced Bob Smithers is too
much a coward to attempt my life. The laws of his country will stare him
in the face, and will prevent him pulling the trigger of a weapon with
its muzzle directed to my body. His object is simply to frighten me away
from the station, or induce me to act a coldness towards Eleanor;
neither of which desires I intend to gratify, so will stand his fire."

"But, dear John," exclaimed his brother, "only consider, if he should be
malicious enough to attempt your life, or even to wound you, what a
dreadful misfortune it would be; and what would be the anguish of our
dear parents. Believe me, John, it is wiser to avoid the possibility of
any such catastrophe; no dishonour can be attached to you for a refusal
to comply with a barbarous custom. Pray allow yourself to be dissuaded
from this meeting."

"No, Will, I have no fear of the consequences. Bob Smithers will never
have the courage to fire at me; and I will shame him by showing my
contempt for his threats."

"Well, I am grieved at your obduracy, John, for my heart has misgivings
on the result."

"Don't be agitated, William, but be convinced there is nothing to
apprehend; and now come I have been absent some time, and he appointed
ten minutes from the time of the challenge for the meeting."

William, perceiving it was useless to attempt dissuading his brother
from his purpose, accompanied him in silence to the spot where Bob
Smithers and two friends already waited. Upon the approach of the
Fergusons one of the opposite party stepped forward to John, and offered
to enter into the arrangement of preliminaries with his brother, whom he
presumed would act as his second.

Upon John stating his brother was on the ground in that capacity William
allowed himself to be led away by his co-adjutor, and followed him
mechanically through his various manoeuvres; acquiescing in the
arrangements, the nature of which he hardly contemplated. His mind was
intent upon the iniquity of the proceedings, and he was cogitating on a
scheme whereby he could obviate the necessity of having his brother's
life placed in jeopardy. With this thought uppermost in his imagination
he addressed himself to his companion:

"It occurs to me, Mr. Brown (for it was he), that this meeting is
perfectly unnecessary. My brother has consented to it without having
offered any provocation to Mr. Smithers. I think the challenge was given
in a moment when that gentleman was heated by his controversy, while I
have no doubt he would far prefer letting the matter drop, if no stigma
would be attached to him on account of retraction. If so I can answer
for both my brother and myself that the affair will not travel beyond
our two selves."

"I fear, my dear sir," replied Brown, "it is useless making any such
proposition to my principal, for he considers himself aggrieved by the
pertinacity of your brother in his aspiring to the hand of Miss
Rainsfield after he has repeatedly informed him that that young lady was
affianced to himself. He is so considerably offended and chagrined at
your brother's contumacious conduct, and his decided refusal to accede
to any of the terms my principal has proposed, that he will not be
disposed now to accept any other mode of satisfaction than this. If your
brother thought of any amicable settlement he should have done so
before; now there is only this course open."

"Pray don't imagine that I am making any overture with the concurrence
of my brother," said William. "He, I am sorry to say, is as determined
upon this course as your principal can be; but it is that very
obstinacy I lament, for I look upon the whole of this affair not only
as extremely heathenish and barbarous, but incompatible with the
character of gentlemen."

"Your language," replied Brown, "is calculated to cast opprobrium on all
those gentlemen engaged in this little matter, and requires some
explanation and apology; for which, I will be glad to have a few words
with you after the termination of this meeting."

"Now then," shouted the unoccupied colleague of Mr. Brown, "it surely
does not require all that time and talk for you two to pace out the
ground. I could have settled a dozen pairs in the time you are taking
there in arranging the preliminaries of one."

"All right, Graham," said Brown, "we have settled it now;" and turning
to William he continued: "We will draw for positions and you can place
your man, while I do mine. Dr. Graham attends professionally in the
event of either party falling; now then, sir, draw if you please. Oh!
blank; your man takes the right:" saying which he hastened to put
Smithers in position, while he left William standing seemingly rooted to
the ground.

John, seeing his brother's indecision, came up to him, and led him away,
saying, "I suppose as Smithers has taken up that position, I am to take
this. They are particularly obliging; his second has arranged me so that
I shall have the moon directly in my face. Very kind of him, though he
does it with a mistaken object. It will enable his principal to see to
miss me; for that is what he will most desire."

"Pray, John, do not let yourself be deceived," exclaimed his brother;
"they mean death I am convinced, and it is not too late to come to an
amicable settlement."

"Nonsense, William, exhibit some degree of fortitude," said John. "I
tell you again Smithers is too much a poltroon to meditate my death;
though I believe if he could effect it without making himself amenable
to the laws he is not wanting in the disposition."

"Then, even if he does not," said William, "think how the matter will be
talked about. The reports of the pistols are sure to be heard, and the
occurrence will be known almost instantly; think also how it will wound
Eleanor's feelings."

"Tell her, William! that I was irrevocably drawn into it by Smithers
contrary to my own wishes, and that I met his fire without returning
it."

"That is poor satisfaction for either you or her," said William "(her
especially), if you come off scatheless as you anticipate, and as I hope
and trust you may, having her name bandied about all over the country on
the evil tongue of scandal."

"There, Will! there's a good fellow! leave me now," said John, "you see
they are impatient; his second is waiting for you to bring me my weapon.
I had almost forgotten that, and they did not seem disposed to refresh
my memory."

William slowly walked across the ground, and took a pistol from the
hands of Mr. Brown; and placing it within those of his brother retired
to his position to await the issue of the firing.

Upon the enquiry being asked if both were ready, and an affirmative
being returned, the signal was given, and a report of a double discharge
reverberated in the stillness of the bush. William instantly rushed to
his brother, and found him standing with his right arm still extended in
the air, in the position in which he had fired, while his left hand
covered his eyes and features which were suffused in the purple dye.

"Merciful heaven!" cried William, "my dear brother, where are you hit?"

His question to John was answered in a burst of boisterous merriment
from the opponents, and he hastily turned upon them to enquire the
cause of their unseemly hilarity; while Smithers advanced towards his
late antagonist, and replied: "See to him, he must be severely hit, for
he bleeds apparently profusely."

"There is a trick in this, William," said his brother. "'Tis true I am
hit, but not with lead; I am blinded with what appears to me to be red
currant jam."

Another roar of laughter from Smithers and his friends succeeded this
confession, and the perpetrators of the practical joke indulged their
risibilities to the full; evidently congratulating themselves upon the
success of their plans. Their self-complacency, however (at least of one
of them), was brought to an abrupt termination; for as the truth of the
plot flashed across the mind of William, as the instigator of the
proceedings approached to witness the effects of his scurrile trick, the
high-spirited youth sprang towards him, and avenged his brother's
ignominy by felling the coward to the ground.

Graham and Brown instantly rushed to the spot, and interposed; the
former seizing William, while the latter confronted him, and stated that
if there was any cause of quarrel, it could be settled in a manner
befitting gentlemen; "and unless," said he, "I am mistaken in Mr.
Smithers he will instantly require satisfaction for your outrageous
assault."

"Unhand me, sir," said William, as he shook himself from the iron grasp
of the pugnacious doctor, and turning to Brown he exclaimed: "You speak,
forsooth, of requiring the satisfaction of a gentleman; you and your
compeers, who debase yourselves by not only countenancing an insult from
your friend and patron to my brother, but by making yourselves parties
to a trick which no gentleman would be guilty of. As for your prototype
he has not only proved himself a blackguard by having recourse to the
subterfuge of a plea of wounded honour to perform a despicable action;
but a coward in taking a mean advantage of a gentleman under the
hospitable roof of his brother. See, the viper actually slinks away! The
derogation he intended for another reflects opprobrium on his own
infamous character; and the consciousness of his venality deprives him
even of the power of defence." Excited as William was, and inflammatory
as was his language, they failed to stir the blood of Smithers, whose
baseness was exemplified in his cowardice; for he actually left the spot
(as William's remarks would infer) in the midst of the young man's
vituperations.

John Ferguson took his brother's arm, and led him also away from the
scene, saying as he did so: "Calm yourself, William, and never mind me,
I am not hurt, though still almost blind by that stuff in my eyes. The
disgrace of this proceeding will reflect more to his dishonour than to
mine. The report of our pistols has given alarm for I see people coming
this way, so I will get my horse saddled and take my departure."

"Do not depart yet, John," said his brother. Remain till morning at any
rate, and take leave of Mr. and Mrs. Smithers; they will think very
strangely of your sudden departure.

"They are sure to hear of the affair," replied John, "and my departure
will save the unpleasantness of a meeting. I will leave it to you to
make what explanation you like to them; as also to account to Eleanor
for it in what way you think best. She will no doubt have a version of
the matter from Bob Smithers; but I have a better opinion of her than to
imagine she will credit the exaggerated pseudology of malicious
gossips."

For John to wash himself, change his attire, segregate Joey from the
dependent's festivities, get his horse in and saddle him, was the work
only of about half an hour; and the whole of it was performed without
notice from any one belonging to the establishment. John Ferguson and
Joey then started, and as the retreating sound of their horses feet were
lost in the stillness of the night, William retraced his steps to the
scene of gaiety; not to join again in the mirth, but to take an
opportunity of detailing the particulars of the late proceedings to Tom
Rainsfield; judging that he would be the best channel through whom they
could reach the ears of Eleanor. With that intention he sought out his
friend, and was astonished to find that Bob Smithers had already
communicated the fun, as he called it, to some of his choice companions;
though he had studiously avoided any mention of his rencontre with
himself.

It was at an hour close on the heels of morn that the guests broke up
the ball; and consequently it was far advanced in the forenoon before
the assemblage in the breakfast-parlour was by any means numerous. It is
true some of the bachelors had taken their departure; but those in the
bondage of matrimony, and swains who were to act as convoys to the
ladies, of course had to wait the time and pleasure of the fair ones;
and, we must confess it, many were not loath to be detained by their
tender charges.

Our friends were about the first to leave, as having a longer journey to
perform than most of the guests, and neither of them desiring to prolong
a stay where the occurrences had been so painful to one of their party,
they bade a kind adieu to their entertainers; and took the road at a
sharp trot, which they kept up for some hours, notwithstanding their
fatigues of the previous day and night.

We think we informed the reader, in an early chapter of our history,
that Eleanor was (unlike most native girls) not a good horse-woman; and
that it was therefore an exercise she did not frequently indulge in. It
will not be wondered at then that the long ride to Brompton, and the
constant exercise there, had fatigued her. Her horse showing symptoms of
restlessness at starting it was proposed by William that he should affix
a leading rein to the bit ring of her horse's bridle, and ride by her
side with it in his hand. The idea was commended by the party, and was
adopted. They started, William and Eleanor leading the way, Mrs.
Rainsfield following, and Tom and Kate bringing up the rear, and
continued, as we have said, at a brisk pace for some hours.

They had accomplished about half the distance to Strawberry Hill when
they approached rather an abrupt turn in the bush; which, in its
acuteness, prevented them from seeing, until they came immediately upon
it, a large tree which stood right in the centre of the road; or rather
a path had been beaten on either side of it. The main track led by the
right side of the trunk, and William guided his own horse and that of
his companion to take it; but Eleanor's animal became suddenly
refractory, and made a sudden deviation to pass the tree on the other
side. This movement was so unexpected that neither equestrian was
prepared for it; and the two horses, each taking opposite sides of the
tree, were brought to a check in their rapid course by the leading rein
we have mentioned. At the time William had got it firmly fixed round his
left wrist, and could not (when he saw the accident that would
inevitably occur) disengage it; for so instantaneously did it happen
that he had hardly time for meditation before the shock took place, and
both riders were hurled from their saddles with considerable force.
William, though prostrate, still kept his hold of his own bridle and the
rein of Eleanor's horse; and rose with considerable pain, though (with
the exception of numerous bruises) uninjured, to lead the horses free of
the tree.

With Eleanor, however, the accident had resulted far differently. When
the check was felt by her horse the leading rein made him wheel his head
suddenly against the trunk; and, his fore feet tripping him as he did
so, he fell forward to the ground. Eleanor was thrown from her saddle;
and, but for one of those inauspicious events which so frequently occur
to mar our well-being, would have come off more lightly than her
companion. As it was, in her precipitation, her habit in some way became
entangled in her horse's caparisons; and, instead of being thrown clear
of danger, she was hurled with some force to the ground at the animal's
feet The horse also fell; and with the whole weight of his body across
her legs.

It was the work of a moment for the rest of the party to pull up their
steeds, and for Kate to leap from her saddle to the side of her friend;
and another for Tom and William to extricate her from her dangerous
position.

"Oh, dearest Eleanor," passionately exclaimed Kate, "tell me that you
are not seriously hurt. Oh, that horrid, horrid horse!"

"I fear I am, Kate dear," replied the poor girl, "I am very much
bruised, and my leg now I try to move it gives me great pain: I am
afraid it is broken."

"Oh, gracious goodness! what shall we do?" cried Kate; "lean on me,
Eleanor love, and see if you can rise."

The poor girl did so; but the pain was more than even her wonted heroism
could endure. With a faint cry of agony she sank fainting into the arms
of Tom, who was standing at her side ready to support her in case of
need, and there unfortunately proved to be need; for Eleanor, as she
herself had anticipated, had broken her leg.

The unconscious form of the suffering creature was carried into the
adjoining shade, and gently placed on the turf in a reclining position;
while the ladies speedily had recourse to those gentle restoratives,
with which they are happily at all times so ready, in cases where the
sympathies of their kindly natures are brought into play.

We masculine mortals plume ourselves on our knowledge of the female
character; which we profess to read as the astrologers of old did "the
gems that deck eve's lustrous mantle;" and to divine their secret
wishes, fancies, and inclinations, as the professors of clairvoyance do
their susceptible pupils. But we are inclined to think woman's heart is
the true arcana of life; at least of this fact we are certain, woman's
troubles can only be appreciated by woman; and woman in sorrow can only
be soothed, or woman in pain can only be alleviated by those whose
anodynes are the effects of intuitive impulsions, arising from the
reciprocal communings of kindred spirits. Oh, woman! bless'd woman!
Favoured daughters of Eve! thou never shinest in such perfection as when
thy ministering hand assuages the pain of a sick couch. Happy is the
man, with all his flaunted superiority, who, in the time of
indisposition, when his spirit wavers indecisively between this life and
the other, is blessed with the possession of thy tender solicitude, to
smooth the passage to the mysterious bourne, or nourish the reviving
spirit with thy calm, patient, and may be, vigil-dimm'd orbs, ever
watching for returning convalescence. But we are digressing; our
feelings of gratitude to the sex are carrying us away from the subject
of our narrative, and we must apologize to our fair readers for our
abstractedness.

Through the tender care of her friends Eleanor speedily recovered her
consciousness, though only to be made aware, by contemplation, of the
dreadfulness of her situation. She was suffering the most excruciating
agony, and was more than twenty miles from any assistance. The thought
would have subdued the stout heart of many a man, but with her evoked
not a murmur. She bore her sufferings, both bodily and mental, with her
characteristic heroism,--a heroism that admitted of no complaint,--a
perfect subjugation of the feelings, passively enduring pain with an
annihilation of all querulousness,--one that in a man would have
distinguished the bold spirit; but in a woman denoted the sublimity of
that nature, which, in its gentle texture, shines out in bold relief and
claims the laurels for an endurance which extinguishes, in its
sublimated lustre, the baser material of the stern "lords of the
creation."

A hasty council was now formed in debate as to the best means that could
be adopted to procure assistance for their wounded friend. It was
proposed first that she should attempt to get back to Brompton; then
that one of the gentleman should ride back at once, and procure some
conveyance; then that the ladies should return to Brompton, and obtain
the requisite assistance, while the gentlemen constructed a litter and
carried the invalid as far on the road as they could, or until they were
met by assistance. To all of these propositions Eleanor, however, gave
her emphatic veto, and declared that she would not consent to return;
but affirmed her willingness and ability to proceed to Strawberry Hill.

This desire again was energetically combatted by her friends, who argued
that such a course would endanger, not only her limb, but possibly her
life; and that it would be far better for her to waive her scruples,
and consent to return to the Smithers'. But to all entreaties on that
head she turned a deaf ear. "I will mount my horse," she said, "with
your assistance, and by going quietly I will be perfectly able to reach
home. So do not, my dear friends, make yourselves uneasy on my account."

At this juncture when all was indecision, Kate started up and exclaimed:
"Now I'll tell you what to do. Dear Eleanor says she will not return to
Brompton, and that she would prefer going home; a thought has just come
into my head and I will act upon it. There was a doctor at the party
yesterday, and I heard Mr. Robert Smithers ask him to stop until this
afternoon; so I will ride back, and catch him before he leaves, and
bring him on here; but, in the meantime, you must assist Eleanor into
her saddle, and while William leads the horse, Mr. Rainsfield ought to
walk at her side and protect her from falling; and, if Mrs. Rainsfield
would only ride on before and send out the spring cart to meet you, the
arrangements would be complete."

