Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 14

  The door had been ajar, and the window was blocked up. The sand, however, had found free entry through the crevices between the ill-fitting pine-logs of the walls, and already the yellow coating lay an eighth of an inch thick all over the boarded floor and upon the rude bench and table.

  Alfred sat down and watched the whirling sand outside slowly deepen in tint. He had left the door open, because otherwise the interior of the hut would have been in complete darkness. As it was, it was difficult to distinguish objects; but Alfred, glancing round, was struck with the scrupulous tidiness of everything.

  ‘Ration-bags all hung up; nothing left about; fireplace cleaned out — daily, I should say; pannikins bright as silver; bunk made up. All this is most irregular!’ exclaimed Alfred. ‘This boundary-rider must be a curiosity. I never saw anything half so neat during all the months I was in the Bush before. One might almost suspect a woman’s hand in it — especially in that mirror. Which reminds me, Gladys told me she was once out here for a week, alone, riding the boundaries, when they were short-handed. My darling! What nerve! Would to Heaven you had had less nerve!’

  The thick sand rattled in continuous assault upon the iron roof. It was becoming a difficult matter to see across the hut. But the storm, and the gallop, had had a curiously exhilarating effect upon Alfred. His spirits had risen.

  ‘I wish that boundary-rider would come in; but the storm’s bound to fetch him. I want a pannikin of tea badly, to lay the dust inside; there’s as much there as there was outside, I’ll be bound. Besides, he will have news for me. Poor Larry! — the same old drivel! And to think that I was something like that in my delirium — that I might have been left like Larry!’

  His attention was here attracted by the illustrated prints pasted upon a strip of sackcloth nailed to the pine-logs over the bunk: a feature, this, of every bushman’s hut. He went over to look at them, and, the better to do so, leant with one knee upon the bed — the rudely-framed bed that was so wonderfully well ‘made.’

  ‘Ah!’ remarked Alfred, ‘some of them are the old lot; I remember them. But some are new, and — why, that’s a cabinet photograph down there by the pillow; and’ — bending down to examine it— ‘good Heavens! it’s of me!’

  It was a fact. The photograph, fixed so close to the pillow, was an extremely life-like one of Alfred Bligh. But how had it got there? Of what interest or value could it be to the boundary-rider of the Yelkin Paddock? It had been taken last summer, at Richmond; and — oh, yes, he remembered now — Gladys had sent one out to her father. That was it, of course. The boundary-man had found it lying about the veranda or the yard at the homestead (Alfred knew his father-in-law), and had rescued it for the wall of his hut. No matter (to the boundary-man) who it was, it was a picture, and one that would rather set off the strip of sackcloth. That was it, of course; a simple explanation.

  Yet Alfred trembled. The photograph was in a far from conspicuous position; nor did it look as if it had been left lying about. What if it belonged to Gladys? What if Gladys had fastened it there with her own hands? What if she came sometimes to the hut — this hut in which he stood? What if she had spent another week here riding the boundaries, when her father was short of men?

  All at once he felt very near to her; and the feeling made him dizzy. His eyes roved once again round the place, noting the abnormal neatness and order that had struck him at first; a look of wild inquiry came into his haggard face; and even then, as the agony of surmise tightened every nerve — a sound broke plainly upon his ears. It was heard above the tinkle of the sand upon the roof: a horse’s canter, muffled in the heavy sand outside.

  Alfred sprang to the door. At the same instant a rider drew rein in front of him. They were not five paces apart, but such was the density of the flying sand and dust that he could see no more than the faint outline of the horse and its rider. Then the rider leapt lightly to the ground. It was the boundary-rider of the Yelkin Paddock; but the boundary-rider was a woman.

  Alfred reeled forward, and clasped her to his heart.

  ‘Gladdie! Darling!’

  He had found her.

  CHAPTER XIX

  ANOTHER LETTER FROM ALFRED

  ‘Bindarra Station, N.S.W., April 13.

  ‘Dearest Mother, — Your dear letter, in answer to my first, written in January, has just reached me. Though I wrote so fully last mail, I can’t let a mail go without some sort of an answer. But, as a matter of fact, I am in a regular old hurry. The mail-boy is waiting impatiently in the veranda, with his horse “hung up” to one of the posts; and the store keeper is waiting in the store to drop my letter in the bag and seal it up. So I must be short. Even with lots of time, however, you know I never could write stylish, graphic letters like Gran can. So you must make double allowances for me.

  ‘And now, dear mother, about our coming back to England; and what you propose; and what you say about my darling. To take the best first — God bless you for your loving words! I can say nothing else. Yes, I knew you were getting to love her in spite of all her waywardness; and I know — I know — that you would love her still. And you would love her none the less for all that has happened; you would remember what I explained in my first letter, that it was for my sake; you would think no longer of what she did, but why she did it.

  ‘But, about coming back, we have, as you already know, made up our minds to live out our lives here in Australia. After all, it’s a far better country — a bigger and a better Britain. There is no poverty here, or very little; you never get stuck up for coppers in the streets of the towns; or, if you do, it’s generally by a newly-landed immigrant who hasn’t had time to get out of bad old habits. There’s more room for everybody than at home, and fairer rations of cakes and ale all round. Then there’s very little ill-health, because the climate is simply perfect — which reminds me that I am quite well now — have put on nearly two stone since I landed! But all this about Australia’s beside the mark: the real point is that it suits Gladdie and me better than any other country in the world.

