CHAPTER XVII.
HELEN.
SOME years before the occurrence of the events recorded in the former part of our narrative, Mr. Sedley, a professional gentleman, pretty well off in the world, and with a good position in society, having taken umbrage at some slight offered him in the county town where he had imagined his influence to be paramount, hastily made up his mind to leave the country.
In pursuance of this design, he first of all disposed of his practice; sold the house in which he lived, and the greater part of his furniture; went into lodgings; and then, when all these steps had been taken, began to study the science of emigration in connection with the numerous and various British colonies scattered over the face of the globe.
If Mr. Sedley had had only himself to please, the matter would have been of smaller consequence than it was. But he was a married man, and was, in sequence, the father of some half-dozen sons and daughters. Of these appendages, or encumbrances as they are sometimes called, such as were old enough to have any opinions of their own were at first rather rebellious; at least, they thought it hard to have to give up the comforts and luxuries of a genteel home in England for the uncertain prospects and advantages, and the certain toils and sacrifices, of an emigrant life.
But Mr. Sedley had a strong will of his own, and was especially liable to attacks of obstinacy which sometimes seemed to lead on to remorselessness of purpose, and which, as is usual in such cases, gained strength by opposition. It was natural enough, therefore, though not necessarily judicious, that he should silence the objections of these younger members of his family, by the unanswerable argument wrapped up in Le roi le veut.
As to Mrs. Sedley, the meek-spirited wife, it was sufficient for her to know that she must follow in her husband's wake. Had she not vowed to "love, honour, and obey"? So, without any fruitless remonstrances, she prepared quietly to fulfil her duty.
As, however, my story is about John Tincroft, I must follow the fortunes of the Sedley family only so far as they relate indirectly to the continuance of his history. Briefly, then, after long pondering on the subject, and consulting as many authorities as he thought expedient, the ex-lawyer fixed on the then almost terra incognita of Australia as his general, and the part of it known as New South Wales as his particular, destination.
Those were not the times of fast clippers, to say nothing of ocean steamers. As Mr. Sedley, however, could afford to pay good passage-money, he and his set sail one day in late summer from Gravesend, under comparatively comfortable circumstances.
The voyage was attended with the usual variety of monotonous incidents. It was long and wearying, but it came to an end; and about the commencement of the Australian summer, the party landed at Sydney. Not long to remain there, but to proceed a good way up the country to a farm or settlement, which, on the representation of an advertisement, and forgetting his professional caution, the gentleman had purchased without seeing.
The bargain probably was not a bad one, after all; or it might not have been, in the hands of one who understood the ins and outs of a pastoral life at the Antipodes. But, unfortunately, Mr. Sedley would have been at his wits' ends on an English farm; for farming comes no more by nature than gig-driving. Very soon, therefore, he found himself altogether beyond his wits on an Australian settlement. In other words, misfortunes rapidly set in upon him; and to add to his embarrassments, one of those periodical times of depression, to which all now colonies are more or less subject, fell upon New South Wales.
Happily for the Sedleys, their whole property was not invested in land and stock, and they outrode the storm. After the lapse of a year or two, their circumstances began to mend; and they had their share in the returning and increasing prosperity of their adopted country.
But while regaining his lost ground in this respect, Mr. Sedley had still reason to regret the course into which he had been driven by the impulses of his unreasoning obstinacy. In England he had maintained a certain position in social life for which he was very well suited, and in which were combined and concentrated a good many rational pleasures, counterbalanced, it is true, by a liability to be slighted and mortified occasionally.
In Australia, he had none with whom to dispute precedence, or to stand up for his rights, simply because he had no such neighbours. He was "monarch of all he surveyed," it is true; but then it was because he had no equals or fancied superiors his "right to dispute." Wife and children—an ignorant and awkward and untoward woman-help who had come out to the colony under the pressure of circumstances, and at the expense of the home Government—a shepherd and hut keeper (obtained under similar advantages or disadvantages), who drew monthly rations and smoked strong tobacco, and otherwise comported themselves as free and independent savages in a shanty some three miles away—a rough-and-ready bush carpenter and blacksmith, with a rather more civilised groom of the stables at home, and one or two farm labourers, who called Mr. Sedley their "boss," obeying him when it suited them, and setting him aside when it did not, formed the whole of the community within a radius of some ten miles in every direction.
Now, this was not, in all respects, pleasant to Mr. Sedley. Authority is gratifying, no doubt, under certain conditions, and when it can be enforced. But in this case, those conditions were wanting, and all that Mr. Sedley got for his occasional outbreaks of despotic temper was the timid fear of those to whose confiding love he thought he had a right, and the contempt and daring rebellion of the few to whom he looked for unlimited obedience.
If Mr. Sedley was disappointed in his fancy-drawn pictures of an emigrant life (on which he ought never to have entered, because totally unfitted for it), his wife and children were confirmed in their prophetic dread of it. To have exchanged a respectable family mansion in a quiet country town, a bevy of well-conducted servants, a circle of friends and acquaintances, the delights of leisurely occupations, the conveniences of life in general, for a rough log-house in what to them was a desert, with all its disadvantages and drawbacks, was simply disgusting.
They had not been accustomed to hardships, and the freedom they might have exercised and enjoyed in their new home, and which to many others would have been a boon of price, was to them mere slavery. We have thought proper to drew attention to, and to dwell for a minute or two on, this state of things at Sedley Station, as the settlement was called, for a reason of our own. It is a benevolent one: let this suffice.
To go on with our episodal sketch.
The Sedleys were to pass through deeper trials than the disappointments and coarse toils of an emigrant life. Not many years after their settling down at the station, a fever (introduced, as was supposed, by a miserable, half-starved wretch who was loafing his way from settlement to settlement professedly in search of work, and who was taken in out of charity, and suffered to remain for some days to recruit his strength) broke out among them. Only those who have passed through a like experience can fully enter into the terrors of that time.