The boldness of the scheme so astonished her friends that Kate was on
her legs and ready to mount before they could think of objecting to it.
Eleanor was the first and most earnest in dissuading her from so rash a
step; but all opposition was cut short by the spirited girl herself, who
said she would not be dissuaded; and addressing her brother said: "Come,
Will, assist me into the saddle and don't detain me; for I will go, and
there is no use of either of you accompanying me; your assistance will
be required by dear Eleanor. Do as I propose, and you will find I will
be at Strawberry Hill with the doctor very shortly after you."




CHAPTER III

    "Gallop apace, you fiery footed steeds,
    Towards Phoebus' mansion."

    ROMEO AND JULIET, _Act_ 3.


Great was the astonishment at Brompton when Kate Ferguson made her
appearance, galloping up to the station, and drew up before the house.
At the same time she gathered up the folds of her habit; and, leaving
her panting steed to the care of some of the assembled attendants,
disdaining any assistance, she leaped to the ground and ran into the
house.

At the door of the parlour she was met by Mrs. Smithers who exclaimed,
with apprehension depicted in her countenance: "For mercy's sake! tell
me, dear Kate, what has happened to cause your return alone?"

"Eleanor has met with an accident," she hurriedly replied, "and I want
the doctor; is he here?"

"Unfortunately he went only about a quarter of an hour since," said Mrs.
Smithers. "I will send after him though; but tell me what was the nature
of poor Eleanor's accident."

"She was thrown from her horse, and has broken her leg," exclaimed Kate;
"but do let me urge you to send after the doctor at once; or if you
direct me to the road he took, I will follow him myself."

"I could not hear of such a thing," replied the lady of the place, "as
to permit you, my dear, to go. Sit down for a moment, or go to my room
and put off your habit, while I despatch a messenger."

Mrs. Smithers left the room on her mission, and shortly returned and
informed her impatient visitor, that a man had been sent after the
doctor, with injunctions to lose no time in bringing him back. "Doctor
Graham has ceased to practise," she said, "but under such circumstances
he can have no objection to lend us his professional skill; and as
Robert is with him, and will consequently urge him to speed, we may
confidently expect him here in a very short time. Come now, my dear, put
off your things, and tell me how the unfortunate occurrence took place."

The whole circumstances of the accident were then related, after which
an animated discussion was carried on between the ladies; the married
one contending that it was impossible for the younger one to return home
before the following morning, while Kate stoutly declared her intention
to proceed at once, when the doctor arrived.

"Such a course, my dear Kate," urged her friend, "would be unnecessarily
exposing yourself to a fatigue which I am convinced you could not
endure. You had far better remain with me until the morning, and then
Mr. Smithers will either drive you over in his gig, or accompany you on
horseback. The doctor and Robert shall be sent off immediately they
arrive, but as to you travelling the road by night is a thing quite out
of the question."

Still all arguments were unavailing; Kate persisted in returning at once
to be in attendance on her friend; affirming that she did not fear the
journey, nor anticipate any fatigue. So, Mrs. Smithers finding it
useless to attempt persuading the determined girl, proposed that, so as
to ease her journey as much as possible, Mr. Smithers should still drive
her over, and lead her own horse behind the vehicle. Mr. Smithers was
then sought for, and the melancholy intelligence was communicated to him
by his spouse; who desired him to place himself and his vehicle at the
disposal of Miss Ferguson.

He regretted the sad event most feelingly; at the same time he expressed
himself only too happy to be of service to Kate, and would hear of no
objection from her; saying, "Why! if you could stand the journey
yourself, Miss Ferguson, your horse could not carry you." So that the
little messenger was perforce obliged to relinquish her opposition to
the proffered assistance.

It was late in the afternoon before the sound of approaching horsemen
heralded the arrival of Bob Smithers and his friend, the brusque and
generally not over-courteous son of AEsculapius. They were not long
permitted to remain inactive, for the impatient anxiety of Kate for the
safety of her friend stimulated them to use despatch; and very soon
after their arrival they were tearing away again in the direction of
Strawberry Hill, in concert with Mr. Alfred Smithers and his charge. The
horsemen took the lead, and were followed closely by the vehicle; which,
by the speed that they maintained, required a skillful hand to guide
through the mazy difficulties of the bush track. The night, however, was
beautiful, and the moon bright and clear distinctly illumined their
path; so that the occasional diminution of the speed was not owing so
much to impediments and difficulties of a vehicular nature, as to a
desire on the part of the horsemen to take it easier. But these little
delays, insignificant as they were, did not accord with Kate's ideas of
the urgency of the case; and the flagging equestrians were constantly
prompted by her to an acceleration of their pace.

Towards the latter part of the journey the bush was more dense, and the
travelling of the gig consequently became more difficult. The frequent,
though only momentary detentions, so harassed Kate that she exchanged
her seat in the gig for the back of her own jaded horse; and she led the
way at a rate that gave her less fatigued followers something to do to
keep even within sight of her. All their remonstrances against the
velocity of her pace had no further effect than a raillery from Kate at
their complaining of a speed that she was enabled to keep up; and she
told them that if they were tired out she would go on and report their
approach. However much they disliked the toil of such riding they were,
for their own credit, obliged to keep pace with her, as neither of them
relished the idea of being outstripped by a girl; and that girl one who
had ridden a far greater distance in the previous twelve hours than
they.

In the meantime Mrs. Rainsfield had acted upon Kate's suggestion, and
had ridden home with all speed. She prepared a couch, and had it placed
in a light cart; which was then despatched to meet the invalid, with
strict injunctions to the driver to go as fast as he could, until he met
the party. Neither had Tom and William been idle, for they had placed
poor Eleanor on her saddle, where Tom held her while William led the
horse. But the pain, which the motion caused to her wounded limb, was
such that she could not with all her fortitude endure it. The young men,
therefore, constructed a sort of impromptu sedan, in which they carried
her for some distance; in fact, until they were met by the conveyance
despatched from Strawberry Hill. They then transferred their burden to
the vehicle, and continued the journey more easily for the poor girl;
though their rate of travelling was necessarily very slow. It was
midnight ere they delivered their charge into the hands of Mrs.
Rainsfield, and barely an hour afterwards Kate and her companions
galloped up to the house.

The doctor was instantly shown into the invalid's room, when the broken
leg was soon set, and the patient placed in as easy a position as
possible; when, after giving directions to her cousin for her further
treatment, he left the room to partake of some refreshment with his
friends before they parted for the night. Tom and William waited for the
report of Kate, who was assiduously attending on Eleanor, and would not
hear of rest for herself until she had first satisfied her mind of the
safety of her friend.

The following day the invalid was considered by her medical attendant to
be sufficiently out of danger, and progressing so favourably as to
warrant his departure. He therefore left, accompanied by his boon
companion, Bob Smithers, who preferred his society to that of the
residents of Strawberry Hill, and was followed by Mr. Alfred Smithers in
the gig.

We have so frequently, and we think so fully, dwelt upon the character
of Eleanor Rainsfield that we are convinced she is by this time
perfectly understood by our readers. We need therefore only say that it
was quite possible for her to suffer the deepest mental agony without
the slightest semblance of its being discernible in any display in her
facial muscles. We say that it was quite possible that the existence of
sorrow could have been working deleteriously at the heart's core of the
invalid, and not be visible by any outward signs; and it was more than
probable, after the events that had lately occurred, that some such
sorrow did exist. We have already said that Eleanor was habitually of a
taciturn and uncomplaining nature; and, whatever were her griefs, she
rarely allowed their utterance to pass her lips; so it was not to be
deemed strange that her friends were unacquainted with her state of
mind. What that was we dare not violate our trust by divulging, beyond
the fact that there _was_ something that preyed upon her mind which
caused her to remain feverish and restless on her sick couch, and which
retarded her return to convalescence. She progressed but slowly; and it
was nearly two months before she was enabled to leave her room, and
expose her emaciated frame to the summer breeze in a seat in a shady
part of the verandah.

During all this lengthened illness, her friends at Fern Vale had been
constant in their attentions, and hardly a day passed without some
enquiries being made or some intelligence being conveyed. Visits of
William and Kate were interchanged with Tom, who had delayed his journey
to town until Eleanor was what he considered sufficiently recovered to
spare him. When that time had arrived, and he saw his cousin at last
enabled to move about, he took his departure; not, however, without
making a special purpose of visiting Fern Vale to bid adieu to his
friends there.

Why such particular consideration as this was required prior to his
departure on a journey that would not occupy more than a month, or why
it was necessary to take such a formal leave of friends he was in the
habit of seeing so frequently, and whom he could and did inform of his
intended departure upon the last occasion on which they met, we are at a
loss to conjecture. We do not, however, consider ourselves justified in
making any surmises, but intend simply to content ourselves by
chronicling the event; deeming in so doing we perform our duty, and
avoid the probability of misleading our readers, by indulging in
speculations that might lead to erroneous assumptions respecting the
motives of our friend. Therefore it is only known to Tom himself, or
rather was best known to him, what took him to Fern Vale, and what kept
him for hours in company with Kate Ferguson. But there he remained
looking over her sketches, and turning over her music, as he listened
rapturously; while her pliable fingers fluttered over the keys of her
piano, and exorcised the very spirit of the muse in the exquisite
diapason that she produced to enchant him. If it was simply to bid adieu
to the young lady he might have done that, we should have thought, in a
much shorter time, and taken his departure. It could not have been to
visit her brother, for as yet he had not seen him, and neither made any
effort nor expressed any desire to do so. He had, in fact, arrived at
Fern Vale early in the forenoon, and finding Kate alone in the
sitting-room, his gallantry (or rather his inclination) suggested that
he should endeavour to relieve the _ennui_ of the young lady. Thus he
had occupied, for nearly the whole of the morning, her and his own time,
in which occupation he seemed perfectly contented; so much so that we
strongly suspect that he--But we were about doing what we repudiated our
intention of, viz., speculating on Tom's motives. So, dear reader! with
your kind permission, so far as we are concerned, we will leave him to
enjoy uninterruptedly the pleasure of Kate's society.

We must now beg the courteous reader to follow us over a period of about
a fortnight, during which time Eleanor had improved very little in her
health; when Kate and William one morning left Fern Vale to ride over to
see her. The weather had continued very dry for months past, and a large
portion of the bush had been slightly fired, so as just to burn off the
long dry withered grass, and leave on the ground a thick coating of
soot. Through this our friends were riding at a pretty sharp canter (as,
being like most of their birth and character, no less speed satisfying
them), when Kate's horse tripped and came down, precipitating his rider
over his head, and sending her sprawling amongst the ashes.

Her brother alighted to assist her to rise; but she was in no way hurt,
and regained her feet with little difficulty or hesitation. But she had
no sooner faced William than he lost all control over his gravity, and
burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; while to his sister's enquiry
as to the cause of his merriment, he replied only by laughing the
louder; and she became annoyed at what she called his silly behaviour.

"Tell me," said she, "what are you laughing at; is my face dirty?"

"Oh, dear no!" replied he, "it is not dirty."

Now in this reply of William's we would endeavour to exonerate him from
any duplicity or pseudology. If he meant to use the words ironically, or
to imply that his sister's face was not dirty, on the principle we have
sophistically heard enunciated that soot is clean dirt, not dirtying
where it comes in contact, but merely soiling; then it must be admitted
he spoke the truth. But we suspect rather that he meant to say her face
was not only dirty, but a shade worse; for it was absolutely black. And
much as we respect etiquette, and would be loath to commit such an
impropriety as to laugh at a lady, we question very much our ability,
had we looked on Kate's face on this occasion, to have preserved a
stoical equanimity of countenance.

"No but, Will, dear," persisted Kate, "do tell me; is my face really
dirty? I am sure it must be or you wouldn't laugh so. It is unkind of
you to tease me;" and the little orbs in the darkened firmament, and the
little mouth that had escaped disfigurement in the sudden metamorphosis,
exhibited symptoms of a lachrymose tendency.

Nothing so soon softens the obdurate heart of a man as seeing a woman in
tears; especially when she is a handsome young girl, and is beloved by
her masculine tormentor. Therefore we may safely surmise, that
William's laughing soon ceased; for he instantly changed his manner to
his sister, and said:

"Yes, Kitty, darling; your face is as black as a crow; and would enable
you to make a splendid personation of an Ethiopian vocalist, if that
sable people ever exhibit their ladies. But forgive me, poppet, for
laughing at you; I would defy the goddess of grief herself to refrain
from smiling if she had perchance cast her eyes upon you as you rose
from the ground."

"Oh, dear me! what shall I do?" said Kate, in a most piteous way. "What
shall I do? You know, Will, I can't go on in this figure, we must go
back."

"Nonsense, my dear," said William, "you can go on very well. A slight
application of water at Strawberry Hill will very soon remove all traces
of your cloudiness."

"But, Will," replied his sister, "all the people will be laughing at me
if I go on as I am, presenting such an odd appearance."

"Not in the least, my pet," said William; "besides if you turned back
home our people would laugh at you quite as much, not for the soot on
your face, but for your foolishness in returning. At Strawberry Hill,
however, no one will laugh at you, for they will have too much good
breeding; and if you put your veil down over your face it will be
invisible; while at the same time you can present yourself to Eleanor,
and test her affection by seeing if she will kiss you in that plight.
I'll engage she'll laugh, for she'll think it is a little stratagem of
yours to take her by surprise and excite her merriment. She will
therefore think herself called upon to reward you with a smile."

"I don't like to go in this figure, Will," said Kate; "do you think we
shall be able to find any water-hole on the road where I could wash my
face?"

"Not one, Kitty," said William, "nor a drop of water nearer than
Strawberry Hill, unless you like to go to the river; and it would be
quite unnecessary, for if you went there you wouldn't be able to
thoroughly remove the black. The washing would only make you appear
worse, inasmuch as, instead of being black, you would be dirty. But
come, my little queen of Artimesia! let me put you on your horse, and
we'll go ahead. I have often heard of a sable beauty, and declare you
are one in perfection; if you were not my sister I would do the romantic
and fall in love with you. There now! up you get, and let us be off; for
the sooner you get to 'the Hill' the sooner you'll have your visage
restored to its natural colour. But before you touch your face, Kitty,
just have a look at yourself in the glass; though I need not have told
you to do that, for I know it is the first thing you are sure to do."

"Don't be cruel, Will! and tease me so," said Kate, "or I'll go back
home."

"Very well, my dear," said William, "I'll grant a truce, and spare
you."

The brother and sister then turned their conversation into some other
channel, and rode on until they came within sight of Strawberry Hill;
when Kate pulled down her veil to conceal her darkened countenance from
the gaze of the curious. As they approached the station, and got
sufficiently near to distinguish the people about the place, Kate was
startled to see some gentleman on the verandah, whom she knew (by his
appearance) was not Mr. Rainsfield, and she remarked to her brother:
"Oh, William! I can't go up to the house in this figure. See, who is
that on the verandah? he is a stranger I know and I shall never be able
to meet his gaze. Can't you take me somewhere, where I can get my face
clean before I show myself?"

"Don't be frightened Kitty," said William, "no one will be able to
distinguish the colour of your face through your veil; and, if I mistake
not, the individual you see, and whose appearance seems to cause you
such uneasiness, is none other than Bob Smithers, who will make himself
scarce when he sees me. Put on a bold face under your blackness, and try
a _coup de main_, though it is not likely under your present eclipse to
be a _coup de soleil_. If Eleanor is on the verandah when you alight run
into the house and carry her off at once; and if any of the family
should see you in your flight I will make some explanation for you."

This seemed partially to satisfy Kate, and they rode together up to the
house. As William had conjectured the party they saw was Bob Smithers;
who, as soon as he had been able to distinguish who were the approaching
visitors, had left the spot where he had been seen by them, while
Eleanor, who had been sitting just inside one of the French lights, came
out to greet her friends as they made their appearance. William assisted
Kate off her saddle, when she ran up to the girl who stood with open
arms to embrace her. But instead of falling into that loving lock,
which was intended to unite the beatings of their young hearts, and
which she was generally so ready, with her usual ardour, to reciprocate,
she partially lifted her veil and discovered to her astonished friend
her beaming countenance. Instead of being radiant with glowing smiles it
was of course more gloomy than thunder; but her merry laugh rang as a
silvery note from the shades of Hades, while her bright eyes and pearly
teeth, in such deep contrast, shone with a more marked resplendence.

Eleanor for some moments gazed at Kate with silent wonder, and then
asked in the faint voice of a valetudinarian: "Why, dearest Kate, what
have you been doing with yourself?"

"I will answer for her," replied William. "You see our little Hebe has
gone into mourning; and, considering that the mere outward habilimentary
display was an empty conventionality, she chose to mark her grief in her
countenance; so that she might indulge uninterruptedly to any extent of
sorrow. As to her motive I am inclined to think she has done it to court
notice, and notoriety; for I am convinced she never looked so handsome
before."