At first, recourse was had to the family medicine chest which the Sedleys had brought out with them from London. This failing, the nearest doctor was sent for. He lived full thirty miles away, and he came to find two of the stricken ones already dead, two in a state of collapse, the remaining two in the earlier stages of the fever, and the parents, who had been deserted by their faithless helps at the outbreak of the sickness, in almost speechless agony of mind, and worn out with bodily fatigue.
A few weeks later, and the home was desolate. Of all who had, a few years before, left a happy home in England, only two remained—the father, prematurely aged, and Helen, a maiden of fifteen; the fever had carried off all beside—the mother last of all. She had been spared, upheld as it seemed by the strength of a mother's devotion, till her services were no longer needed, and then she too was stricken down.
Time softens sorrow, especially to the young. Helen Sedley had felt, with all the poignancy of a daughter's and a sister's grief, the bereavement of which we have told. But as months, and afterwards years, passed away, her tears ceased to flow as she thought of the lost ones; and she bent herself with more determination to the duties in life which lay before her.
She had need enough to do this, for her path was rough, and her duties were severe. The infirmities of age were fast gathering and concentrating themselves upon Mr. Sedley, and through these the infirmities of his natural temper became more and more glaring. To Helen, indeed, he was gentle and loving; to his dependents, he was as morose and arbitrary as the conditions of their service permitted or enabled him to be, and the kind-hearted girl had constantly to watch for those outbursts of anger, so as both to moderate their fury and to prevent their worst consequences.
We have hinted that some of the servants at Sedley Station were of the convict class. Indeed, the labour market of the colony was, at the time of which we write, in a great measure supplied by convicts on ticket-of-leave. Many of these turned out valuable servants. In fact, knavery, at any rate on a small scale, was too bad a trade to fall back upon; it paid a transported housebreaker or pickpocket much better to practise honest labour. The spell, therefore, was to a great extent broken. At the same time, there were desperate characters among the convicts whom no discipline could tame, and whom experience could not teach; and there is no doubt that such as these were an element of danger to all concerned.
The men whom Mr. Sedley first engaged, or rather obtained from the proper authorities, as his bond-servants, had worked out their time and disappeared soon after the terrible blow fell on him and Helen. But others of the same class succeeded, and it was between these and her father, when in his moods of obstinate despotism, that Helen had so frequently to mediate, or afterwards to interpose the balm of soft and kindly words to the chafed and galled.
"Your father may thank you, Helen Sedley, for being in a whole skin at this present," said a man to her one day, when Sedley had been mare than usually violent in his language and bearing towards him for having, in some trivial matter, disobeyed his orders. "He taunted me with having been lagged, as you heard, Miss Sedley; and it isn't the first nor the second time, and my opinion is that he will do it once too often. He threatened me with Norfolk Island, too, did he? Let him take care that he isn't sent to a darker and narrower hole than Norfolk Island one of these days."
"You must not speak so to me, Styles," said Helen, firmly, though her heart secretly fluttered at seeing the dark eyes of the man glisten, as with the wild fire of rage and vengeance, while he was speaking. But Helen, though scarcely twenty years old, was wise and brave as well as good and kind; and she knew that she must not show signs of fear.
"I must speak, Miss Sedley," rejoined the man, respectfully enough so far as Helen was concerned, but doggedly and fiercely too; "if I don't speak here and now, I shall talk to another purpose somewhere else, and at some other time, not far-off, perhaps. Look here, Miss Sedley, in the old country I was as good a man as your father, I reckon, though I mightn't have had his education. At all events, I wasn't a lawyer as he was—so I have heard, at least. But I was a gentleman's son, and might have been a gentleman myself at this time if it hadn't been for—there, never mind. But I don't forget what I was once; and 'tis hard lines to be treated worse than a dog, as your father treats me."
"I have told you many times, Styles, how much I feel for you—for all who are in your unhappy position," said Helen, softly; "and now I ask you for my sake to make allowances for my father."
"He makes precious few allowances for me," retorted the man, gloomily. Nevertheless, he remained waiting to hear what more Helen had to say.
"You know what a loss he—what a loss both of us had to bear five years ago. My mother, my sisters, my brothers—there were six of us then—" Helen's firmness gave way here.
"I know—that is, I have heard it all," said Styles, more mildly than he had before spoken; "and I am a brute not to make allowances, as you say. But it is hard, Miss Sedley, for all that, to be a—to be what I am, and to feel what I feel at times. It gets over me. Do you know why I was sent out and am here, Miss Sedley?"
"I have never inquired, and I have never been told," the young woman answered.
"It was not for dishonesty; I never stole a penny, I never cheated any man out of a farthing to my knowledge; but I struck a man when I was in a passion, and I struck him hard. I didn't mean to do mischief; I didn't know what I was doing till it was too late. The man insulted me, but not so bad as your father has done the same thing, and I was too high-spirited to stand it. Before he could speak another word, the deed was done; he fell down like lead, and he never spoke again."
The perspiration broke out on Styles's forehead, and his lips quivered as he spoke; and then presently he added, more quietly and softly—
"I tell you, Miss Sedley, it isn't safe for your father to go on as he does with others as well as with me. I don't want to hurt him. It is bad enough to have one man's death on the mind, to want to have another. But what has happened once unawares might happen a second time. There's some of the old grit left, I sometimes feel; and setting myself aside, there are others who wouldn't care a straw so they could have their revenge."
"I thank you for your warning, Styles," said Helen; "and I will do what I can to make your position—I mean to shield you from trouble of any sort. I did not before know what you have now told me; but as you are feeling now the consequences of rash anger, you surely would not give way again to the same temptation?"
"I don't know why not, Miss Sedley. Life such as mine out here is not so valuable as to be worth keeping. But you speak about my feeling the consequences, you don't know all."
The man's voice faltered here, and the muscles of his face were painfully moved.
"I had a wife—I hadn't been married a year." The poor ticket-of-leave man here broke out into a passionate cry, and hastily turned away.
"Don't speak of it to me, Styles. It only distresses you. Pray to God to give you pardon and strength to bear your sorrow. The Lord Jesus will give you rest and peace. Go to Him."
"Yes, I know, I know," said the man, again facing his monitress; "but I think for all that, the devil would long before now have got the mastery, if it hadn't been for you. Helen Sedley, you are like my Caroline, like what she was; and when I look on you, my heart seems to soften."
"And have you no hope of being restored to her?"
"No hope. She is dead; she died on ship-board the year after our last parting in prison. She was following me out." And the man walked slowly away when he had said this.
It was with experiences such as these that Helen Sedley became familiar in her life in the Australian bush. Let it be borne in mind that I am writing of what is now long past. Australian life, whether in bush or towns and cities, has strangely altered since then. But is it to be wondered that, under such circumstances, a feeling of desolation sometimes made the solitary young woman sad, while the need for constant watchfulness and daily labour, not always of the most feminine kind, made her seem and feel older than her years.
As time wore on, Helen had to take active superintendence of her father's concerns, even to the occasional visiting of the out-station, for he was becoming feeble and forgetful. It was in fulfilment of this duty that she had, soon after the conversation just recorded, to take cognisance of a plot she had discovered (but in which the man Styles had no part), and which had some time been in operation, for seriously damaging the livestock on the distant run.
On making this discovery, there was no alternative but to lodge an information with the nearest district magistrate; and Helen had, reluctantly enough but courageously, to be a witness against the conspirators. These were convicted, principally on her evidence, and heavily sentenced. Being remitted to headquarters to undergo a lengthened imprisonment, these men were replaced in the station by others of the same class.
But thenceforth it could not be concealed from the Sedleys (father and daughter) that they were surrounded by greater dangers than ever. Is it to be wondered that, in the bitterness of her loneliness, Helen sometimes uttered the mournful plaint within herself, "Oh, why did we ever leave England?"
CHAPTER XVIII.
AN ADVENTURE.
ON the afternoon of an early day in an Australian spring, a solitary horseman was leisurely enough passing over a longish stretch of plain, bounded behind him by a forest from which he must have emerged some half an hour or more, and in advance by a range of hills looking blue by reason of distance. On either hand the ground rose irregularly, so as to hide any distant prospect.
The traveller was a tall young man, strongly built, with an open countenance, somewhat sunburnt, expressive of unsuspiciousness and general good humour, though with a dash of determination in some of the features—especially the firmly-set lips, which, to a physiognomist, might have denoted a certain amount of obstinate determination. An old colonist would, moreover, have discovered at the first glance that the stranger was but a recent importation from the old country.
The horse on which he rode was a serviceable, rough-coated animal, strong-limbed and long-winded, as it had need to be, seeing that though it had already made several days' journeys, on scant fare and with little stable luxury, it had yet to bear its rider many other days before a day's rest could be granted. The steed was plainly accoutred, well-bitted, however; and the saddle, though it had seen service, was sufficiently comfortable for both man and beast.
The traveller was clad in homely garb, such as indicated a probable connection with farming and grazing, and behind him was strapped a tolerable-sized portmanteau, most likely containing necessary or desirable conveniences for his journey; while a haversack suspended over his shoulder showed that he had provisioned himself against one of the inconveniences of desert travelling—a lack of hospitality on the road. This was likely enough to be his experience.
He had left a township where he had passed the preceding night, some forty miles behind him, with the expectation of having to camp out after sundown, or when his horse and himself should be too tired to proceed further; and he had journeyed on all day without any signs of human life. He had been told, indeed, that there was a station near the road where he might possibly obtain accommodation; but the character given of its owner was not sufficiently inviting to induce him to turn aside from his course.
He had only recently rested on the bank of a narrow creek, or streamlet, or irregular watercourse, where he had refreshed himself and his steed, and guided partly by the direction of that stream, partly by a pocket compass, was steadily renewing his journey, when a loud, long-continued cry smote suddenly upon his senses. New as he evidently was to bush life in the colony, the young man might have mistaken the sound for the far-off call of some strange bird or beast if it had not been repeated with greater distinctness, which enabled him to recognise in it the far-extending call of a human voice, peculiar, we believe, to the Australian world in the prolonged shout of "Coo-ee."
A tightening of the bridle brought the obedient horse to a standstill, while the rider listened again to hear the sound, but this time in fainter tones, and accompanied by a shriller shriek, as of one in agony or bodily fear. The traveller did not hesitate any longer, but turning his horse's head in the direction whence the sounds seemed to come, he applied spurs and whip, and was the next minute galloping towards the summit of the irregular incline on the left hand, which, as we have said, had, shut out any distant prospect in that direction.
Arriving at the summit, he beheld, at the distance of some quarter mile beyond, a scene which quickened at once his pulse and his movements. Two horses were running loose on the open plain, others were hobbled near a clump of trees, and were consequently unable to enjoy the same liberty. Close by this clump of trees, also, a desperate struggle seemed to be in progress—as far as the stranger could make out—between three men, one of whom was desperately resisting the combined efforts of the other two to bear him to the ground. Besides these a female appeared to have been taken captive by a fourth man, who was dragging her by the arm towards the hobbled horses.
In much less time than it has occupied in telling, the young traveller had taken in the whole of these details, and was hastening to the rescue as rapidly as the impetus of whip and spur could act upon the frightened animal he bestrode.