"That is a poor compliment William pays you, Kate," said Eleanor; "but I
appeal to you for a correct version of the phenomenon, for I am afraid
to question your brother, as I see he is in a facetious mood. Come to my
room, my dear, and we can have a talk to ourselves."

"That is the very thing I desire, Eleanor dear," said Kate, "for I am
quite anxious to see what a fright I am, and wash off all the dreadful
smut. I saw Mr. Smithers here as I came up, and I would not for the
world that he should have seen me thus."

"He was here a few minutes ago," said Eleanor, "but has disappeared
somewhere."

"Well, Will," said Kate, "why are you still standing staring at us? why
don't you take the horses away?"

"Oh, I am really very sorry for keeping him," said Eleanor, "it quite
escaped my memory; you go to my room, Kate dear, and I'll send some one
to see to the horses."

"Not for worlds, Miss Eleanor, would I permit you to do such a thing,"
exclaimed William. "I can myself take the horses to the stable; but I
was waiting to take a last fond look of Kate. I am, in fact, enchained
to the spot; if ever she was a beauty she is one now, and a shining one
that would be a fortune to a London advertising blacking manufacturer."

"Be off, you impudent fellow!" replied his sister, "and don't show
_your_ face here until you can cease to be offensive;" saying which, she
turned into the house with Eleanor, while William took the horses to the
stable to remain for such time as he stopped at Strawberry Hill. This
business he accomplished; and, knowing that the girls would be sometime
engaged together with their own little secrets, and having no desire to
come into contact with Bob Smithers, he thought he would fill up half an
hour by paying a visit to Mr. Billing, and enjoying the refreshment of
that little individual's conversation.




CHAPTER IV.

    "The wondering stranger round him gazed,
    All spoke neglect and disrepair."

    SIR WALTER SCOTT.


William sought the capricious storekeeper in the proper sphere of his
labour, viz. the store-room, and, as he had anticipated, found him
deeply engaged in some imaginarily abstruse piece of figurative
collocation, from the study of which he relieved his brain and raised
his eyes at the sound of intrusive steps. William advanced with
outstretched hand, which was humbly and respectfully taken by Mr.
Billing; who, as he removed his spectacles from his nose, and shifted,
we will not say rose from his desk, answered to his visitor's sanitary
enquiry in his blandest manner: "I thank you, Mr. Ferguson; it affords
me great satisfaction to say I am in the enjoyment of excellent health,
and trust, my dear sir, a similar blessing is dispensed to yourself."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Billing," replied William, "I am pretty well. But
don't let me disturb you if you are busy, I have just called in to see
and have a chat with you; but if you are engaged I will not interrupt
you; for I thoroughly agree to the principle that business must be
attended to."

"I assure you, sir," said Mr. Billing, "I appreciate your kindness in
thinking me worthy of your consideration. I feel favoured, sir, beyond
measure; and if you will still further honour me by gracing our humble
dwelling, I can say, sir, with confidence Mrs. Billing will be equally
as delighted as myself."

"But I hope, Mr. Billing, I am not taking you away from your business,"
said William.

"By no means, my dear sir," exclaimed that urbane individual, "however
engrossed I might be in my mental or corporeal occupations, the respite,
sir, from those labours, when it is occasioned by the honour of a visit
from a young gentleman of your talent and abilities, is of too valuable
a nature, sir, not to be gratefully seized by your humble servant. Pray
accept my best thanks, sir, for your attention, and permit me to invite
you, sir, to our unpretending abode; for lowly it is, and not of those
pretensions I could desire, sir, nor of such as it has been my lot at a
former period of my life to possess, yet, sir, to it I can offer an
Englishman's adjunct, a hearty welcome."

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Billing," replied William, "and will
be happy to accept of your hospitality."

"This way then, Mr. Ferguson," said Mr. Billing. "Allow me to close the
door of the store. I always lock it in my absence to prevent, sir, any
unpleasant affairs, such as have occurred here, you know. If you will
be good enough to step this way, sir? I must apologize beforehand, for
the litter which I expect you will find, sir, in our domicile by
explaining that Mrs. Billing does not anticipate the pleasure of
visitors."

Considering the sight that greeted the eyes of William as he entered the
cottage, such an apology was certainly necessary, or rather unnecessary,
to prepare him for what he was to witness. We said necessary, to excuse
the lady of the house for the chaotic arrangements of her household,
seeing that one couldn't enter the dwelling without being painfully
aware that slovenliness and disorder reigned supreme. Therefore we
corrected ourselves in the expression, and stated the absence of such
necessity; as no one could be so blind as to imagine that the litter
which Mr. Billing alluded to was merely the result of an occasion; for
it was too palpably evident that the spirit of disorganization was the
presiding genius of the Billing mansion, and, moreover, the visitor
would be strengthened in the conviction the very moment he cast his
eyes upon the wife of Mr. Billing's bosom. We will repeat then that Mr.
Billing made numerous apologies for the disorder to which he was about
to usher William Ferguson; and we may safely conjecture that William was
not a little surprised when all the internal arrangements of the home
burst upon his vision.

"Let me show you to my domicile, Mr. Ferguson," said the little man in
rather a pompous way; "as usual, sir, the house is turned topsey-turvey,
Mrs. Billing is such a woman for cleanliness. You have no doubt, Mr.
Ferguson (though you have not yet become entangled in the meshes of
matrimony), heard of the nuisance of a musical wife; let me equally warn
you, sir, against choosing the partner of your connubial bliss, from
those of too cleanly a predilection. My spouse, sir, for instance, has
periodical fits for cleansing (and I regret to say, sir, they are of too
frequent occurrence for my especial comfort); then nothing but dust,
soap and water, and disquietude pervades the house for a full twelve or
twenty-four hours. You are aware, sir, 'at home' (I mean of course in
Old England) we paterfamiliases are taught, sir, to look upon
washing-days as the very superlative of domestic misery; but my wife
always had a propensity for having something like a washing-day very
nearly six times a week, sir; and she has brought her customs and
prejudices with her to this barbarous country. But come in, my dear sir,
and take a seat, while I inform Mrs. Billing of your presence; and if I
may be so bold, sir, as to add, I will entreat you to make yourself
quite at home."

This introductory prologue of Mr. Billing's was delivered as he stood
with the door slightly ajar, and holding it by the handle while he
addressed William, no doubt to fully prepare him to a proper
appreciation of the merits of the lady to whom he was about to be
introduced. When we say introduced we do not mean that formal ceremony
in which strangers are brought to a mutual acquaintance (for William had
frequently before met Mrs. Billing), but the mere act of being ushered
to her presence in a house into which he, as yet, had never entered. Mr.
Billing had stood, door in hand, while he uttered about half of his last
sentence, when William saw, or fancied he saw, a female hand suddenly
draw back the cover of a muslin blind that screened the lower part of a
window situated in close proximity to the door at which he stood.
Instantly thereafter a female head was substituted in its place, but as
instantly withdrawn; while the noise of some falling object was
distinctly heard, and was as speedily followed by that of a hastily
closed door; all of them unmistakeable signs of a surprisal and retreat.

At this moment Mr. Billing pushed open the door and entered the
evacuated room, in which he concluded his lugubrious notice of his
lesser half's peculiarities, and desired his visitor to take a seat;
which his visitor, picking up a chair that lay prostrate on the floor,
accordingly did; and Mr. Billing went in search of his lady. Judging
from the seeming confidence with which he walked into an apartment
entering from the one which William sat in, forming the only other one
in the front of the cottage, the operation was one of more certitude
than the verb he made use off would imply; and also judging from the
subdued whispers that William could overhear through the thin wooden
partition that constituted the wall of the room, the search was also
attended with wonderful success. But during Mr. Billing's absence to
look for his spouse, let us join our young friend in his general
inspection of the furnishing and upholstery department of the
establishment.

In the first place we must say, distinctly and candidly, that the room
was furnished badly. Not that there was any paucity in the collection;
but the articles, though numerous, taken in the abstract, with the
greatest regard to symmetry, contrast, and beauty, and the best possible
display of talent in their collocation, any one with the slightest
pretensions to comfort, we are certain would eliminate the entire mass;
and any appraiser, if such an individual existed, within the boundaries
of New South Wales, if called in to take an inventory, would elevate
both his nose and his shoulders.

But we will, with the reader's kind permission, give a short
description, for the benefit of young couples about to furnish; and out
of respect for the feelings and the patience of those of our readers,
who have no desire or necessity for such detail, we will epitomize the
catalogue as much as possible.

First then we must state that there was no semblance of order in the
arrangements. Far from it; in fact, quite the reverse. All things seemed
to have been placed with a predetermination on the part of some one to
create as much confusion as possible, and to put each individual
article into as awkward a position as imaginable. It is true William had
rescued a chair from a lowly position, and had placed it on an
unoccupied spot on the floor, and used it for the purpose for which in
its construction it was intended. But it was well our young friend was
not of an erratic disposition, for if he had been bent upon voyages of
discovery, other than could be effected by his eyes, he would have found
himself in as great a labyrinth as ever impeded the progress of the
polar explorers. The fact was William was perfectly hemmed in; so that,
with the exception of a small spot that was partially occupied by his
chair, there was no room to stir, or at least very little; and he did
not consider it wise, or politic, to risk his knees and shins in an
attempt to penetrate into the thickly timbered recesses of the
apartment. As he sat in the midst of this mass, which seemed to have
been collected as the entire furniture of a dwelling, deposited in a
room for the convenience of the van that officiates at flittings, he
almost looked like an anxious emigrant keeping guard over his effects
when landed in a strange country, or as "Caius Marius mourning over the
ruins of Carthage."

But we have wandered from our task, our self-imposed descriptive task,
which we confess ourselves at a loss to perform with satisfaction; for
having no cabinet-making knowledge, and never having before been called
upon to take an inventory of such chattels, we feel ourselves, to make
use of a vulgar idiom, "all abroad." We fear we have assumed the title
and privileges of the author without considering whether or not we are
possessed of the attributes pertaining to one; and, in our insensate
conceit, we are afraid we have forgotten the absence of that recondite
perspicuity and facile elucidation which are imperatively essential to
the character we have arrogated. But we fancy we hear some of our
impatient readers exclaim, "We wish you would tell us, without 'beating
about the bush,' what the room contains; it is all nonsense your making
excuses now, you should have thought of your incapacity before you
commenced your history, and must go on with it; all we can do is to pity
and smile at your ignorance;" and we exclaim, "A thousand thanks, kind
readers! That is the very lenience we wished to evoke; we now can
proceed with confidence, if not in our powers of depiction, at least in
your charity and forbearance."

Well then, in the centre of the room stood a table, which we venture to
say had not been displaced in the general disorganization,
notwithstanding that its satellites had. There was nothing extraordinary
about this table, and yet there was a something which inspired awe, or
at least curiosity, and that would lead to the enquiry, Whence came it?
and this was precisely William's thought. Ah! that was a rare old table,
and struck William with a desire to know its history; but unfortunately
it had not the power to satisfy his enquiring mind; and he, having no
one at the time with him from whom he could glean the information, was
not likely to be the wiser. With the reader, however, we will not be so
harsh or uncommunicative, but will make use of our knowledge, and impart
the secret of its life; at least from the time whence it boasted of Mr.
Billing as its owner. First, however, we will give a sketch of its
general appearance.

When we called it a table, we should have in greater justice said two
tables, for, though one, it was also two. This seeming paradox may be
explained by stating that, as it stood, it was one, but in its integral
parts it could be spoken of in the plural number; in fact, to descend to
the common vernacular mode of expression, we will say they were two side
leaf-tables that had graced the parlour windows of the little box at
Brixton. The leaves were, and had been for many years (in fact, rarely
otherwise), quiescent, and were each made to hide its diminished head in
a close contiguity to the object's crural appendages. The two tables,
thus reduced to their natural bounds, were arranged with an
affectionate concomitance so as to act the part of a table of family
pretensions. It was of mahogany; and we will assume the postulation,
that it was of solid mahogany, to which assumption we are led from its
antique appearance, presuming that in the good old days of our
ancestors, that refined species of humbug and deception, yclept
veneering, was not in vogue, as our forefathers, so we are told, could
not tolerate anything but what was substantial. But how sadly have we
degenerated in these latter days! We now no longer perpetuate their
creed, or retain any of their material predilections, except those for
beef, beer, "bacca," and bills.

But to return to the table. We said it was mahogany, but we must correct
ourselves; we mean it was so originally, when it stood in the parlour at
Brixton, but now no longer could it be said to be of that wood. If it
but spoke, what "tales it could unfold" of voyages, journeys, mishaps,
and accidents, that would put the whole fraternity of aristocratic loos
far into the shade. Mr. Billing was wont to say he loved that old table
as much as hundreds of individuals are in the habit of affirming a
similar affection for a certain "old arm chair." He would also inform
his friends, when in a communicative mood, that that table had belonged
to his friend Lord Tom Noddy, whom he knew very well; but, unfortunately
for our poor little friend's aristocratic reputation, on one occasion
when he was a little "farther gone" than was usually his habit to go,
the truth of _in vino veritas_ was exemplified. On that occasion he
innocently informed his friends, that, of course, the Lord Tom Noddy did
not know him; that he, Mr. B., had bought the table at a sale of that
nobleman's effects, when the inconvenient demands of low tradespeople
rendered a sojourn in London exceedingly annoying to his lordship, and
induced him to fancy his health demanded attention and his person
relaxation and continental air. But still Mr. Billing could boast of
what very few, if any, men in Australia could, that is, that he was
possessed of a table that had belonged to a real, live lord; and many
were those who were made aware of the fact.

We fear we are not confining ourselves to a succinct account of minutiae,
but are again running too much into detail of no moment; and we will,
therefore, continue more briefly the history and description of this
wonderful piece of furniture. It had been considered too great a
treasure to be sacrificed in the break-up of the Brixton "box;"
consequently it was carried off to gladden the eyes and astonish the
nerves of the natives of Australia. As we have already said, many were
the misfortunes it had gone through in its various peregrinations, and
vast the trouble it had been to its present owner, who, notwithstanding,
through all his vicissitudes, stuck to it as long as it stuck to him.
Lord Tom Noddy's table was in much the same predicament as Jack's knife,
which had had five new blades and three new handles; for his lordship's
table had had innumerable splicings, nailings, screwings, patchings, and
new leggings, composed of a variety of fibrous material, and of numerous
colours and artistic designs. Yet there it stood, with its legs of an
unequal longitude, some with castors and some without (the latter being
supplied with a stone or a piece of wood, to preserve as nearly as
possible the equilibrium); and, with more than one bandage to conceal a
fractured limb, this relic of the past, this trophy of Mr. Billing's
palmy days, and proof of his intercourse with aristocracy, preserved a
dignified composure, like a veteran surveying the scene of a triumph. We
said that the table stood in the centre of the room, and bore no
evidences of having been moved in the general disorder; of this we were
morally certain, for, judging by its paralytic appearance, it threatened
a speedy dissolution if touched.

The other members of this conglomerate fraternity were some dozen
chairs, more or less, also in various stages of dilapidation, and of
them we can say much in a few words. They were American, machine-made,
cane-bottomed, painted, and patent varnished ladies' and gent's body
supporters, and bore the same relation to civilized furniture as Dutch
clocks used to do to the old-cased patriarchs, that in our halls marked
the phases of fleeting time.

They were "machine-made," we say, that is, the legs, bars, etc., were
cut and turned by machinery; they were possessed of cane bottoms,
whether also arranged by machinery or not, we can't say, though they
were painted and varnished by its aid. But why such ordinary articles of
domestic use should be patent we are at a loss to comprehend, unless it
were for the design, or in the operation of painting the decorating
portion, which consisted of an application of gilt varnish on the front
of each leg and prominent part of the seat, and the representation on
the back, in high colours and gilt, of some flowers and fruit, which it
would be difficult to match with originals, from all the varieties that
have been produced, from the Eden apple downwards.

The next article was a sort of chiffonnier, a piece of furniture that
made a great display; with crystal and china arranged with precision on
the top, and a protecting covering of chintz, no doubt the uninitiated
would imagine, to keep the polish from sustaining any injury. But must
we discover the truth? Oh! deceitfulness of man, and, we may add, of
woman too. This elegant and costly piece of furniture was nothing but a
large deal box placed up on end, with rough shelves fixed into it to add
to its utility, and with a gaudy cover put over it to hide its
nakedness. There was another article of a similar construction, a
luxuriant-looking ottoman, and a sofa which had originally, no doubt,
been of polished cedar (of which wood, we may remark, all the best
colonial furniture is made, and found to equal, if not excel, Honduras
mahogany), and with horse-hair cushions, etc. But now it presented a
doleful appearance of weather-beaten features and limbs, and where a
horse-hair covering had existed, now only canvas was visible. A mirror
of the dull and heavy school rested on the mantel-piece, along with
sundry portraits, no doubt of a family importance, executed in an art of
stern profile blackness, which art, we believe, is extinct, and happily
so. The floor had no covering, neither had the walls, which showed the
wood in its crude state, or rather in the serrated condition in which it
had left the sawyer's pit. A few children's stockings and shoes
scattered about; a woman's dress, mantle, and bonnet lying on the table,
with some calico in the process of conversion to an article of apparel;
a piano of ancient make which, we must say though, belonged to Mrs.
Rainsfield, and was placed there for the use of the children while under
the tuition of Mrs. Billing, completed the furniture; and, with other
scraps, such as towels, dusters, and odds and ends, all heaped
together, as we have said before, in interminable confusion, the reader
has an idea of what William was surveying.