Fast as he rode, however, the changes in the strange drama on which he kept his eye fixed were outstripping him. In one of these changes, the report of a pistol-shot reached his ear; and a puff of smoke for a moment veiled the woman and her assailant. Only for a moment, and when it had passed, greatly to his astonishment, the spectator perceived that the man was staggering backward and falling, and that the female, instead of making her escape, was in the act of springing forward to the help of the one who, in the part of the scene first described, was evidently on the point of being overcome in the odds that were against him.
There was no time for reflection; and once more applying the spur, the traveller, ere three minutes had passed away, added another to the fierce conflict. What occurred then, he never afterwards remembered consecutively.
He knew only that, first throwing himself off his horse and then into the fray, he received a heavy blow on his head, which, thanks to the felt that he wore, did not stun, though for an instant it confused him; that by this time, one of the two men—who might be rogues or honest men for anything he knew, all his knowledge being that they were two to one—had been stricken by him to the ground, and that the female, whoever she might be, was calling to him for help, but impeding his free action by her unconsciously clinging to him for protection; and that, in a short space of time, as it seemed to him, he and this unknown fair one in distress were apparently master and mistress of the field—two of the combatants having retreated to the trees, unhobbled two of the horses, mounted, and ridden fast away, while two others lay on the turf, at a little distance apart, hors de combat, at any rate for the time being.
We left the bush traveller in a rather awkward state of confusion, but he had sufficient gallantry to commence offering some respectful attentions to the female he had rescued, and whom he perceived to be young, though her countenance—now that the excitement was over—had become deadly pale, when she pointed to one of the men on the sward, and hurriedly begged the unknown to render any aid in his power. He therefore turned his attention to this benevolent purpose, and while thus employed, the young woman stood at a little distance, watching his proceedings with anxiety, but apparently without fear; for her colour soon returned, and she stood firm, and even employed her hands in readjusting some disordered folds in her stout riding dress, still keeping her gaze fixed on the stranger.
"Badly hurt, this one," said the stranger, as he raised the head of the man in whose cause he himself had received the blow which made him still feel dizzy, and who was a tall, well-made fellow, thirty years old or thereabout, in the ordinary dress of a labourer or shepherd of those parts. He had been not only savagely beaten, but had received an apparently deep knife-wound above the collar-bone during the scuffle.
"Badly hurt, he seems to be," the stranger repeated.
"Oh, I hope not!" said the anxious watcher, stepping forward and stooping down to observe more closely.
And then, without showing any signs of weakness or affectation, she rendered such assistance as time and place allowed, much as a nurse in a hospital would have done, the traveller thought, and with equal skill and presence of mind.
In a moment or two the man revived sufficiently to open his eyes and to say, faintly—
"Thank you, Miss Helen; and thank God you are safe. I was afraid it was all up with us both."
"It would have been, Styles, but for this good man who came to our help," said the young woman.
"He has done a good deed to-day, if he never did before," said the wounded man. "I suppose you knew who those fellows were?"
Yes, she knew two of them well enough, the girl answered. They were the men she had witnessed against.
"But do not say any more—it only hurts you" (this was manifestly true, for the man drew his breath thick and painfully)—"we must get you home as soon as we can. Do you think you can mount your horse?" she asked, forgetting her own injunction of silence.
"I doubt if I shall ever ride again," groaned the man. "The knife has done its work, I guess; and it is only what I might have expected. It has come home to me—my own—"
"Don't speak of it."
"Well, what's done can't be undone. But I am glad 'twas in defending you that I got it."
While this conversation was going on, brokenly, the stranger was busy in completing the binding up of the wound as carefully and quickly as he was able, remembering that a few yards off another was needing his help. This done, he allowed the female to take his place by the head of the patient, so as to give the needed support, and turned towards the clump of trees behind which that other had fallen. But, to his astonishment, when he reached the spot, no man was there. In another minute, the mystery was explained by a hoarse shout of derision, as it seemed, from the direction in which the hobbled horses had been; and glancing thitherward, the young man perceived that the ruffian, as no doubt he was, had so far recovered from the effects of the bullet wound as to crawl to the remaining horse, which he had managed to unhobble and mount.
"A pretty enough shot," he hallooed, laughing, as he rode away; "but it would take more than a popgun like that to—" The remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance.
The "popgun" lay at the stranger's feet. It was a small pocket-pistol, but sufficiently venomous-looking, he thought, as he picked it up, and retraced his steps to the wounded man still on his hands.
"The fellow has got off without serious damage, it seems," he said to the young woman. "I don't know whether I ought to be glad or sorry that you did not kill him outright," he added.
"Oh, I did not want to hurt him much," she replied, gravely. "I only shot him in the knee. I judged that the shock would make him let me go then, and I knew that he would not be able to run after me. If I hadn't done that, I might have been beyond the reach of help."
("You are a cool hand, at all events," thought the stranger, but he did not speak.)
"And now, if you will be so good as to help me home with poor Styles; but must you be getting forward with your own affairs?"
He could not leave his present work unfinished, said the traveller; and as to his own affairs, they were in no such great hurry. Was the home of which the Amazon (as he began to think the young woman)—of which she spoke very far-away? He might very well ask this, for no habitation, nor sign of habitation, had he seen in that day's journey.
"Only half an hour's ride; and if we could but get poor Styles on his horse—"
"You must get the horse to come to him first, and yours too," thought the traveller once more, though he did not say it, when he saw them still capering wildly in the distance. As to his own steed, it had trotted and galloped too many miles that day to take advantage of the confusion, or care for making the most of its liberty. The question, however, was soon set at rest by the young horsewoman rising and uttering a peculiar cry, which first caused the stray animals to prick up their ears, and then to quietly trot back to their mistress's side.
By this time, the man Styles had somewhat rallied, and his returning strength being for the time still further recruited by the contents of a flask which the stranger had in his haversack, he declared himself, though still faint, not beyond the power of necessary exertion. Aided, therefore, by the stranger, he remounted; the Amazon doing the same without assistance. The young traveller then sprang on to his horse, and placed himself on the bridle-hand side of the wounded man, so as to render help, if his strength were to fail.
As the cavalcade proceeded slowly—for the wounded man was manifestly unequal to rapid motion—there was opportunity for a few hurried explanations. For instance, the stranger told how he had recently landed at Sydney, and had been advised—as being used to land-surveying—to join a company of explorers some distance up the country, and was thus far on his journey with that intention, when the opportunity of rendering this slight service was thrown in his way.
On the other hand, the young horsewoman explained that she was the daughter of a bush farmer and grazier, whose station they were now approaching; and that, because of her father's age and infirmities, she had occasionally to visit an out-station; that, in consequence of recent alarms, she had of late, for her protection, been attended by the faithful man-servant, and had also chosen to carry with her the bosom-companion which had fortunately conduced to her deliverance. She knew two of her assailants, she repeated: they were men of bad character, who had formerly been employed at her father's station, and who, having been defeated in an atrocious plot, and sent to the barracks at Sydney for punishment, had escaped, and, as bushrangers, were spreading terror around, at all stations within a widespread area.
These explanations, which the circumstances of the case rendered natural, opened the way for other topics of conversation, relating principally to life in the bush. And this, together with the necessary assistance which the stranger had to give to the disabled man, whose faintness scarcely permitted him to keep the saddle, brought them to Sedley Station, where it was arranged that the traveller should lodge, at any rate till the following morning.
Our readers will have known from the first that the bush traveller in the scene just described was none other than the Walter Wilson of the early part of our narrative. Arriving at Sydney with sufficient means to equip himself, as we have narrated, and learning there that a good chance of getting on in the colony presented itself in joining the band of adventurers who were pushing their way into the interior, he had not hesitated in proceeding in the direction in which they were likely to be found. It was otherwise determined for him, however, that he should stop short in an expedition which eventually proved to be a failure, attended with much physical suffering and some loss of life to those concerned in it.
New as Walter was to bush life, he was not sorry to find himself between clean sheets in a tolerably comfortable chamber, instead of having to roll himself up in his poncho on the bare ground, and under a canopy of sky, as he had anticipated. And we may suppose that his rest that night was as free from unquiet thoughts as it was untroubled by actual alarms. In other words, he slept soundly, and it was not till broad daylight, streamed in upon him in his resting-place that he opened his eyes wonderingly, and then, when he had collected his senses, sprang from his comfortable couch.
On entering the living-room of the log-house, Walter found that the heroine of the preceding evening was not so Amazonian as he had thought her. She was, in fact, so unnerved, he was told, as to be unable to make her appearance at the breakfast-table. Also, he was concerned to hear that the wounded man was in a more critical state than had been suspected. The weapon had not indeed penetrated to any vital part, so as to make the stab immediately fatal; but the internal bleeding had been considerable, and the man was consequently so weakened and faint, and evidently in so critical a state, as to make it necessary to despatch a messenger for surgical assistance.
All this was told to Walter Wilson by the infirm and easily alarmed host, who supplemented the recital of his troubles by inviting the stranger to remain at the station for at least a few days.
We have already intimated that Wilson had received a somewhat unfavourable impression concerning the owner of this station—principally, however, turning on his suspiciousness and want of hospitality to chance travellers. And it may be understood that the circumstances under which the greater part of his family had been swept off, might have accounted for his unwillingness to entertain strangers. On the present occasion, however, this unwillingness had given way to fear of another character; and he so earnestly made his request, that it would have been almost cruel in Wilson to refuse the favour asked. Though, at the same time, he was amused by the evident attempt to give the invitation the appearance of an offered favour.
"You see," said Mr. Sedley, in urging his plea, "the fellows who attacked my daughter are most likely hanging about in the bush not very far-off; and if you should fall into their hands, you will have no mercy shown to you. They are desperate men, as I know full well; and your having interrupted them in their designs of yesterday will have made you a marked man. It will not be safe for you to be travelling alone through the bush for days, and perhaps weeks, to come."
Walter thanked the old colonist for his concern on this account, but added that he was pretty well prepared to defend himself, if attacked. And he showed, what he had not produced on the field of action, one of those formidable tools, not then so common as they have since become—a six-barrelled revolver.
"I carry the lives of six men in my belt, you see, sir," said he, as the old gentleman handled the weapon curiously but cautiously. "I think," he added, "that this gives the odds in my favour against any three such scoundrels as those that were sent to the right-about yesterday—especially as they seemed to have no firearms."
Finding that this argument did not avail him, Mr. Sedley shifted his ground by acknowledging some apprehension that an attack might be made upon the station; "and now that Styles is in his present state, he would be of no use to me. As to myself, you see I am no fighting man; and the labourers about the station would take care not to endanger their lives to save my property nor my life either, even if they should not take part with the scoundrels. And then there is my daughter—"
Wilson cut short this plea by saying that it mattered little to him where he might be; and as to his own safety, or life even, he did not value it much—he had no particular reason to do so. And as he might be of some use where he was, he would remain, at any rate until the danger his host apprehended should have blown over. And so, therefore, it was finally arranged.
In the course of the day, the surgeon arrived and examined the wounded man, who was evidently sinking. The knife, as Styles himself had said, had done its work, and on the following day, it was manifest that he was dying. By this time, Helen Sedley had so far recovered from the effects of her alarm as to be able to resume her active and multiform duties. Among these were those devolving on her as the manager-general of the station; and another, of which I must now write a few words.