We have already confessed our lack of the author's talent of succinct
expression; and what we might have been able, had we been possessed of
such a gift, to have detailed in a few pithy words, and what was noticed
by William in a few minutes, it has taken us so long to describe. We
must therefore beg to assure the reader that Mr. Billing was not so rude
as to leave his guest waiting alone so long as we have kept him, but
shortly re-entered the sitting-room and informed William that Mrs.
Billing was that moment engaged with the children, but if he would
excuse her for a few minutes she would be obliged to him.

Now it happened that William had heard certain sounds that indicated
arrangements of no possible connexion with children's attiring and
ornature; such as the washing of an adult's hands, the operation of
adjusting that corporeal appertinence, which is made to enclose the
forms and symmetrize the figures of Eve's fair daughters of the present
age, the rustling of silk, and other prognostics of a personal
embellishment. But still conveniently deaf as a visitor should be to
such sounds he begged that Mrs. Billing would not allow herself to be
drawn from her attention to the children on his account, for he would be
sorry to inconvenience her by his call.

Mr. Billing thanked him for his politeness and consideration, and
entreated him not to mention anything about inconvenience; and at that
very moment Mrs. Billing sailed into the room, or at least as much of it
as she could get into; and, while shaking hands with William, said: "I
am delighted beyond measure, Mr. Ferguson, at your kindness in calling
upon us. It is so affable of you, and I can only express my regrets that
you should have happened to have chosen a day when you see we are all
topsy-turvey. You must know, Mr. Ferguson, I always like to keep my
house clean and in order, although Mr. Billing will persist in grumbling
at what he calls unnecessary cleanliness; but still I am glad you have
honoured us with a visit." "Go away, Johnny, and Bobby! Mary, don't be
rude!"

These latter expressions were addressed to various olive branches of the
Billing tree, who showed their heads at the door whence had emerged the
parent stem, and to which, we presume, the juveniles had come to satisfy
their curiosity as to the nature of the intrusion on their domestic
privacy. But they did not seem disposed to obey the injunctions of their
maternal parent; who therefore rose and put them inside the room and
shut the door, while they continued to amuse themselves by keeping up a
perpetual kicking.

Possibly the reader may desire to know something about Mrs. Billing, her
genealogy, etc. If so, we will endeavour to prevent disappointment by
giving a brief sketch of her. She was a lady, "a perfect lady," as her
husband used to say, and we should imagine, nearly twenty years the
junior of her lord. She was not absolutely plain; she might once have
been good-looking. In fact, Mr. Billing used to assure his friends, when
first he married her she was a beauty, one, he affirmed, of the Grecian
mould. We will not flatter her, however, by saying she was handsome;
though we will state that her looks were capable of great improvement by
the study of a little judicious display and effective costuming. But
these virtues or follies, as our readers may consider them, obtained
very little regard from Mrs. Billing; notwithstanding that on sundry
occasions, such as the present, she made an effort to appear as in
former years.

She had taken some little pains, we say little pains because of the
insignificance of the result, to present a genteel appearance to our
friend William, and had made a hasty toilet. If it had effected any
improvement in her appearance it argued badly for her presentableness
before the operations of ablution and ornature had taken place. Her
hair, in keeping with her eyes, was black, and parted not scrupulously
in the centre; a stray lock on the forehead segregated from its rightful
position was brought immediately across the line of demarcation and
incorporated in the opposition. However, its lamination was lost in the
plastering the whole had undergone in the toilet operations; and, as
Mrs. Billing was not a vain woman, such a mishap was not deemed worthy
of notice, or at least the trouble of rectification. Her features, if
not good, were certainly far from bad. There was a vivacity and
expression in them, but there was also an unctuousness that was a
necessary concomitant on her perpetual bustle, which incessantly
displayed itself in her pale face. She wore a black silk dress, that
made a rustling like dry leaves in winter, and was modelled in a fashion
so as to confine both the wrists and the throat of the wearer; at which
points it terminated without the muslin adjuncts we usually look for.
As for the dress itself nothing need be said, except that it might have,
and had been a good one, but was then rather seedy. It gave us, however,
the idea that it was worn in much the same manner, and for much the same
purpose, as the closely buttoned up frock-coat of the "shabby genteel
gentleman," who is unable to make any display of spotless linen. But we
will make no ambiguous allusion to a lady's under garments, though we
cannot shut our eyes to noticeable facts. Neither could William, for he
perceived that her boots, though they had once been of a fashionable
make, were not what they had been, for their glory had long since
departed. He also noticed that her hands and facial contour were of a
different shade to her neck and throat. It might have been an optical
illusion, the effect of a deceptive light, the contrast of complexion,
or the exposure to sun; but he thought that where the tints blended the
contrast was too perceptible to be natural, and therefore concluded that
the phenomenon arose from the dirt not being thoroughly removed, or the
omission of an ablutionary application to the dark tinted part.

William also noticed,--but we must again crave the indulgence of our
fair readers, whose pardon we implore for adverting to such a
subject,--when Mrs. Billing turned herself to eject and inject the
juvenile representatives of the Billing family; he saw her back! yes,
reader! her back! Now no lady should turn her back on a gentleman any
more than a gentleman should perform so derogatory an act upon a lady,
either literally or figuratively. More especially if that lady be not a
good figure, or if her dress does not fit immaculately. We do not
insinuate that Mrs. Billing had not a good figure, she was _once_
graceful; but it was to be presumed, that considering the ample proofs
she had given of a proclivity to gestation, the symmetry of that figure
had to some extent been impaired. Be that as it may, the dress of Mrs.
Billing did not meet behind by some three or four hooks; and the
consequence was that a sight was revealed to the bashful gaze of our
young friend which caused him to blush; while the remembrance of the
cleanly characteristics, enunciated by her lord as pertaining to her,
made him wonder. For there! immediately underneath the habilimentary
cuticle, William saw garments of so suspicious a colour as to make it
questionable whether they had attained their peculiar hues by the
process of dyeing, or by their contact with this world's filth.

But there is one thing that we must explain before we leave Mrs.
Billing. We have already told the reader that cleanliness was Mrs.
Billing's peculiar and predominant idiosyncrasy, and we must reconcile
this statement to our portraiture of unbecoming slovenliness. It is
easily said in a few words. Mrs. Billing was one of those women who are
always in a fuss about their domestic affairs; who are for ever
fidgeting about the dirt in the house; and always attempting to remove,
or remedy it, though in the attempt they only succeed in adding to the
filth. Making "confusion worse confounded;" leaving things worse than
they were before; adding to the discomfort of their husbands, their
children, and themselves; whom they keep in a perpetual state of
slovenliness and untidiness. Such was Mrs. Billing's failing; and if her
husband was blessed with perspicuity sufficient to notice it, for his
own peace of mind, he abstained from any dictation that might have
embroiled him in family dissensions; and he was right: for on the whole
she was undeniably a good wife to him notwithstanding her little
peculiarities.

Mrs. Billing had managed to squeeze herself into a seat, as her husband
had previously done, without necessitating any extraordinarily
unpleasant contiguity to her visitor; though any extension of
prerogative on the part of the upper or nether limbs of either of the
party would have been detrimental to the visages, or shins, of the
others. So they were all perforce compelled to adhere to a strict
propriety of deportment.

The lady was particularly charmed, or at least she continued to say so,
at what she designated the condescension of Mr. Ferguson in visiting her
humble abode.

"I am truly delighted to see you," she said again, for at least the
twentieth time; "and only regret I can offer you no inducement to
prolong your visit. I suppose there would be no use in my asking you to
stay and take pot-luck with us in the friendly way, Mr. Ferguson? Not
that it would be any change of fare to you, for we are necessarily
humble people now; and, if we even desired it, we could not have
anything out of the common. It is not here like 'at home,' where you
can, even with the most moderate means, procure anything nice. In this
horrid country neither love nor money can buy tasty things. One has to
be contented with what we can get, and we live so incessantly upon
mutton that I wonder we're not all ashamed to look a sheep in the face.
But, as I was saying, can we persuade you to stop and take pot-luck with
us, Mr. Ferguson?"

"I really thank you, Mrs. Billing," said William; "but my friends will
expect me to make my appearance at the house shortly. I have brought my
sister over to see Miss Eleanor, and have just dropped in to see you as
I passed."

"Yes! it is very kind of you," said Mrs. Billing; "and of course Mrs.
Rainsfield will be expecting you. However, if at any time you shall be
disposed to honour us with a visit, let us have the pleasure of your
company sufficiently long to enable us fully to enjoy it. Devote some
evening to us, and we will endeavour to amuse you. We would be most
happy to see your sister too, if she would condescend to honour our roof
by her presence; she is a gentle, amiable young lady. I need not ask if
she is well as that I am sure of?"

"Thank you," said William, "she is quite well, and I have no doubt will
be happy to join me in paying you a visit; especially when I tell her of
your kind enquiries."

"Will you try a little spirits, Mr. Ferguson?" asked the master of the
mansion. "I am sorry I have no wine to offer you, and neither any choice
of spirits; but I shall be delighted if you will join me in a glass of
rum."

"I am obliged to you; not any," replied William.

The conversation continued for some short time longer, chiefly though on
the part of the Billing couple; who took upon themselves the initiatory
to enlighten their visitor upon all their family affairs and departed
greatness. William soon began to feel a distaste for this kind of
conversation and society, and had made one or two attempts to break the
spell. But as the pair kept up an alternate and incessant dialogue he
could not find an opportunity of taking his leave; and neither did he
effect his retreat until he had risen from his seat, stood hat in hand
for nearly ten minutes, and repeated more than once that he feared his
sister would be wondering what had become of him.

He at last succeeded in escaping, and cordially shaking hands with the
quondum commercial man and his lady, he took his departure and walked
back to the house. Mr. Billing returned to, and was speedily lost in the
abstruse calculation from which his attention had been diverted by
William's visit; while Mrs. Billing retired to the precincts of her
sanctum, to divest herself of her outer covering for one of more humble
pretensions, in which she had been habited at the time of her
surprisal.




CHAPTER V.

    "Your words have took such pains, as if they labour'd
    To bring manslaughter into form, and set quarrelling
    Upon the head of valour."

    TIMON OF ATHENS, _Act 3, Sc. 5._


When William made his appearance at the house he found Eleanor, Mrs.
Rainsfield, and his sister together in the sitting-room; and, after
receiving a severe rating for his cruelty in teasing Kate about her
accident, he was asked by Mrs. Rainsfield what had detained him so long
at the stables. Upon his replying that he had visited the Billings
nothing would satisfy the girls but that he had an object in making such
a visit, and they insisted upon having a detailed account of all his
proceedings, and what he saw and heard at the storekeeper's cottage.
During his narration of the circumstance we will leave him for a few
minutes while we glance at another part of the station.

Over the rails of the stockyard fence leaned a man, we might have said a
gentleman, smoking a short pipe, and carrying or rather holding in his
hand a heavy riding-whip, which we wish the reader particularly to
notice for the reason which shall shortly be seen. At his side leant
another gentleman with his back to the fence, and his eyes bent on the
ground. The first was Bob Smithers, and the other, Mr. Rainsfield; and,
at the moment of our discovering them, they were, or had been, in close
conclave. Before we proceed to listen to the conversation we will
premise by stating one fact, which we have no doubt the reader has
conjectured, viz., that the marriage between Bob Smithers and Eleanor
had been postponed _sine die_, or until such time as her health should
be thoroughly restored.

"Yes, I say again, it is a confounded nuisance that the girl is so slow
in getting well; she might have broken half a dozen legs, and got right
again by this time. I want to get her away from that infernal fellow
Ferguson, and all his set; and I shall never do that until I have
married Eleanor. Then, by G--! if any of them cross my path, they may
expect to meet a tiger." So spoke the puissant Bob Smithers, that had
grossly insulted the senior brother of "the set," and submitted ignobly
to a blow from the younger; from whom he slunk away like an intimidated
cur who had rushed yelping at some wayfarer, and received a warm
reception.

"I don't think you need make yourself at all uneasy, Bob," said his
companion. "Though John Ferguson has made overtures to Eleanor, which
you know were rejected, it is not very probable that his brother or
sister will at all interfere; in fact, I hardly think the young girl,
his sister, knows anything about her brother's feelings on that point.
Eleanor is exceedingly attached to them, and well she might be, for
their behaviour to her has been kind and affectionate in the extreme."

"Well, that may be," said Smithers; "but still I hate them, especially
that young cub that is here now. He had the audacity to strike me on the
night when we paid out his brother; and, but for the intervention of
some of the people, I would have killed the young wretch on the spot."

"As to striking you," said Mr. Rainsfield, "I am not at all surprised at
that. I wouldn't have thought much of the young fellow if he had stood
passively by, and seen a practical joke perpetrated on his brother. But
why didn't you retaliate, or wait for him till after the ball, and then
have given him a good sound horse-whipping?"

"I couldn't get an opportunity of being at him then," said Smithers,
"but I'm d----d if I don't carry out your suggestion now. I'll get an
opportunity before he goes away."

"If you do I only hope you'll manage it so as not to implicate me," said
Mr. Rainsfield. "I don't wish to interfere with your private quarrels;
but I would not like the young fellow attacked in my house or in my
presence. Though I have quarrelled with his brother I haven't done so
with him; and I must say he has been so attentive to Eleanor during her
illness that I would consider any countenanced outrage on him would be
the offering of an insult to her. Nevertheless, if you have any little
settlement to make with him, let it be out of my sight and hearing, and
I won't interfere with you."

"All right, old fellow," Smithers replied, "you need not fear me, I'll
manage it comfortably enough you'll see. I'll get him quietly away from
the house, and let him feel the weight of this." Saying which he laid
his whip about some imaginary object with a force that made the missile
whiz in the air, and with a determination that plainly portrayed the
satisfaction with which he would operate upon his victim.

"Very well," said Rainsfield, "do as you like. Only, as I said before,
don't implicate me, and though I rather like the young man I shall have
no objection to hear of the whole matter after it's done."

These two worthies then separated, Bob Smithers to seek the opportunity
of which he spoke, and the other either to go about some business of the
station, or to keep as much out of the way of the coming event as
possible. The reader will no doubt wonder how a man of Mr. Rainsfield's
generally reputed integrity could reconcile his conscience to such
behaviour; and also that he should willingly, and, we may add,
collusively aid the suit of a man, of whose mental and moral turpitude
he could have had no doubt, in preference to the honourable addresses of
a gentleman in every way a more eligible match for his cousin. "But
thereby hangs a tale," and it is our painful task in the office in which
we stand, to see that that tale be not suppressed.

At an early date after Eleanor's settled sojourn with Mr. Rainsfield he
became aware of the existence of an engagement between her and Bob
Smithers, from whom we may safely conjecture the knowledge was obtained.
When Rainsfield, feeling for the dependent and forlorn condition of his
relative, took her to the bosom of his family he did so out of pure
sympathy and kindliness towards her, and had no wish or desire to
interfere in the disposal of her affections. Consequently he paid very
little attention to the matter. But Smithers made a proposal to him
which, if it did not excite his cupidity, induced him to think more of
the affair as one in which he as a relative, and a protecting relative,
had an interest. It had the effect of suborning his countenance to the
match, and enlisting his strenuous exertions, to induce Eleanor to
accede to the wishes of the Smithers family, and plight herself anew to
the man who had already received her youthful acquiescence.

The offer that Smithers had made to Rainsfield was this. That they
should enter into partnership, and throw their respective properties
into one concern, and work together on equal terms. Smithers was to
embark all the country he was then possessed of, or the proceeds arising
from the sale of any portion, and what capital he could command; and the
other was to bring in the stock and station of Strawberry Hill. In
making this offer Smithers conceived that he would be benefited by such
an arrangement, in so far as he would be able to more effectually stock
the immense tracts of country he had taken up. He considered this more
advantageous than disposing of the runs; as, he argued by lightly
stocking them in the first place, and allowing them to become by
gradation fully stocked, through augmentation and the natural increase,
he would eventually be possessed of larger property than if he with his
own means only stocked an integral part of his holdings. On the other
hand Rainsfield considered the offer as equally worthy of attention to
himself, possibly looking at it in the same light. However, he had
agreed to it; and this was the _douceur_ that had made him a warm
partizan of the Smithers' cause; and that had influenced the collusion
that worked for the consummation of Bob's, or we might say Mrs.
Smithers', matrimonial scheme.

With regard to Eleanor, her feelings, we fear, were little dreamt of in
the matter. Rainsfield deemed Smithers a good match for her, and
possibly believing that she entertained at least some respect for the
man, he never imagined for a moment that she could have had any
objection. While she, on the other hand, from the continual promptings
of her cousin, in the absence in her mind of any other imaginative cause
for her cousin's warmth, attributed it to the desire on his part to be
relieved of an irksome burden; and she had given her consent.

We must admit that women are as equally (it is even affirmed they are
more) susceptible than men to the warm affections of the heart; and that
as they are inspired by love so are they influenced by aversion. And as
a man, we mean of course with honour and conscience, would go to any
extremity rather than ally himself to a woman whom he contemned, so
would a woman feel as great a repugnance in accepting a man for whom she
could not entertain any respect. We do not say that Eleanor actually
abhorred Bob Smithers; but we can affirm that she felt no enjoyment in
his society, but rather the reverse; and though she had accepted him to
avoid the unpleasantness of her situation, the match was positively
distasteful to her. Smithers' nature was diametrically opposed to hers.
They had no one feeling in common; his tastes were not as her tastes;
nor hers as his. Besides, she had an exalted, and perhaps romantic, idea
of matrimony. She didn't think it proper to marry for convenience, but
imagined it was a compact that was only justly and favourably formed on
true love. Not that at the time of her engagement with Smithers she had
experienced the sentiment; but she was aware she had entertained the
proposal of a man in the absence of it, and therefore had sacrificed a
moral principle. But her trial was to come.

She then met John Ferguson; and their mutual companionship, if it had
had its effects on John, had surely had no less so on her. It is true
she had thought no more of him, at first, than as a friend, a kind
attentive friend. But then she admired him, his precepts, his manners,
his conversation, and his general ingenuousness; she liked him, and
found pleasure in his society. Did she think she loved him? It may be
she never gave herself a thought on the subject. She was content to live
in the pleasing delusion, that John Ferguson was nothing more to her
than a friend; but there was her danger. She might have mistaken his
manner; misconstrued his feelings; and been blind to the more than
ordinary warmth of his greeting. But the pleasure in his company, the
delight at his approach, the longing for his presence between the
intervals of his visits; and the heart's palpitations, as she felt the
welcome touch of his hand in the grasp of friendship, must and did have
their own warning voices, to which Eleanor could not shut the ears of
her understanding. She suspected he loved her; she read it in his eyes;
but she feared to ask herself the question, Was the feeling
reciprocated?

Next came the explanation. He declared the existence of that lasting
affection which never dies. But could she give him hope? could she
encourage him in his love? No! she felt she could not. She had
voluntarily given herself to another, yet felt she had by her manner
incited this one; had probably by her demeanour given him cause to hope,
while she was not justified in holding out any. She might have, nay, she
even feared she had, destroyed his peace of mind, and all through her
own selfishness. Why had she not warned him in time? why not forsworn
the pleasure to which she had no claim? These were questions she asked
herself, but could give no reply, except the sigh her heart chose to
offer. Her relationship to Smithers reverted to her mind. That she did
not love him, nor he her, she was convinced; then why not accept the
love of John Ferguson? She meditated; but in that meditation her
principle got the better of her inclinations, and she sacrificed her
interest, her happiness, and her comfort, for the inviolable
preservation of truth.

These scruples were known to Mrs. Rainsfield and Tom, who, we have seen,
considered them unnecessarily severe, and combated against them
unceasingly, though without making any impression on the mind of
Eleanor. They deprecated what they considered her folly, and attempted
by all the arts of persuasion to move her from her purpose; but she had
been inculcated with a perception of high morality, and an appreciation
of strict integrity. Truth had been always represented to her mind as
the fundamental basis of all virtue. Her desires and her passions had
been regulated to a subserviency to the Christian character, and her
nature had been moulded in a religious education. Consequently, upon the
dictates of her conscience she acted, and felt she would be guilty of an
unpardonable moral offence to refuse her hand where her word had been
pledged.

In this light, then, the parties stood to one another. Rainsfield was
anxious to get his cousin married to Smithers, who was equally uneasy to
have the event consummated, as he had serious misgivings on the eventual
possession of his prize. Eleanor, though she was by no means anxious to
hasten the marriage, had no desire to unnecessarily postpone an
occurrence which she could not prevent, but of which latterly, more than
ever, she had had cause to dread. However, she knew regrets were vain,
and therefore attempted to attune her thoughts and feelings to a strict
sense of duty, to forget her own personal likings, and to enter calmly
upon the obligations expected of her. Notwithstanding all her fortitude
poor Eleanor was but mortal, and she could not sustain the gigantic
contest she had undertaken. She strove long and bravely, but her love
would at times overcome her, and leave her the constant prey of her
feelings, and to a melancholy contemplation of the sacrifice she was
making; hence her protracted illness and tardy recovery.

But we must return to our narrative. We left William and the ladies in
the parlour at Strawberry Hill house, and Bob Smithers walking from the
stockyard in that direction, breathing heavy threats of vengeance
against the gentleman who had so grievously offended him, and who had
escaped his just punishment upon the occasion when the offence was
committed. It is needless for us to comment on Bob's version of his
affray with William Ferguson, as the correct one is already known to
the reader; but the tale he told Rainsfield was the one related by him
wherever the circumstance of the blow became known.

William, as we have said, was sitting in company with the ladies, and
was submitting with the greatest docility to be made use of, by lending
his hands for the extension of a skein of silk while it was being wound
off by Eleanor, when a little boy bearing the Billing impress on his
features appeared at the open window, and said he had something to say
to Mr. Ferguson.

"Say it out, my boy," said William, who imagined it might be some formal
invitation from the Billing paterfamilias.

"Please, sir, father told me to tell you a gentleman was waiting down at
our house to see you," said the boy.

"And who is the gentleman, my lad?" asked William.

"Please, sir, I don't know," he replied; "father only told me a
gentleman wanted to speak with you directly."

"Is Mr. Rainsfield down at your father's house?" asked William.

"No, sir," was the reply.

"Very well; tell the gentleman, or your father, that I will be down
there in a few minutes," said William; "and that if the gentleman is in
any very particular hurry, it would have been a great saving of his time
if he had come up here."

Now, the circumstance struck all present (though no one said so) as
being rather remarkable, that Smithers, for they knew it could be no
other than he, should desire to meet William Ferguson alone, and away
from the house. William knowing or suspecting the nature of the coming
interview, fearing that his friends would have a similar suspicion, and
having no desire to excite their fears, tried to show his coolness and
indifference by whistling an air as he left the room. But this
oft-repeated stratagem had not the desired effect of allaying the fears
of one, at least, who was cognizant of the quarrel at Brompton and the
whole attendant circumstances. This was Eleanor, and she was convinced,
from the manner of Smithers, that he meditated some action which he was
ashamed to perform within sight of the house. She therefore hastily put
on her hat, and prepared to follow William, and being joined by Kate,
she stepped out through the window to the green sward in front.

Hardly a dozen steps were necessary, to bring them clear of the angle of
some outhouses that intercepted the view of the stables and Billing's
premises; and as she cleared that angle, it was to this point Eleanor
directed her gaze. The sight that she then witnessed showed that she was
only too correct in her surmise as to the intentions of Smithers; for
there she saw him in high altercation with William, who stood perfectly
at ease taking the matter as coolly as possible. His arms were folded
across his breast, and a pleasant smile played on his features, while
his antagonist had worked his wrath up to the culminating point, ready
for a mighty explosion; and raved about the ground while he brandished
his whip.

We will not trouble our readers, or shock their ears or senses, by a
recapitulation of the dialogue; suffice it to say, that if warm it was
short. So that when Eleanor discovered the disputants she witnessed the
exacerbation of Smithers' ire, and the descent of his whip across
William's shoulders. The fate of Smithers on this occasion might have
been similar to what it was on a former one had not the attention of
William been drawn off from his purpose by hearing a loud shriek at his
rear. He turned to see whence it came, while his castigator, taking no
further heed of the circumstance than to look round to see from whom it
emanated, continued to belabour at his victim with redoubled energy.

It was Eleanor who had uttered the shriek when she saw the blow struck
by Smithers; and instantly flying between the belligerents, throwing
her arms around the neck of her intended husband, she exclaimed:
"Robert! Robert! for mercy's sake, what are you--" But she was not
permitted to finish the sentence for the ruffian whom she had clasped in
an embrace that should have melted a heart of stone shouted in her ear,
coupled with an expression not fit to be repeated: "What business have
you here?" while he flung her from him with a force that hurled her
insensibly to the ground, where she lay without a murmur. This was more
than the honour and chivalry of William could bear. To be attacked
himself he cared little as he was well able to defend himself, and also
to retaliate when he thought fit; but to see a brute, without one spark
of manly feeling, not only lift his hand to a lady, and that lady a
gentle amiable girl who was about to bless him with more earthly
happiness than was meet for him to enjoy, but to prostrate her with such
force as to momentarily deprive her of vitality, was more than his
spirit could placidly endure. The lion was roused in his nature; and,
while Kate attended to her fallen friend, he sprung like an infuriated
animal on the cowardly villain; wrenched his whip from his hand and let
him feel not only the weight of _it_, but also of the avenger's athletic
arm, in such a way as would cause him to remember it for many a day.

When William had thrashed the wretch until he had driven him to seek
shelter in the stables, he returned to where still lay the form of
Eleanor, who showed no signs of returning consciousness. Feeling alarmed
at the lengthened duration of the swoon Kate and her brother thought
they had best remove her to the house at once; with which intention
William took her in his arms, and carried her in to Mrs. Rainsfield.

The good lady was quite alarmed at the appearance of poor Eleanor's
features, when her still inanimate form was brought to her. An ashy
paleness pervaded her face; her eyes were closed; and, with the
exception of an occasional faint sigh, no signs of life were visible. We
say, Mrs. Rainsfield was justly frightened at the appearance of the poor
girl, and she asked in an agitated manner: "What is this? what is the
matter? Eleanor swooned? Good gracious! what does it mean?"

"My dear Mrs. Rainsfield," said William, "if you will allow me to tender
my advice I would suggest that you instantly put Miss Eleanor to bed. I
sadly fear her injuries are severe, and that it is more than a mere
swoon under which she is now labouring. Pray, don't delay, but remove
her at once; and Kate can tell you all the circumstances. If you will
lead the way I will carry her into her room."

"Poor Eleanor! and is this too the work of that viper, Smithers?" said
Mrs. Rainsfield.

"It is, indeed!" replied Kate.

"Oh, the vile wretch!" exclaimed the lady. "It is as I thought, he
cares not a straw for her life. A man that would treat a tender, loving
girl in this way, would be guilty of any enormity; and yet she is so
infatuated as to court her own misery by persisting in accepting this
monster. Oh! what would I not give to see her safe out of his clutches?
But he surely can't have the effrontery to look her in the face after
this; nor she so silly as to receive him if he does. Certainly not, if I
can dissuade her, and I think I have some good ground to work upon now."

By this time William had deposited his burden on the little snow-white
bed of the motionless girl, and left the room and the patient to the
guardianship of Mrs. Rainsfield and his sister; while he strolled out
for a few minutes to calm his agitation, and weigh the circumstances in
his mind. He had walked backwards and forwards for about a quarter of an
hour when he turned again into the house just as his sister was looking
for him.

"Oh, Will!" she said, "Eleanor is in a dreadful state. She is fearfully
ill, and we think it is a fever. Mrs. Rainsfield says there is a doctor
who has lately settled at Alma, and she was going to send one of the men
over for him; but I thought it would be better, to prevent the
possibility of any mistake, for you to go. Will you go, and at once,
Will?"

The answer William gave to his sister's question was to dart off to the
stables for his horse; and in a few minutes afterwards he might have
been seen galloping through the bush to procure the services of the son
of Galen located at the nearest township.




CHAPTER VI.

    "Oh! wretch without a tear--without a thought,
    Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought--
    The time shalt come, nor long remote, when thou
    Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now."

    BYRON.


When Smithers had partially recovered from the wholesome chastisement
administered by William Ferguson, and had witnessed, from his
concealment, the hasty departure of his foe, the nature of his journey,
and the cause of his precipitance, flashed instantly across his mind;
and, we would fain believe, his conscience was visited by compunctions
for his unpardonable brutality. He cogitated for some time on the
course he was to pursue, and thought of how he could explain away the
circumstances; for even to her whom he knew would forgive much he hardly
dared venturing an explanation; knowing too well that his conduct was
not to any extent defensible. He, however, determined to make the
attempt to see Eleanor, and endeavour to remove from her mind any
impression that might be injurious to his cause; and with that idea he
approached the house.

Oh, Smithers, you ignorant inflated fool! How little you know the nature
of woman, and how less you can estimate their worth, and appreciate the
value of such an one as her who has surrendered her heart to thy
keeping! Thinkest thou that it is woman's only province to forgive? That
thy perpetual contumely should be continually pardoned, and thou,
without any innate goodness or recommendatory virtue, should ever claim
the devotion of a spirit the personification of purity, while thy
conduct is such as would make that spirit, were not its adjuncts truth
and compassion, shrink with loathing from the vile contamination of your
very breath, and a fear of the consequences of your truculence and
inhumanity! It is true, some women blinded by the infatuation of love,
would sacrifice their happiness, peace, and liberty, even life, on the
unworthy object of their ardent affection; but if thou believest this,
buoy not thyself up with the idea that all thy sins will be forgiven
thee! Eleanor has had much to deprecate in thee! many have been the
wounds thy churlishness has inflicted on her gentle nature, and though
she was willing to sacrifice all her earthly happiness to maintain
intact her truth and honour, yet remember she is not actuated by love,
but by an exalted sense of duty. Let her once be convinced that she is
exonerated from a performance of that, and thy bird has flown. Duty has
a strong tractive influence on a mind attuned to a high appreciation of
integrity; but love is a still more powerful incentive, and dost thou
know thou art not the happy possessor of that love? Yes, thou not only
knowest that no such sentiment is felt for you by that being whose
purity thou contemnest, but thou fearest, nay, even art certain, that
the object of that being's love is another; and that other he whom thou
hast striven to make thine enemy! Yet, knowing all this, thinkest thou
that woman, frail confiding woman, could trust thee as her mundane
protector? Because Eleanor has forgiven much, thou thinkest thyself
secure; but if this last is not the _coup de grace_ in thy catalogue of
contumacious infamies we shall be inclined to deprecate Eleanor's
leniency. But to return.

One of Bob Smithers' characteristics was a conceited self-complacency
that distended his very soul with its blinding virus; and, speaking in
the figurative of a popular apothegm, he estimated his commendable
qualities as equivalent to no insignificant quantity of that mean
maltine beverage which we thirsty members of the great Anglo-Saxon
family call small-beer. He therefore thought he had but to go to his
betrothed with a penitential cast of countenance, and claim as a right,
and receive as a matter of course, that forgiveness which he was
entitled to expect.

"I was only", (he said apologetically to himself), "in a bit of 'a scot'
at the time, and when she came in my way I pushed her off when she fell.
It was her own fault, and she must know I did nothing to her but what
any other man similarly situated would have done."

At the conclusion of his meditations he stepped on to the verandah of
the house, and seeing a servant passing out of the sitting-room, into
which he had entered by the window, he called her and asked, "Where was
her mistress, or Miss Eleanor?"

"Miss Eleanor is ill, and missus is with her," replied the girl who
looked awkward and rather sheepish at her questioner.

"Is Miss Eleanor very bad, Mary?" asked Smithers.

"I think she is, sir," replied she.

"Mary! Mary!" called a voice that was almost instantly followed by the
utterer, Kate, who ran into the room, saying: "Do run out, and try and
find Mr. Rainsfield." But she had hardly got the words out of her mouth,
as she stood in the doorway of the room, than, catching sight of
Smithers, she uttered a faint scream, and fled hastily from his
presence. She was instantly followed by the girl, who had partly heard
the cause of her young mistress' illness, and was desirous to escape the
questioning of one whose character she could also despise.

Smithers stood musing for some minutes, not altogether pleased with
these evidences of repulsion on the part of Eleanor's friends; but his
fears of their influence over her mind were only momentary. He must see
her, he said to himself; have an interview with her, and the little
difficulty will soon be arranged. Then he would hurry his marriage, he
thought, and take Eleanor away from the hated influence. "Those
Fergusons," he continued in his soliloquy, "are a pragmatic, hateful
lot, and I can't understand why Rainsfield does not keep them away from
his place." Smithers firmly believed they had been created for the
express purpose of causing him annoyance; and their present especial
object in settling in that district was to frustrate his marriage, and
rob him of his bride elect. "But he would defeat them," he said to
himself, "or he'd be--;" but here his mental reservations were
interrupted by Mrs. Rainsfield, who exclaimed as she entered the room:
"So, sir! you dare to show yourself again in my house after the vile
atrocity you have been guilty of. As to your infamy I do not wonder at
it, for it is only the fructification of a nature equally depraved,
brutal, and worthless. But after your insulting attack upon a guest of
mine, and your cruelty to a gentle and amiable girl that you should
have ventured within the precincts of this house I am truly astonished.
I know you to be too great a coward to do so did you think there was any
possibility of your meeting with the one who so lately gave you your
deserts; and I can only attribute your presence now as a further proof
of your arrogance, and to an endeavour to insult the female inmates of
this dwelling."