It is one of the great drawbacks, and one of the saddest features, properly looked at, of life in the bush (it was so in the days of which I write, and it is so now), that Sunday, with all its spiritual associations, is almost forgotten; it is looked upon, at best (with some exceptions), as a day of rest from physical toil. "God-forsaken" seems to be written on, at least, a large number of the wilderness homes which so-called Christians have planted. The isolated character of the settlements, or stations, or townships, and their distance apart, make it impossible for congregations of families to meet for weekly public worship; and except in those few instances in which the settler is under the influence of strong and abiding religious principle, the Bible is generally neglected, if it is possessed; and even a decent respect for the outward observance of family piety ceases to be paid. This the writer has been given to understand by those who ought to be better informed on the subject than himself. It would give him devout satisfaction to be convinced that the charge, as regards the present race of colonists, is unfounded—that a change for the better has taken place.
In the first years of the Sedleys' emigrant life, they had gradually sunk down from a form of religion, which it had been considered decent to keep up in the old country, to no religion at all in the new. It was not to be wondered at, for the form of godliness without the power is a dead thing, after all.
But when the great trial of which I have spoken fell upon the family, old associations were brought to mind, and new thoughts and feelings sprang up; so that the almost forgotten Bibles (each member of the family had his or her own pocket Bible in England, as a matter of course, and these Bibles were among the books which were taken out to Australia) were brought out from their long repose. This is not the place to tell at large (even if it could be known) how the gracious influences of the Divine Word smoothed the passage to the grave of those who were taken away, or sanctified and softened the grief of those who were left behind. It is enough to say that on the mind of Helen Sedley, at least, a striking change took place, so that from being first of all shocked to think of her own past carelessness and ignorance, she came to the conclusion that the great object of her life should thenceforth be, resting on Divine help, the care of her own soul and that of others.
From this time, she had sought diligently to use the opportunities she had; and, as far as lay in her power, she became not only a learner, but a teacher of Christianity. Showing piety at home, she could recommend it to the few with whom she came into daily contact. With her father's consent, she made a not unsuccessful attempt to initiate what may be called a "Lord's Day Observance Society" on Sedley Station; and she prevailed on the rough human materials around her to yield to the magic influence of her earnest desire to do them good.
We have seen how, in a conversation with the broken-spirited Styles, she had reminded him of the great Burden-bearer of the sorrowful and distressed; and that these were not words of course, and without meaning to her, he quite well knew. So far, indeed, had her influence extended over this unhappy man, that a kind of chivalrous spirit of devotion to her service had sprung up in his soul, in consequence of which he had not only endured with patience the peculiar hardships of his lot, but had sought and obtained the privilege of being her body-guard, as we have seen, in her periodical excursions to the out-station.
If any of our lady readers think the character I have here briefly sketched of Helen Sedley inconsistent with her not only carrying a pocket-pistol, but of putting it to use, I beg to say that, placed in similar circumstances, the fair impugner, if of sufficient pluck, would probably have been disposed to carry a brace of pistols; and that, in shooting her assailant's knee-cap, instead of sending a bullet through his head, Helen displayed not only admirable presence of mind and sound judgment, but also exercised much Christian charity.
This slight sketch of Helen Sedley, which, if the reader pleases, may be called a parenthesis within a parenthesis, is not only, as the present writer is fain to believe, sufficiently interesting in itself, but it is needful to our story. At any rate, it will make plain why poor Styles (to go back to him) desired in moving terms to see his young mistress, and why Helen, as soon as she knew of this request, passed over the compound to the hut where he lay dying.
It was a wretched sort of habitation for one who, in earlier life, had known not only the comforts but the luxuries of comparative affluence; but it had been reckoned good enough for a convict on ticket-of-leave. Moreover, small and scantily furnished as it was, Styles had shared it with two others whose lower origin and coarser natures, or habits, had added to his consciousness of degradation. But all this was passing away now; and something like a smile of triumph flickered on his pale countenance as the young mistress entered the apartment, or loft, and, seating herself by the couch, placed one of her hands in the pair of his which were outstretched to receive it.
"I would have come sooner, Styles, if I had known you were so bad," she said, gently. "But I only heard just now the doctor's report. They kept it from me till only a few minutes ago. You do not know how sorry I am to feel that we must lose you."
"It is best so, Miss Helen. I told you a while ago that there was not much in life to make me loth to leave it. I would say the same now, only that my poor services to you are over. And it is worth something to think about as long as I lie here, that it was in trying to protect you, I got my hurt. But this is not what I have mostly to say. I want to thank you for all you have done, and for having turned me back from thoughts of hate and vengeance to different and better feelings and wishes."
"I have brought my Bible with me, Styles; would you like me to read a little to you?" Helen whispered falteringly.
"Please do."
"Is there anything I can do for you first? Are you easy? Do you feel pain?"
"The pain is nothing. No, I want nothing. I have done with wants for this world. Please read."
And so the gentle ministrant soothed and comforted the dying man, pointing his weak and feeble faith to Him who came to seek and to save the lost, and who is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by Him.
CHAPTER XIX.
WHAT HAPPENED AT LOW BEECH FARM.
A WEEK had passed away. Poor Styles was dead, and had been buried in the small enclosed plot which five years before was set apart as the burial-ground of Sedley Station. All were on a level there.
Walter Wilson still remained at the station, and, nothing having been seen or heard of the bushrangers, whose career, it was afterwards found, had been cut short in an unsuccessful raid upon another station, he was thinking of renewing his journey, when a proposal was made to him by his host which altered his intention. And, without lingering unnecessarily over this part of our history, it is sufficient to say that the young man remained to take the oversight of the home and out-stations, and to add to the protection of the lonely inhabitants of the log-house.