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Rainsfield," replied the object of
that lady's invectives; "I never offered any insult to you or any other
lady in this house; so your strictures on me are quite uncalled for."

"What, sir! can you stand before me with such barefaced effrontery, and
tell me such an unequivocal falsehood?" cried the lady. "Have you not
insulted me by cajoling from my presence a gentleman, who is my friend
and visitor, to basely assault him? and then what do you say of your
dastardly behaviour to that girl who was contemplating her own misery
and destruction by throwing herself away on such a wretch as you?"

"I decline to answer you, madam," said Smithers, "for your language is
most offensive."

"Then even you are susceptible on the point of feeling," replied Mrs.
Rainsfield, "and yet you think I can't feel an insult. I tell you, sir,
that if you had subjected me to the treatment that you did Eleanor I
should have considered it an offence of the most unpardonable nature.
But I love Eleanor even better than I do myself, and you may therefore
expect no mercy at my hands. For your offence to myself I shall expect
an expiation by your totally absenting yourself from this house; and if
I have any influence over the mind of that ill-used girl (which I hope
and trust I have), you may rest assured it will be exercised to your
disadvantage. So, sir, without any further parley, I have to request
that you instantly leave the house."

"I shall do nothing of the sort, madam," replied Smithers, "your
husband I presume is the master of this house?"

"Well, sir, I expect him here every moment," exclaimed the lady, "and if
you do not obey my injunctions you shall be forcibly expelled from the
premises."

"And situated as I am," continued Smithers not heeding the last threat
of his irate companion, "with regard to Eleanor, I think I am entitled
to see her."

"You shall not be admitted to her presence, sir," replied the lady.

"I wish to see her," said Smithers, "to explain the circumstances under
which the accident occurred."

"Accident indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Rainsfield. "It requires no
explanation, sir, it speaks for itself. I have already had your
brutality recounted by an eyewitness."

"By her friend I presume and one that is therefore not mine," sneered
Smithers, "the sister of that villain who first poisoned Eleanor's mind
towards me."

"Cease, sir! your invectives against one with whom you are not worthy to
be mentioned in the same breath," cried Mrs. Rainsfield. "It was Miss
Ferguson who related to me the unmanly and ruffianly manner in which you
hurled Eleanor to the ground. She now lies with her life in imminent
peril, and yet you have the audacity to stand before me and call it an
accident which you will be able to explain."

"Yes, madam! I am confident I shall be able to satisfy Eleanor that it
was not intentional on my part. I am exceedingly grieved that she should
be so extremely ill, but believe me, Mrs. Rainsfield, this once, that if
you will permit me to see her only for a few minutes I will be quite
contented, and will certainly relieve her mind from any impression of my
having wilfully harmed her."

"No, sir! it is useless your attempting to alter my determination. I
tell you emphatically, that you shall not see her. She is now in a
raging fever, and the sight of you at this moment might extinguish the
flickering flame of her existence. To save me from any painful
necessity, I trust, sir, you will see the expediency of ceasing your
importunities and at once taking your departure."

"I much regret that you will not permit me to see Eleanor," exclaimed
Smithers, "because I am sure you are acting under a misapprehension of
my motives and actions. If you would but permit me to explain, I--"

"It is useless, sir."

"But I am confident you must have been misinformed of the circumstances.
Your informant is no friend of mine, and would have consequently given
the affair a colouring detrimental to my interests."

Mrs. Rainsfield could stand no more of this colloquy, and with
difficulty suppressed her rage. It had twice or thrice been just on the
point of overflowing; but now it was beyond her power to restrain it. To
have her young friend Kate branded as a liar by the infamous viper
before her struck her dumb with indignation; and it was some moments
before she regained the power of utterance, when she exclaimed:

"You mean grovelling, despicable villain! You must of necessity add to
your opprobriousness by including Miss Ferguson among those whom you
choose to insult, and attack her with your scurrility. Because you
generate lies yourself do you think she is capable of uttering
falsehoods? I will endure you no longer. Instantly leave this house,
sir, do you hear me? or I'll--"

"Pray, what is the matter, my dear?" enquired Mr. Rainsfield, who
entered at this moment.

"Oh, John! cause that man to leave the house, and I'll tell you,"
replied his wife.

"My dear Rainsfield," commenced Smithers, but was cut short by the
infuriated lady, who exclaimed:

"Not a word in my presence, sir. I have already ordered you to leave the
house; do you intend to obey me?" Then, turning to her husband, Mrs.
Rainsfield said in a voice almost choking with passion: "John, will you
not assist and support me? I have been grossly insulted by that man, who
persists in defying me. Is he to continue doing so?" and she sank into a
chair, and gave vent to her excited feelings in a flood of tears.

Rainsfield was not one of those unfortunates, belonging to that class of
marital bipeds known as "hen-pecked husbands," though he was certainly
of an uxorious disposition. It cannot therefore be supposed that he
could have calmly witnessed the distress of mind his spouse evidently
appeared to be in without feeling some sympathy; and she being in that
state in which philosophers tell us woman soonest touches the heart of
inexorable man, viz., in tears, that sympathy was heightened.
Rainsfield's connubial heart was softened at the evidence of his wife's
woes; he therefore turned to Smithers, and said: "Leave us together just
now, Bob; I'll see you before you go."

It must be distinctly understood that though Rainsfield, as he was in
duty bound, sided with his wife on this occasion, he had no desire to
quarrel with Smithers, even if his wife had; far from it. It is true he
had heard something of the little fracas of flogging and fainting; but
that was nothing to him. If the young men chose to quarrel, he
considered, let them do so! and if his cousin chose to interfere, and
get hard knocks for so doing, he could not help it. If the girl had
fainted it was a pity, but what influence had he over her syncope? Women
always made a great deal, he thought, about those things, but generally
cool down after a while and forget such little grievances. So when he
communicated to Smithers his wish that he should leave the house, he did
so with an expression in his look that plainly said: "Never mind, old
fellow, you will lose nothing by leaving your case in my hands." The
delinquent, we have no doubt, fully understood it, for he instantly
obeyed the behest. Let it be said, however, to the credit of Mr.
Rainsfield, that as he took this view of the case he was only aware that
Eleanor had fainted and was ill; but had no idea that William Ferguson
had gone off to Alma for a doctor, and that Eleanor's case was so
dangerous. He therefore imagined that his wife had magnified her danger,
and the heinousness of Smithers' crime; and consequently thought more
lightly of the whole affair than did his partner. But he was shortly to
be undeceived.

As Smithers left the room Rainsfield took a seat beside his wife and
said: "Well, my dear, what is the cause of all this? you seem agitated.
I have heard something of what has happened, but surely that is not
sufficient cause for your angry altercation with Bob Smithers, and
making yourself miserable."

"Do you not think so, John?" she replied; "first to have Eleanor nearly
brought to death's door (for she is in such a raging fever that I have
been compelled to get William Ferguson to go to Alma for a doctor), and
then to be insulted and openly defied in my own house by the villain who
is the cause of it all; do you not think that is sufficient to make me
agitated?"

"Certainly, my dear," replied her husband, "the matter appears to me in
a new light. I was not aware it was of so serious a nature; pray tell me
all about it."

Mrs. Rainsfield was not long in replying to this mandate, and speedily
gave her husband a detailed account of the horrors of Smithers'
proceedings, permitting them in nowise to lose in her narrative any of
their force and piquancy. She then wound up her recapitulation of
atrocities by demanding to know if her husband could think of permitting
so vile a man to darken his door again. "Understand me, John," she said,
"I shall expect you to protect me against him and his insults: and that
can't be done while his presence here is tolerated. If ever he enters
this house I shall most assuredly consider that you are conniving at
his insolence, and shall certainly confine myself to my own room during
his stay."

We have seen that Mr. Rainsfield was mindful of his wife's wishes, but
at the same time had no desire to make a breach with Smithers;
consequently he found himself in a dilemma, from which he saw no
extrication without giving offence to one or other of the parties. He
therefore made no promise to his wife.

"You don't answer me, John," said she, "what am I to consider you think
of his conduct?"

"Well, my dear," replied her husband, "I really can't tell. It is
certainly reprehensible, but there is no use quarrelling with Smithers.
If it is any satisfaction to you that he should not visit us I dare say
he will not trouble you; but for my own part I can't see how you can
expect him to forego his right to see Eleanor."

"Eleanor herself, when she recovers, if she ever does, will relieve him
from that obligation," replied Mrs. Rainsfield.

"How can you say that?" said her husband. "She has expressed no
intention of doing so."

"No, certainly; the poor girl is not in a state to express any
determination," replied the wife; "but do you think she will suffer
herself to be led to the altar by a brute like him, a man who has shown
himself on more than one occasion quite unworthy of her? If she has got
the spirit I think she has she will treat him with that contempt which
he deserves."

"I see how it is," exclaimed Rainsfield, "you are prejudiced against
Smithers."

"Prejudiced against Smithers, John?" replied his wife; "yes, I may be,
but not in the sense you mean. You fancy I dislike the man because I
would prefer Eleanor to accept another but you are mistaken. Hitherto I
never disliked Smithers as a man, but as a suitor of Eleanor I certainly
abhor him; and for this reason that I saw her inevitable fate would be
misery and wretchedness if she were ever mated to him. Now though I have
more than ever cause not only to detest him for his insolence to me but
to fear him for Eleanor's life."

"You are infatuated against him," replied the husband. "And for this
quarrel of yours you would wish to destroy his happiness irrespective of
the feelings of Eleanor herself. You say she is really ill and cannot be
spoken to on the subject; then at present let the matter rest until her
recovery."

"On one condition only," replied Mrs. Rainsfield, "and that is that
Smithers in the interval be banished from the house. If you agree to
that I am content to leave his further expatriation to her good
judgment."

"So let it be," replied her husband. "I'll see Bob, and try to persuade
him to let the settlement of the affair remain in _statu quo_."

With that the couple parted, the wife to return to the sick room, and
the husband to seek Smithers. We will not trace their steps on their
respective missions but merely state that Mrs. Rainsfield and Kate
passed an anxious night with their invalid. At an early hour on the
following morning, hearing a horseman's step passing the house, while
they were anxiously expecting the doctor, Mrs. Rainsfield looked from
the window of the room where she was keeping her vigils and detected the
retreating outline of Bob Smithers' form as he departed for his home.
Her husband she had not seen since their interview in the parlour, but
as she had not since that time left Eleanor's bedside it gave her no
concern; or at least she never thought of an absence of which she was
not cognizant. However he had been absent all night, and while the
doctor, who had arrived with William shortly after the departure of
Smithers, was administering his febrifuges to poor Eleanor he was
enacting the scene which we will detail to the reader.

Rainsfield had had a long conversation with Smithers on the subject
that had been communicated to him by his wife; and had, after a good
deal of persuasion, induced him to agree to absent himself from
Strawberry Hill until Eleanor's recovery.

Smithers, when he found his companion disposed to favour him, was the
louder in his asseverations of guiltlessness; demanding an instant
opportunity of explanation, and vowing vengeance against everybody
concerned, and John Rainsfield in particular, for not being master in
his own house. However Rainsfield, though he was inclined to forget his
dignity by stooping to entreaty with him, was nevertheless firm to his
purpose, and not to be intimidated by his blustering; and at last
succeeded in inducing him to promise to take his departure by daylight
the following morning, so as to avoid the possibility of any further
unpleasantness. With that he left him to his own meditations, and walked
away.

Mr. Rainsfield had not taken many steps beyond the out-buildings
belonging to the house before he heard his own name called in a cautious
manner from behind a tree; and, glancing his eye in the direction whence
came the voice, he was startled to see the stalwart figure of a black,
half concealed behind the trunk, beckoning him with his finger. The
suddenness of the apparition for some moments unnerved him, and deprived
him of the power of utterance. He, however, mastered his fears; and, as
his self-control returned, he demanded to know what the black wanted
with him.

"You know me, Mr. Rainsfield?" replied the black, "I'm Jemmy Davies."

"Oh, yes, I know you," replied Mr. Rainsfield, "but I thought you and
the whole of your tribe had left the country."

"So we did, sir, but we've all come back again, and a great many more of
the tribe too, and they are determined to kill you. Barwang and all
Dugingi's friends will kill you, and I can't prevent them though I've
tried; for they are too strong for me. So I've come to give you
warning."

"They intend to kill me, do they? then, by G--! they shall repent their
rash resolve. But how am I to believe this?" asked Mr. Rainsfield of the
black. "You! you wretch, have you got some vile scheme in your head.
Think yourself fortunate that I've no gun with me or I'd shoot you on
the spot."

"You wouldn't shoot me," replied Jemmy Davies; "didn't Mr. Tom tell you
that I'm always a good friend to you, how I tried to stop Dugingi from
stealing your rations when you killed so many of our tribe; and now I
come to tell you that they want to kill you and you think me no good.
But what for do you think, Mr. Rainsfield, I want to do you harm? If I
want to see you die I wouldn't tell you of this; but let the black
fellows kill you. If you will not believe me I can't help it; but if you
like to come down to the crossing-place to-night at dark I'll meet you
and show you our camp in the scrub; when you will see if I tell you a
lie. I will stop Barwang and his friends as long as I can, but I can't
prevent them altogether from coming to you; so you had better look out
and be ready."

This warning sounded as an avenging declaration in the ear of
Rainsfield. He had for sometime flattered himself on his security and
tranquillity; and hoped, nay even believed, that he had effectually
ridden himself of a hitherto incessant annoyance. But now that the
surviving friends of his foes had returned, with the avowed object of
seeking vengeance, he was troubled in his mind. He, however, determined
to further question his informant, and, rousing himself from a reverie
into which he had fallen, perceived that the black had departed. Mr.
Rainsfield dragged through the remainder of the day with a heavy heart,
and never more than then regretted the absence of his brother. Should he
accept the black's invitation? he asked himself. It would be a
satisfaction to know in what force they were collected; but then (he
thought) the messenger might mean treachery. However, he would go; he
could detect it if it existed, and if it was attempted he could shoot
the wretch before he had time or opportunity to betray him. Yes (he
thought) he would arm himself well, and meet Jemmy Davies at the time
and place he appointed.

"I'm glad you've come, Mr. Rainsfield," exclaimed the black, emerging
from the obscurity of the bush, as the squatter rode down to the bank of
the river some few hours after the last interview.

"Yes I've come," said Rainsfield, "and at your bidding; but see I am
well armed," as he pointed to a brace of revolvers in his belt, "and, if
you are attempting to play me false, the first shot I'll fire shall be
through your body."

"Never fear me, Mr. Rainsfield," replied Jemmy Davies, "I'm not going to
betray you. My greatest fear is not from your pistols but from the
tomahawks of my tribe; for if they find me with you they will be sure to
kill me."

"Very well," said Rainsfield, "I'll follow you, lead the way;" and the
two crossed the stream in silence.

"You had better leave your horse here, sir," said the guide, "in case he
should be heard by the tribe."

Rainsfield acted on this hint and dismounted; and fastening the animal
to a tree, he said to the black: "Now you can go on, but remember if
this is a trap for me you had better think twice before you proceed; for
I shall keep my hand ready to lodge a ball in your heart the moment I
perceive any treachery."

"Never be afraid, sir," replied the black, who continued to thread the
scrub in silence with his companion close to his heels. When they had
proceeded thus for some little time Rainsfield perceived by the
appearance of lights, and the noise of the blacks' voices, that they
were nearing "the camp." Jemmy Davies desired him to keep close to him,
and make no noise, as they were nearer the camp than appeared through
the thick scrub, and then led him a few steps further forward, when the
whole tribe became plainly discernible. They then dropt on their hands
and knees and crept close up to what we may call the circumvallation of
the gunyahs; and the crouching white man surveyed intently the scene
before him. Then would have been the time to have profited by his
position if treachery had been meditated; but not a leaf stirred around
them, while Rainsfield was lost in a reverie none of the most pleasant.
He was, however, aroused from this by Jemmy Davies, who pointed to a
group apart from the body of the tribe consisting of about fifteen men,
who were all armed with their spears, nullanullas, and boomerangs, and
were painted for a corroboree. One black, taller than the rest, was
haranguing them at the moment, and his hearers were apparently
acquiescing in his directions, from the yells and other marks of
approbation with which they from time to time greeted his diatribe.

"That's Barwang and his friends," whispered Jemmy as he drew away his
companion from the spot. "They will have a great corroboree to-morrow,
and then you look out. To-morrow night they will come up to the station
to watch, very likely they will be somewhere about where you saw me this
morning; so if you keep some one on the look-out, and fire some shots
into the bush, they will think you see them and keep away. They won't do
anything to-morrow night, but watch. When they come up to kill you there
will come a great many, so keep looking out."

Rainsfield and his companion returned to the crossing-place, when the
former mounted his horse and passed through the river, while the latter
returned to his tribe.




CHAPTER VII.

          "Till taught by pain,
    Men really know not what good water's worth."

    BYRON.


The reader will remember Tom Rainsfield's journey to town had been
delayed for some time beyond when he had originally intended to start
owing to the precarious state of Eleanor's health; consequently, when he
took his departure, it was necessary for him to use speed in his
travelling.

The summer had by that time considerably advanced, and the country had
suffered much from the continued drought that had prevailed for months.
Rain was anxiously and hopingly looked for, and a pluvial visitation
would have been hailed by the entire population with satisfaction. Tom,
as he journeyed, saw this desideratum more plainly than before leaving
home; for, as he mounted on to the extensive plains contiguous to the
source of the Gibson river, the parched bare soil became perfectly
uncomfortable to travel on.

These plains were of fine black alluvial soil, so thinly timbered as to
have hardly a tree visible within range of the eye. They were covered
with grass, which, when the earth contained any moisture, flourished
luxuriantly, and would at times stand waving like an agrarian picture of
cereal plenty, so abundant as to impede the progress of the equestrian
traveller. But now a "change had come o'er the spirit of the dream," and
the herbous mass lay scorched and dry on the arid ground, offering no
nutriment to the browsing kine, and only requiring a single spark to
generate a grand combustion.

Much has been said and written of the burning prairies of America, and
of the bush-fires of Australia; and we may remark, it is in such places
as these plains where they originate. Though not so extensive and
destructive in their course of devastation as those fearful
conflagrations in the western hemisphere, the bush-fires are still
frequently of sufficient magnitude to be perfectly irresistible; and
occurring as they usually do in the heart of a settled country, they are
rendered more dangerous to human life and property. How they originate
often remains a mystery. Of course carelessness frequently gives rise to
them; though at the same time they have been known to occur in parts
where neither whites nor blacks ever tread; and too often, when the
destroying element rages over and sweeps away a homestead or a farm, the
work is attributed to the incendiarism of some inoffensive blacks, who
are made to suffer at the hands of the whites.

Tom Rainsfield journeyed on his course over these plains that looked
like a vast neglected hay-field; except in parts where water had lodged
and formed temporary ponds or "water-holes." There it presented an area
of black mud, baked hard by the power of the sun, and had absorbed so
much of its heat as to render it even painful for a horse to stand upon.
Tom rode under vertical rays, keeping as much as possible on the
withered grass (as being more comfortable than the sun-absorbing and
reflecting road), without the companionship of a fellow traveller to
relieve the monotony and solitude of the way; and not daring to indulge
in the consolation of a pipe, lest a stray spark should ignite the
inflammable material at his feet. Miles and miles of this weary and
trying travelling were passed, and Tom was not sorry when the track
entered a country less open, and he once more rode through bush land.

Here, too, the ground, though partially sheltered from the sun's rays,
was equally devoid of feed and moisture. Not a blade of grass was to be
seen, nor a drop of water in the creeks and water-holes. For himself,
notwithstanding that his thirst was insatiable, Tom cared little; he
could manage to do without a drink until he reached the end of his day's
stage; but it was for the faithful animal that carried him that he
anxiously scrutinized every spot likely to contain the smallest
reservoir of the much coveted liquid. But his researches were all
unavailing; as yet no water could he find; until at one point on the
road, when he had almost given up the search as hopeless, he spied a
large swamp filled with reeds, in which a herd of cattle lay almost
concealed, apparently cooling themselves in the water. Here then he had
no doubt he should find what he and his horse had so much desired; and
hastening on to the black adamantine margin of what had formerly been a
large lagoon, he witnessed a sight that struck him with dismay. Not one
drop of water was visible in the extensive basin, and the cattle which
he had imagined were luxuriating in a natural refrigerator, were dead
and immovable.

Such scenes are common under similar circumstances; and at times, while
the country is suffering from the effects of a drought, to see cattle
"bogged" in a water-hole is only thought of as a necessary consequence
fully expected, and therefore hardly to be deplored. Still when
witnessed by one who may be seeking that which is essential to life, to
allay a thirst which may be consuming, it is enough to make the heart of
such sink within him; and, though Tom was hardly in so reduced a
predicament, yet he could not gaze on the unfortunate animals without
some unpleasant admixture of perturbation and concern.

In the swamp as many as fifty cattle had sought shelter from the heat
and moisture for their thirsty tongues. But having waded through the
mud, into which they had sank to their middles, they had possibly
satisfied themselves for the moment with a concoction of glutinous soil
and vapid lukewarm water; but, from their exhausted strength, had not
been able to extricate themselves from their miry bondage, and had
consequently died in their captivity. The mud at the time of Tom's visit
had perfectly hardened, and he traversed the whole bed of the swamp, in
the vain hope of finding some friendly hole in which a few welcome drops
might be found for his worn-out steed. But his search was fruitless, and
he was at last reluctantly compelled to relinquish it, from the attacks
of myriads of flies, who were disturbed at their bovine repast. He at
length continued his journey with a worn-out horse and a fagged and
jaded spirit, and was not a little grateful, as evening gathered its
shades around, to espy the glimmer of a light from the station which was
his night's destination.

Tom's further progress was equally tedious and trying. The whole country
seemed parched up, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could push
on at all; and as the fatigue to himself and his horse necessitated him
to make his day's stages much shorter than he desired, it was the sixth
day from his leaving Strawberry Hill that he entered the village of
Waverley on the Brisbane river.

When we call this a village it is only out of courtesy that we are
guilty of such a misnomer. For though, by the government plan of the
township, it looks a well-arranged and thriving place, we must state,
notwithstanding that building allotments had from time to time been put
up at auction by the government, and we may add found purchasers, and
that the existence of a public-house, rejoicing in the high-sounding
title of the Royal Hotel, lent an imposing air to the place,--the
gracefully tinted Queen Street, Albert Street, Prince of Wales Street,
etc. etc., of the elaborate survey office map, only existed in the mind
of the surveyor, and the imagination of the land-jobber. The said
thriving thoroughfares remained in a state of primeval grandeur; having
their boundaries marked, for the convenience of inquisitive seekers
after information, by small pegs driven into the ground, and whose sole
object seemed to be to lie concealed and bewilder those who might desire
to find them.

By the foresaid plan this town or village (or, as the Americans would
say, this city) of Waverley was laid out with considerable taste. The
streets were all broad and at right angles; with a market reserve;
grants for church sites to various denominations of Christians; and a
broad quay facing the river, either for commercial purposes or for a
promenade for the inhabitants. But in reality the whole of the
architecture of the place was comprised in the sole habitation, the
Royal Hotel; which was built near the bank of the river, with a rough
fence enclosing three sides of a piece of ground that ran down to the
water's edge. This constituted the paddock for the horses of weary
travellers; and, judging from the dilapidated and generally insecure
state of the fence, argued the rare occurrence of a quadrupedal
occupancy. However, the sight of these little imperfections gave Tom no
concern, as he was confident his animal would not attempt, in the state
of fatigue to which he was reduced, to go roaming; and what gladdened
his heart more than anything was the sight of what he had long been
unacquainted with, fresh water. It was therefore with a considerable
amount of mental relief that he rode up to the unpretending hostlery. He
alighted at a door before which stood a post suspending a nondescript
lamp of antideluvian construction, and bearing from its appearance
questionable evidence of its ever having been submitted to the ordeal of
beaconing the path of the weary traveller. On the same post was affixed
a board on which the sign of the house was very plainly executed in
Roman character; informing, and we think very necessarily so, the
occasional visitor there was to be had accommodation for man and beast.

The road leading to the Royal Hotel was not the one usually taken by
travellers from the interior to Brisbane. But Tom had chosen it to
avoid the more frequented track; knowing that in the present state of
the country travelling on the latter would be much more difficult and
troublesome. Therefore he had come by this secluded spot; intending to
cross the river, and travel down by the northern bank to Brisbane, while
the usual route was through the thriving and populous town of Ipswich,
and down the southern side of the Brisbane river.

Tom Rainsfield entered the inn; and having his horse taken round by the
landlord to a bark shed designated a stable, where he preferred tending
the animal himself, rather than leaving him to the tender mercies of a
stranger, he gave him a drink of water and a feed of corn; and then
placing some bush hay at his disposal, left him to practise his
mastication, and make the most of his time. Having thus arranged for the
comforts of his steed Tom next thought of himself; so strolling into
the house, while something was preparing to satisfy the cravings of his
inward man, he walked into "the bar," to indulge in a pipe with
something cheering, and amuse himself by a little conversation with the
landlord. He entered the precincts of that _quarterre_ devoted to the
worship of the rosy god, and where the ministering spirit presided,
stationed behind a primitive sort of counter or bench, and at whose back
stood two kegs with taps and sundry bottles arranged on a shelf. These
(whatever their contents) appeared to be the stock-in-trade of the
establishment; excepting a large cask which stood in a corner, and which
by its appearance indicated spirituous contents, from whose bulk
probably the smaller kegs were from time to time replenished. Into this
sanctum then walked our friend Tom Rainsfield, and after calling for a
drink, and desiring the landlord in bush fashion to join him, he lit his
pipe; and taking his seat on the counter entered into the following
dialogue.

"I shouldn't think you did much business here?"

"Oh, pretty fair, sir."

"Why, there doesn't appear to be many who frequent this room. I should
have thought it would have hardly been worth your while to have kept a
house in this place."

"Nor more it would if I lived by gents a-stopping at my house; for I
don't get one of 'em a month. But you see them as pays me is the
sawyers; there are lots of 'em about these parts, cutting timber on the
hills and in the scrubs; and when they get their logs down into the
river they mostly stop here a while drinking before they raft the timber
over the flats on their way down to the mills. Then when they come back
they generally stop a while on the spree before they go to work. So, you
see, I makes a pretty good thing out of 'em; besides you see I keeps
rations here as well as grog, and sell them to the fellers when they run
short and ain't got no money."

"But don't you often lose your money? I suppose they have none when they
go to town with their rafts, and very little when they come back; that
is even if they ever do come back; then I suppose you lose your score."

"Oh, I manage to get it; precious few ever 'bilk' me, for I know my
marks pretty well, and them as I fancy won't come back I get to pay me
in timber; and I brand the logs with my own brand, and give some of the
fellers I can trust so much a hundred feet to raft them down for me. But
mostly the chaps come back before they have spree'd away all their
money. So I gets my share, as they pay me then what they owe me, and
have another go in until they 'knock down their pile.'"

"And how much do their 'piles' consist of?"

"Well, I couldn't say anything regular. I have had as much as a hundred
pounds 'knocked down' by one man at a time." And as the man said this he
smiled and heaved a sigh that seemed to say those were prosperous times
for him. True enough it was that he had had as large a sum of money paid
to him by one man; but as to the amount being actually spent, or an
equivalent even in liquor supplied, is extremely doubtful; but to follow
them in their conversation, Tom remarked:

"And then they return to their work, I suppose, quite penniless?"

"Oh, yes, it is very few of them ever have any money when they get back
to the scrubs; they have no use for it there, so they spend it like
men."

"Like fools you mean."

"No I don't. What is the use of the poor man saving his money? he can't
do anything with it; he can't buy any land to settle on; and he doesn't
care to save up his money to be robbed of it or lose it; he works hard
enough to get it, and so likes to spend it himself."

"That is certainly one idea why working men should spend their hard-got
earnings. I should have imagined that men who had laboured hard, and
were living in the bush and scrubs in all sorts of discomfort, would
have had some desire to better their condition, and would have
accumulated means accordingly."

"Not a bit of it, sir! they couldn't do anything with their money when
they got it."

"Could they not buy a piece of land and commence farming? Here, for
instance, the land seems excellently adapted for agricultural purposes."

"They can't get none, sir. The government folks won't sell any to the
poor man, leastwise the poor man can't buy none, and if he wants any he
is forced to buy it off the 'jobbers,' who generally screw him so much
that it doesn't pay. So the fellers prefer keeping to the scrubs cutting
timber; 'cos then they are not bound to work for sharpers, and can just
please themselves."

It was evident the landlord of the Royal Hotel did not classify himself
in the category of those astute blades whom he designated by so cutting
an epithet; though Tom's opinion on that head somewhat differed from
"mine host's." He considered him a swindler of no ordinary magnitude,
though merely a type of his class. He was one of those locusts who
fattened on the hard working and reckless classes of colonial labourers;
who when they are plundering their victims, even under the guise of
friendship, dissuade them from frugality; expatiating on the numerous
sources of fraud (excepting of course their own) to which "the poor men"
would be exposed; and by their vile persuasions and chicanery too often
succeeding in eliminating from the minds of those with whom they come in
contact all notions of providence; and confirming them in their reckless
and dissipated lives. These bush publicans are the cause of immense
misery and depravity, and cannot be too harshly stigmatized for the
enormity of their infamies.

Tom being informed that the edibles prepared for him were awaiting his
operations discontinued his dialogue, and adjourned to his epicurean
repast; at which satisfactory occupation we may leave him uninterrupted.
As his next day's stage would only be some five and twenty miles he
determined to delay his departure until the afternoon so as to give his
weary horse some additional rest; and it was therefore past noon on the
following day when he mounted his nag and left the village of Waverley.

In leaving the inn he traversed the bank of the river for some few
hundred yards on his way to the flats where he was to cross when he
overtook a man that apparently had preceded him from the inn, and they
both went on together. The flats at this time were almost dry; for the
water in the river had long ceased to run, and at the particular spot to
which we allude, which was in ordinary times used as a ford, it could
have been crossed dry-shod, while above and below it the river remained
simply currentless pools. As Tom rode down to the bed of the river he
was struck with the immense number of logs that laid scattered about,
some on the banks, some in the river above, and some below, where a
small boat was moored, and a party of sawyers and raftmen camped. To
this party Tom's companion evidently belonged, and had apparently been
despatched to the public-house by his mates, as he was returning with
two suspicious-looking protuberances on each side of his bosom. These,
to outward appearance, very much resembled the outlines of bottles that
had been thrust into the ample folds of his blue shirt for convenience
and security of carriage. While trudging on the road alongside of Tom
Rainsfield the fellow gave evidence of a loquacious turn of mind by
commencing a conversation and inquiring if Tom was travelling to
Brisbane. Upon being informed by our friend that that was his
destination, and that he had come by way of Waverley to avoid the main
road on account of its desolate, dry, and feedless state, he remarked
with a whimsical smile: "I suppose you think that 'ere Waverley a fine
town?"

"It seems a very good site for a township," replied Tom. "There is good
land in the vicinity, and abundance of water. I daresay in the course of
a few years it will be a flourishing place."

"Not a bit of it, sir," said the man; "it never will be nothing. That
'ere house of Tom Brown's, 'The Royal,' as he calls it, will be the only
house in it for many a day, unless there be another public. Lor' bless
you, sir, that place of his even wouldn't be nothing if it wasn't for us
sawyers; we keeps old Brown alive, and he knows it."

"Well, my good friend," asked Tom, "what is to prevent others settling
in the town besides Tom Brown?"

"Why, what would be the good of it?" asked the other; "there would be
nothing for them to live upon. All the trade that's done is with us
sawyers, and there isn't more than Old Brown can do himself. Besides,
you see, most of the land that has been sold in the village has been
bought by the swells, who keep it to make money of it when some one
should want to buy."

"I have no doubt," said Tom, "the land in the vicinity will eventually
be sold for farming, and then the growth of the village arising from the
trade that will ensue will be rapid."

"Ah! there it is, sir. You see the squatters have got all the land now
for their sheep to feed on, and a poor man as has got a pound or two,
and wants a few acres, can't get 'em no how."

"But the government is continually putting up land for sale," said Tom;
"and if any man desired to avail himself of the opportunity surely he
could attend the sales and effect a purchase."

"No, sir, they couldn't," said the man; "for, you see, suppose I'm
working here in the bush and want to buy a bit of ground, how am I to
know when there is any for sale? They will perhaps mark out a few farms
near Brisbane, or Ipswich, and put 'em for sale, and they are sold off,
or leastwise the best of 'em, before I or any of my mates know anything
about it; or if so be as how I should get to hear of it and go to the
sale, there's so many people wanting 'em, perhaps gents who maybe live
in town, and want paddocks for their horses, that they will give better
prices than I can give; so, you see, I don't get half a chance. If I
want a bit of land to farm I think I ought to be able to get it anywhere
I like just as easy as the squatter can get his country. Axing your
pardon, sir, I suppose you're a squatter?"