Walter had his desire now, so far as being a farmer was concerned; and he turned his previous knowledge to good account. And I hope my readers are sufficiently impressed in his favour by what they already know of him—though he has shown himself to be impetuous, obstinate, and unreasonable—to be pleased to learn that he not only honestly and honourably threw all his energies into the service of his new employer, but gradually lost the first smart of the bitter disappointment which he could not help knowing he had brought upon himself, and in the first flush of which he had abandoned his bright prospects of success in England, and severed himself from his own family by a distance of so many thousands of miles, and by a greater distance still in sympathy.
For Walter could but attribute to the deliberate design of these relatives, and their constant ill-offices, the loss of his cousin; and, on the first discovery of what he called their cruelty and treachery, he vowed that he would have no more to say to them. Perhaps the time came when he was sorry for this resolution, but that time was not yet.
Gradually, however, as I have said, Walter became reconciled to his lot, or at least more contented with it.
After all, he argued within himself, and as, indeed, he wrote to his friend Ralph Burgess, it was only a woman he had lost, and he was not going to make himself miserable all his life long because of this. As to Sarah, he loved her as a cousin still, and there was no harm in that, he hoped. He was also heartily sorry that he had ever suspected her, and so caused her a moment's sorrow. But that was among the bygones now; and he was glad his cousin had got a good husband, though not the one first thought of and planned for and wished for.
But he was sure that Mr. Tincroft, who was a worthy fellow, after all his hard thoughts of him, and his insults too, would use her well; and he hoped and believed that Sarah would be a happy wife, especially as there would be no want nor hard work for her in her new home, now that her husband had got back his rights, as he (Walter) had happened to find out. All this and more the softened penitent wrote to Ralph; and if there was a blot on the paper, as if a big tear had dropped upon one particular part of it while the ink was yet wet, I don't think that either Ralph Burgess or Ralph's sister thought the worse of him for that.
And now we shall leave Walter Wilson to the experiences of colonial life, in which the reader may, if so disposed, picture him as a faithful steward, in all the delights of a life in the bush—the stockyard, the branding-day, with its bustling excitement, shepherding, sheep-shearing, and so forth—with an occasional brush with the natives thrown into the bargain. Occupying him thus, we have leisure to turn to other parties concerned in this narrative. Not to our principal hero, however, whom we must keep in the background for a little while longer, in the yet novel experience of married life, and his otium cum (vel sine) dignitate.
We are once more in England, and at the old Manor House. Not many changes have taken place there, save that Richard Grigson (with all besides) is several years older than when we first made his acquaintance. He is more than ever confirmed in his bachelorhood; it does not lie in his way, he says, to be married. He is as keen a sportsman as ever; and, as of yore, he maintains a sufficient establishment and keeps a hospitable table, though he has not been able to persuade his good friend Tincroft to pay him another visit.
We can understand very well, without having to explain in many words (though we may as well tell it in few), that John has a kind of undefined shrinking from visiting the old spot where, without intending it, he did so much that gave so entirely a new direction to his after-life.
"I'll let well enough alone," says John.
Tom Grigson has some time since left college, but his particular affairs must wait while we devote this chapter to looking up one or two other of our former acquaintances.
First and foremost is our good friend Rubric, who, becoming a trifle more infirm, as well as convinced that his "cure of souls" is over-weighty for his single strength, has taken to himself a curate, who, by some, is reckoned as much too fast as the rector was, by others, thought too slow. It is to be hoped, however, that after a little shaking up together, as they are both good men and true, the mixture of fast and slow will be found the right pace for all parties concerned.
Then there are the Wilsons (Matthew and his family) of Low Beech, and High Beech also. It falls to my lot to report of them that they are prospering in the world, apparently. Matthew is as industrious and plodding as ever; so is his wife. He pays his rent (of both farms), and also his tithe and poor's-rate punctually, and without more than the regular amount of grumbling which certain days in the year (especially tithe-paying days) always witnessed, for they were not yet commuted.
The married son lives at High Beech, as has been previously intimated, and being of a prudent turn of mind, and having got his late uncle's furniture at a low valuation, he is contented with the knobby-seated parlour chairs aforementioned. He is the better satisfied with them that he rarely uses them, preferring to rest and refresh himself in the roomy kitchen of the old farmhouse.
His younger brothers work on the farm, or on one or other of the farms, and are understood to be keeping an eye (of hope and expectation) on two other of the squire's farms which report says will soon be vacant. So "Long live the Plough," say we.
It is a small trouble to the Matthew Wilsons that they never hear from Walter—never have heard from him, nor of him, except indirectly, since he went to Australia.
"His spirit is that high," says the father, "that he doesn't choose to let us know what he is doing; which isn't much, I reckon, or else we should have heard his brag soon enough, I'll warrant."
But for all he talks about his eldest son in this fashion, he knows in his heart, what he does not care to acknowledge, that why Walter keeps such silence has a deeper and sadder reason, or unreason; and that the quarrel (for a quarrel there is) is traceable to much underdealing on the part of himself and his.
They never say much, if anything—these thriving Wilsons—of their niece or cousin, Sarah Tincroft. I am afraid it rather galls them to think of her being "a grand lady;" and that, in fact, their ill-nature and injustice towards her turned out to be, as they believe, the making of her. There are few sayings oftener found true, than that people almost always dislike those whom they have striven without cause to injure, except, perhaps, this other saying, that a sure way to incur the lasting ill-will of some persons is to confer on them a signal benefit. I do not know how this too well-known fact is to be accounted for, except by supposing that to receive a great boon with true gratitude from one whom we had always looked upon as an equal, requires magnanimity of which few are capable. This, however, is a digression: we return to our narrative.