"That's true, my good man," replied Tom; "but I think myself that the
restrictions on the land are vastly injurious to the country, though I
doubt, even if every facility was given to the working man to procure
land if he would avail himself of the opportunity; and, instead of being
of benefit to him in the way intended, I question if the land would not
fall into the hands of 'jobbers.' Such a state of things is equally, if
not more, to be deprecated than the present system of permitting it to
remain in the possession of the squatters; for now it is made available
for pasturage; whereas then it would be allowed to lie unproductive
until such a time as the speculator could see an opportunity of a
profitable realization."

"There would be plenty of us would buy lands and settle on them," said
the man, "if we only had the chance. Now if you like, sir, I'll just
tell you a case."

Tom, though he knew all the man said was perfectly true, offered no
objection to the narrative, being desirous of eliciting from him his
notions on the subject, which was a much vexed one in the whole colony,
and purposely encouraged him to launch as deeply into it as he thought
fit.

"It is about my brother, sir," said the man, "so I know it is quite
true, and you may believe it. We both came to this country together
about seven years ago, and took to cutting timber and rafting because it
paid well those times; and we made plenty of money, though we spent it
as fast as we got it. But somehow my brother didn't join much with the
other fellows, for he always was a steady chap, but took to saving his
money, and 'you may believe me,' it wasn't long before he had got 'a
pile,' of more than two hundred pounds. Now, sir, you see, when Bill
(that was his name) had saved all that money nothing would do him but he
must have a bit of ground and commence farming. There was a talk then of
some land being marked out somewhere near this 'ere town of Waverley; so
Bill thought he would like to have a few acres hereabouts better than
anywhere else. He asked some one who knew all about that sort of thing
how he should go about it to buy some, and the chap told him that he
ought to go to Brisbane and ask of the surveyors. So off he went to what
they call the survey office, and told the big-wig there that he wanted
to buy some land. Now this card showed him a lot of plans of where, he
said, they had land for sale; and Bill looks at 'em and took directions,
and went into the bush to have a look at 'em. But he found 'em to be no
good; they was only lots that had been left at the government sales,
when all the best pieces had been sold, and the ironbark ranges and
quartzy or barren gravelly country left; so he wouldn't buy any of 'em,
and told the chap in the office that he wanted some at Waverley; but he
told him he couldn't have none there as it wasn't surveyed.

"Now the party Bill stopped with put him up to a wrinkle how he would
get the land he wanted to be surveyed 'cos he knew how to manage it. He
got up a requisition, or made an application, to have some lands on the
Brisbane river at Waverley surveyed and put up for sale, and sent it to
the government, as he said that was the sure way to get it. But it was
no go; the survey chaps told him that all the land thereabouts was
leased to squatters, and they couldn't touch it; but, says they, if you
want a nice piece of country there is some out here on the river, about
five miles away, that we are going to measure off into farms directly,
and they will just suit you; so, says they to my brother, just you go
out and have a look at them. Well, Bill went to look at 'em, and, sure
enough, they was first-rate land, so he said to himself I'll have a farm
there, and that's settled. But he was all wrong; for he didn't get a
farm there an' nowhere else as I shall tell you.

"When he came back, after having see'd the land, he went to the office
and told the people that that place would just suit him, and he would
take a farm and buy it right off. But they laughed at him, and told him
that he couldn't buy it before it was surveyed, but that in a short
time, a week or so at most, they would have it all right and ready for
sale; so Bill thought he might make the best of it and wait. A couple
of weeks passed and he went to them, but it was not done; so he waited
another week or two, and went back again, when they told him that they
had had no time to see to it, but were going to do so very shortly. So
he waited another month, and then enquired, when they had the cheek to
tell him that they were obliged to put it off for they could not attend
to it at all, having so much work to do at other places; but that if he
would come back to town in about three months it would be all ready for
sale.

"Now Bill was bent upon having one of them farms, so, instead of letting
the surveyor chaps, and the farms too, go to--where-ever they liked for
their humbugging, he came back to the bush to work for the three months,
and then went to town again to look after the land. But when he went to
the office even then the fellers hadn't surveyed it; and instead of
telling him like men that they were only humbugging him, and never
intended to do it at all, they commenced their little games again, and
told him that the surveyors were then at work on a particular job, but
that as soon as they were done there they would go to the land he was
waiting for. Well, sir, it's no good my telling you all the ins and outs
of it; but the long and the short of it is they kept Bill in a string
for six months, and then they didn't do the work, and I don't know if it
is done now; so, you see, that's how us poor men can't get any land."

"I believe what you complain of is perfectly true," said Tom. "The
system is much to be deplored, but I hope it will shortly be improved.
Unless a man is on the spot, and can wait for an opportunity, such as
when a sale occurs, there is certainly very little chance for him; and
men that are employed in the bush very rarely if ever have that chance."

"Just so, sir," said the man.

"And what did your brother do with his money after having so much of it
and his time wasted in looking after this land?"

"Ah, sir! there is what makes me curse the land, and the surveyors, and
all the lot, for it killed Bill, and there never was a better feller
breathing. I'll tell you how it was, sir. I told you Bill was a steady
chap; he never used to drink, anyhow not to spree, you know; but, you'll
guess, no man could stop at a public-house for six months doing nothing
without getting on the spree. Bill used to walk up and down on the
verandah at the public where he stopped, and smoke his pipe, while he
thought how them fellers at the survey office were a-treating of him,
and he got miserable like in his spirits. So when fellows got to know
him, and used to come into the house, they'd ask him to take a nobbler
with them; and somehow, you see, though he didn't do nothing of the sort
at first, he was soon glad to get some one to join him in a drink, and
being at it all day, you know, he used to get very drunk at times; so he
went on until at last he was always drunk. Now Bill all this time had
been keeping his money by him, so that he would be ready, when he
wanted it, to buy his farm. So, what with always having plenty of money
'to shout' for other fellers (for you know, sir, he was a stunning
feller to shout when he got a little bit screwed), and the lots of
fellers as always stuck to him when they knew he got 'tin,' he very soon
got 'cleared out;' and one day, after a tremendous spree, when he had
been drunk for more than a week, he got 'the horrors,' and started to
come home to the scrub. I never saw him after that, sir; for he got
drowned in one of the creeks on the road, and was found by some shingle
splitters soon afterwards without a shilling in his pocket; so that's
what he got, poor fellow, for trying to turn farmer. Now you see, sir,
we don't see the good of doing like that; so we never trouble ourselves
about saving any money, and we are a deal better off, and a happier,
than them as do."

Tom did not attempt to refute the sophistry of this argument as he was
aware that it would be useless. He knew that the case of this man's
brother was by no means a solitary one; for not only had the suicidal
policy of the colonial government with regard to the disposal of the
waste lands been instrumental in the destruction of numerous victims
similar to this unsophisticated sawyer; but it was absolutely driving
that entire class of men into reckless extravagance and dissipation.
Whereas a liberal land policy would not only have engendered a spirit of
providence, but have offered an inducement, and have proved a stimulus,
to the country's settlement by a thriving rural population.

But the ministerial Solons of the country could not be induced to view
the subject in that light; hence this deplorable state of morality and
improvidence, which unfortunately pervades the great bulk of the country
population. In urban localities the evil is not so severely felt, as a
steady and industrious mechanic, with his accumulated savings, is
enabled to purchase a town allotment (which allotments are just
frequently enough thrust into the market by the government as to keep
the demand in excess of the supply), and to build on it a house, which
he erects by degrees, as his means admit. Thereby, in course of a short
time, he gathers round him in the land of his adoption a comfortable
little freehold property. Thus it is, nearly all the town workmen who
are possessed of any savings convert them into something substantial;
but for the bushmen no such opportunity exists; and hence it follows,
that the towns-people are generally industrious, steady, and frugal,
while those of the bush are too frequently the reverse.

"That certainly was a melancholy end for your brother," said Tom to his
companion, resuming the conversation that had lapsed for a few minutes.

"Yes, sir, it was; and if Bill, poor fellow, had just been content to
stick to the scrub like us he would most likely have been 'still to the
fore.' You see, sir, we live a jolly life; are quite contented, and
spend our money while we've got it. Now those fellows over there,"
continued the man as he pointed to the sawyer's camp, in sight of which
they had just arrived, "not one of 'em would give up his life to go and
work in town if you paid him ever so high wages."

"I've no doubt their mode of life is fascinating; but still I should
think the heavy drinking in which they indulge sometimes impairs their
health and constitution."

"Not a bit, sir! We never feel anything the worse for a spree, nor in
anyways sick; 'cos you see we work hard, and most always live in the
bush; so we are always healthy."

"I've no doubt that will preserve you in a great measure; but still you
must be perfectly aware that, even if you never experience any
deleterious effects, you continually leave yourself destitute; and if
anything in the way of sickness should happen to you, so as to
incapacitate you for work, you would not only starve, but die from
neglect and want of proper treatment.

"Don't you believe it, sir! There would be no fear of my wanting
anything. Do you think if one of my mates was sick now that I wouldn't
share with him what money I'd got, or that I wouldn't look after him as
if he was my brother? In course I would, and if I got sick my mates
would do the same for me."

By this time Tom and his companion had half crossed the bed of the
river; and noticing the plans the men had adopted to get their timber
over the flats, Tom commenced a fresh interrogation to elicit from his
travelling concomitant some information on the usual mode of procedure.
As the subject may have some degree of interest to a few of our readers
we will give in our own words the substance of the dialogue, craving
permission to premise it by a remark or two on the general life and
movements of sawyers.

They are a class of men who exist during the greater portion of the year
in the bush and scrubs bordering on the rivers and creeks, where they
unceasingly and uninterruptedly practise their vocations. They generally
work in gangs, either on equal shares or on wages to one of their
number, who may be more thoughtful than the rest; and one who,
notwithstanding a fair share of dissipation, may have accumulated,
possibly through the influence of a thrifty wife, some considerable
means. The classes of timber most in demand, and therefore most sought
for by these men, are cedar and pine; which are procured separately, in
certain localities, in great abundance. This local segregation of the
woods is a characteristic of the Australian bush, and more than anything
else tends to create that monotony which is everywhere perceptible. It
causes the eye of the traveller to weary as he looks continually on the
leafless bare-looking trunks of the blue gum (which without intermission
meets his gaze for miles and miles on the lonely road) or the
sombre-looking ironbark that with equal pertinacity monopolizes the
ranges. Rarely, if ever, will an admixture of timbers be found to any
extent; and, consequently, those sawyers who cut pine leave the cedar
scrubs to be visited by the others; and _vice versa_.

The timber is usually cut in the dry season; and the trees after being
cleared of their limbs and foliate appendages, and denuded of their
bark, are drawn by the means of a bullock team to the nearest creek or
river, where they are deposited until such time as the rains
sufficiently swell the streams to float them from their resting-places.
With an iron brand in the shape of a punch, and a hammer, each cutter on
the end of every log indelibly marks his own property; and as the logs
are removed from their beds by the rising current, a staple is driven
into each. Through this a chain is passed, when the whole are collected
into one raft, and securely moored to wait, in their transit down the
stream, the pleasure of the proprietor. The time usually chosen to raft
the timber is when the rivers are moderately high after rains; or, in
the parlance of the upper part of the country, when there is "a flood,"
and in the lower, when there is "a fresh" in the river. They are then
started in their downward course either by the directing aid of a small
boat (if the ascent of the stream is practicable for it) or under the
guidance of some of the party; who make a firm footing for themselves on
their floating platform, by sheets of bark and foliage. They then trust
themselves to the current, while they guide the course of the raft with
poles until they come to flats. When the rivers are to any extent
swollen, or (as it is said in the country) "running," the rafts usually
pass over without difficulty; but if the water is low, and the flats
barely covered, the passage is necessarily not so easily effected, and
frequently impossible. Such then was the case at the Waverley flats at
the time of which we write. And it was with the water almost at the
lowest ebb that the party Tom saw had been endeavouring to float over
their raft; the process for which they had adopted we now propose to
explain.

It is necessary at some point to have a boat to assist the raftmen in
their guidance of the unwieldy mass, and one is usually kept by them for
that purpose at the highest point to which it can be conveniently
brought. After escaping all impediments the boat takes the raft in tow;
and, as it progresses on the stream and comes within the action of
tides, on the occasion of each flowing, the party have to draw their
raft into the bank, and camp until the return of the ebb. In their
journey to the mills rarely more than three or four of the party,
including the proprietor if not a joint stock affair, accompany the
timber; while the remainder pursue their occupation of cutting.

The party that was camped at the Waverley flats consisted of five
individuals in all. They had been working in shares for some months
collecting the raft they then had with them, and were all accompanying
it to the mills to sell it and have the proceeds equally distributed.
But the season having been an unusually dry one they had here met with
an effectual check, and had no alternative but to wait for rain.

When they first reached the flats the water was just running over them,
but not sufficiently deep to admit of the passage of their property; so
the fellows had recourse to the expedient of forming "a race" to effect
their purpose, and this they had accomplished in the following way: A
few of the logs were drawn up and arranged longitudinally from either
bank of the river in an oblique direction to a focus in the centre of
the flat; from this point the logs were arranged parallel to one another
right across the bank to the deep water below. They were then all firmly
staked into the soil, and the interstices between and below them were
packed so as to perfect a dam or barrier to the water. The result of
this plan as is evident was that the water flowing over the flat was
confined to the narrow channel between the parallel logs, and thereby
attained a higher elevation and a swifter current. To the mouth of this
impromptu canal, then, the sawyers brought the logs one by one, and they
were made, with very little guiding, to shoot through the passage with
speed and precision. After getting nearly a hundred of the logs in this
manner over the impediment, the water continuing to fall, eventually
left them with not even sufficient to make their sluice available; so,
with fully half their raft fixed above the flat, the men were compelled
to be idle until they had sufficient water to float the remainder over.

Tom had expressed surprise to his companion that he and his mates did
not proceed with the timber that had passed the flat, and leave some of
their companions behind to watch for the flood in the river, and secure
the others as they should descend. He pointed out that by that means
they would, in all probability, have got their first raft down to the
mills, and had time to return before the rains came on. But this, his
companion told him, the sawyers were afraid to risk, because, he said,
if the river rose rapidly, which they fully expected, they would want
all their number on the spot, otherwise they might lose half the timber.
Besides, in the absence of their boat, it would be an impossibility to
secure any of the logs if they should be washed over. "And then," he
continued, "we have been expecting the rain to commence every day for
weeks past." So it was deemed advisable by the whole party to await the
rising of the river; and, even watchful as they were, they fully
expected that if the flood came upon them at all suddenly, they would
lose a considerable number of the logs.

After crossing the river (or rather the bed of it), and leaving the
sawyers' party, Tom Rainsfield leisurely pursued his journey; and, after
riding for about twenty miles or so, he could perceive, by the nature of
the country and the occasional appearance of "improvements," that he was
approaching the town of Brisbane. Towards dark the road led him through
lines of fences, and past a few cottages and cultivated fields, and
thence by detached buildings, until he finally entered the town and put
up at his hotel not at all dissatisfied at the completion of his
journey. The country, even to town, had equally suffered by the drought.
Hardly a vestige of herbage was to be seen on the whole surface of the
ground, and the mortality amongst the beasts was fearful, and painfully
perceptible from the fulsome malaria in the atmosphere. Tom's horse was
reduced to a perfect shadow, and was so weak that when he reached the
inn he could hardly drag one foot after another, and certainly could not
have existed another day with a continuation of his privations. Hence
Tom was additionally delighted when he drew rein at the Crown Hotel, and
permitted his weary and faithful animal to be led away to the stables,
while he proceeded to refresh himself in a manner most pleasant after
his own fatigues.




CHAPTER VIII.

    "Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd,
    Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round,
    Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale,
    Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale."

    GOLDSMITH.


When Tom Rainsfield arrived in Brisbane he found it entirely absorbed in
politics, and the public attention so engaged in the all-important
question of separation that even the deplorable state in which the
country then was in was for the time forgotten. Business for the nonce was
entirely relinquished, and the good citizens were in a perfect ferment
of exultation, consequent on the receipt of joyous news. As a few
remarks respecting the topography of the place, and the nature of the
people's agitation, may not be here amiss we will endeavour to describe
and trace their progress through their various phases to the date of our
narrative.

The town of Brisbane is pleasantly situated on a picturesque and
meandering river of the same name, about twenty miles from the point
where it disembogues into Moreton Bay. Passing its first establishment
it was not until the year 1840 that it was resorted to for the purposes
of trade. In that year drays first crossed "the range" by Cunningham's
Gap; and the squatters, who were then pushing on in the settlement of
the interior, discovered that this place could be made a convenient port
for the shipment of their produce to Sydney. The place, however, being
only a convict settlement free settlers were prohibited from approac

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