There is yet another reason, however, why the Wilsons are chary of speaking of Mrs. Tincroft. They dare not do this in the hearing of their daughter Elizabeth, of whom I have not yet spoken, but of whom I have somewhat to say. Poor remorse-stricken Elizabeth! Here is her little story:
Not long after the death of her uncle Mark, and the annexation of High Beech to Low Beech by her father, Miss Elizabeth was made sensible of having, of course undesignedly and unaidingly on her part, become the object of admiration to a certain rich young farmer in the neighbouring parish. How could she help this? She wanted to know, when her brothers joked her about it.
And how could she prevent his leaving his own parish church every Sunday to walk three miles, through almost all weathers, to hers—being suddenly enlightened, as he said, as to the superiority of dear good Mr. Rubric's discourses? No, she couldn't prevent this any more than she was able to prevent his offering her his arm on her return home from church, and his insisting on relieving her of the weight of her prayer-book even before they had left the building. And this, although it took Mr. Admirer, otherwise named Smith, another long mile out of his way.
And so the intimacy increased as weeks and even months wore on, till Elizabeth was called upon, as she thought, to yield up her heart, or what she believed to be that seat of affection, without much struggling, to the—Ah, well! We will not talk about the little blind god Cupid, which is heathenish; but without even so much as mentioning the name, you know what I mean, darling wife and daughters.
But poor Elizabeth was unwise. To be sure, it was pleasant to think of stopping from the hard work of Low Beech Farm, which now she began to despise for its smallness and meanness, into the cosy, comfortable position of a rich farmer's wife, with no occasion to do more work than she pleased, and with fine furniture and plenty of servants at her command. And, oh! Who of all the fair readers of this history has not had day-dreams like this? Nevertheless, Miss Elizabeth would have been happier if she had not yielded up her fortress so readily; for Mr. Admirer had never yet taken a step that he could not retrace without fear of "damages."
And he did retrace his steps, every one of them. First, the attendances at church slackened—but perhaps Mr. Rubric was getting prosy; or perhaps the new curate (for he had now made his appearance) was not to the gentleman's taste. Still, there were other days in the week besides Sunday, when he would have been welcomed to Low Beech. But he did not come. And then—but let us draw a veil over the rest; only it soon became known that the cautious gentleman (an admirer no longer) was about to be married, indeed—but not to Elizabeth Wilson. Worse even than this, the unfeeling man had the hardihood to boast of his achievement at Low Beech Farm, saying that at last the blushing damsel there did go in for it so strong, and was so sentimental over it, that he could not stand it any longer.
This being conveyed to the forsaken one by a dear female friend, who thought she ought to know what the perfidious man said of her, was the sharpest, deepest cut Of all. She could have borne anything else, Elizabeth said; but to be called SENTIMENTAL!—she who had despised sentiment in her cousin Sarah!
One Sunday, a few weeks after this terrible blow, Miss Elizabeth opened the great family Bible, which, covered with green baize, ordinarily lay in repose on a side-table in the state-room (otherwise called the parlour) of Low Beech farmhouse, a room always smelling damp and musty, but carefully swept and garnished every seventh day, and put to use after dinner every first day (unless the roads were muddy), and on first days only.
Well, one first day, or Sunday, Miss Elizabeth, happening to be curious concerning some birth, death, or marriage therein recorded, opened the family Bible to refresh her memory respecting that particular event. And then, being in a reflective mood, she turned over the leaves of the heavy volume, not to find consolation under her trial, nor instruction to her ignorance, I am sorry to say, but to forget her harassment in meditating over the wonderful engravings interspersed throughout the book. In doing this, her eye caught the word "treacherously" on the large letterpress of the page opposite one of those pretty pictures. The word tallied with the poor forlorn one's thoughts; for had she not known treachery? So she read the verse. This it was:
"Woe to thee that spoilest, and thou wast not spoiled; and dealest
treacherously, and they dealt not treacherously with thee! When thou
shalt cease to spoil, thou shalt be spoiled; and when thou shalt make
an end to deal treacherously, they shall deal treacherously with thee."
Now, I am grieved to say, Elizabeth Wilson was not a Bible student. But, like many others who rarely open the sacred book, she had a kind of superstitious reverence for, not unmingled with fear of, its "lively oracles." And now, without knowing or seeking to know of whom and on what occasion those ominous words were originally spoken by the prophet, she gave them, rightly enough, a general application. More than this, she believed that they had a particular application to herself, and that they now stared her in the face to taunt and condemn her.
"Oh, it is true!" she cried, hastily shutting up the book. "I did deal treacherously with poor dear Sarah, and now it is come home to me just as the Bible says. He" (the false and fickle one, she meant) "has dealt treacherously with me, to punish me for what I did to my poor cousin and my brother Walter."
We need not follow the distressed girl in her self-reproaches, which were loud and long, and were openly as well as often repeated—so often that her father and mother and brothers got tired of hearing them; the more so, that they themselves did not mean to repent of their misdeeds as Elizabeth was doing. It is enough to say that since that time, the heart-stricken girl has always stood up for her cousin Sarah and her brother Walter when they have been spoken about; and, indeed, often drags in their names and their virtues, and their sufferings of social and domestic martyrdom—so often that father, mother, and brothers now dread to make the slightest allusion to them, in Elizabeth's presence, at all events. Possibly they also feel some pangs of remorse, especially when they think of the absent and expatriated eldest son and brother. But remorse is not real sorrow.
This is rather a dull chapter perhaps, but it will not have been written in vain, if it should start a few serious reflections in any thoughtless mind. There is an old saying that unmerited curses come home to roost. And it is quite as true of treachery, such as has been rather hinted at than described in our previous pages.