  ‘Now for some news. We have decided upon our station at last. It is the one in Victoria, in the north-eastern district —— I think I mentioned it among the “probables” in my last. It is not large as stations go; but “down in Vic” you can carry as many sheep to the acre as acres to the sheep up here in the “back-blocks.” You see, it is a grass country. But the scenery is splendid: great rugged ranges covered with the typical gum-trees, of which there are none up here, and a fine creek clean through the middle of the “run.” Then there are parrots and ‘possums and native bears all over the place, none of which you get up here, though I fear there will be more snakes too. The only drawback is the “cockatoos.” I don’t mean the bird, dear mother, but the “cockatoo selectors.” Personally, I don’t think these gentry are the vermin my father-in-law makes them out to be; he brackets them with the rabbits; but I mean to make friends with them — if I can. The homestead is delightful: good rooms, and broad veranda round three sides. We are going to be absurdly happy there.

  ‘We shall not take possession though till after shearing — i.e. in your autumn, though the agreement is signed and everything arranged. Meanwhile, we shall stay on here, and I am to get a little more Colonial experience. I need it badly, but not perhaps so badly as my father-in-law makes out. He ridiculed the idea of my turning squatter on my own account, unless Gladys was “boss.” But, now that we have fixed on the Victorian station, he is a bit more encouraging. He says any fool could make that country pay, referring of course to the rainfall, which just there, in the ranges, is one of the best in Australia. Still, he is right: experience is everything in the Colonies.

  ‘So I am not quite idle. All day I am riding or driving about the “run,” seeing after things, and keeping my eyes open. In the evenings Gladdie and I have taken to reading together. This was her doing, not mine, mind; though I won’t yield to her in my liking of it. The worst of it is, it’s so difficult to know where to begin; I am so painfully ig
norant. Can you not help us, dear mother, with some hints? Do! — and when we come home some day (just for a trip) you will find us both such reformed and enlightened members of society!

  ‘But, long before that, you must come out and see us. Don’t shake your head. You simply must. England and Australia are getting nearer and nearer every year. The world’s wearing small, like one of those round balls of soap, between the hands of Time — (a gem in the rough this, for Gran to polish and set!) Why, there’s a Queensland squatter who for years has gone “home” for the hunting season; while, on the other hand, Australia is becoming the crack place to winter in.

  ‘Now, as you, dear mother, always do winter abroad, why not here as well as anywhere else? You must! You shall! If not next winter, then the following one; and if the Judge cannot bring you, then Gran must. That reminds me: how are they both? And has Gran been writing anything specially trenchant lately? I’m afraid I don’t appreciate very ‘cutely— “miss half the ‘touches,’” he used to tell me (though I think I have made him a present of a “touch” to-day). But you know how glad we would both be to read some of his things; so you might send one sometimes, dear mother, without him knowing. For we owe him so much! And, besides what he did for me afterwards, he was always so nice and brotherly with Gladys. I know she thought so at the time, though she doesn’t speak about him much now — I can’t think why. You’re the one she thinks of most, dearest mother; you’re her model and her pattern for life!

  ‘The mail-boy has begun to remonstrate. He’ll have to gallop the whole way to the “jolly” township, he says, if I am not quick. So I must break off; but I will answer your dear letter more fully next mail, or, better still, Gladdie shall write herself. Till then, good-bye, and dearest love from us both.

  ‘Ever your affectionate son,

  ‘Alfred.

  ‘PS. — Gladys has read the above: so one last word on the sly.

  ‘Oh, mother, if you only saw her at this moment! She is sitting in the veranda — I can just see her through the door. She’s in one of those long deck-chairs, with a book, though she seems to have tired of reading. I can’t see much of her face, but only the sweep of her cheek, and the lashes of one lid, and her little ear. But I can see she isn’t reading — she’s threading her way through the pines into space somewhere — perhaps back to Twickenham, who knows? And she’s wearing a white dress; you would like it — it’s plain. And her cheek is quite brown; you’ll remember how it was the day she landed from the launch. But there! I can’t describe like Gran, so it’s no good trying. Only I do know this: I simply love her more and more and more, and a million times more for all that has happened. And you, and all of you, and all your friends, would fairly worship her now. You couldn’t help it!’

  TINY LUTTRELL

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. THE COMING OF TINY.

  CHAPTER II. SWIFT OF WALLANDOON.

  CHAPTER III. THE TAIL OF THE SEASON.

  CHAPTER IV. RUTH AND CHRISTINA.

  CHAPTER V. ESSINGHAM RECTORY.

  CHAPTER VI. A MATTER OF ANCIENT HISTORY.

  CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW OF THE HALL.

  CHAPTER VIII. “COUNTESS DROMARD AT HOME.”

  CHAPTER IX. MOTHER AND SON.

  CHAPTER X. A THREATENING DAWN.

  CHAPTER XI. IN THE LADIES’ TENT.

  CHAPTER XII. ORDEAL BY BATTLE.

  CHAPTER XIII. HER HOUR OF TRIUMPH.

  CHAPTER XIV. A CYCLE OF MOODS.

  CHAPTER XV. THE INVISIBLE IDEAL.

  CHAPTER XVI. FOREIGN SOIL.

  CHAPTER XVII. THE HIGH SEAS.

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE THIRD TIME OF ASKING.

  CHAPTER XIX. COUNSEL’S OPINION.

  CHAPTER XX. IN HONOR BOUND.

  CHAPTER XXI. A DEAF EAR.

  CHAPTER XXII. SUMMUM BONUM.

  Title page of the first edition

  TO

  C. A. M. D.

  FROM

  E. W. H.

  CHAPTER I. THE COMING OF TINY.

  Swift of Wallandoon was visibly distraught. He had driven over to the township in the heat of the afternoon to meet the coach. The coach was just in sight, which meant that it could not arrive for at least half an hour. Yet nothing would induce Swift to wait quietly in the hotel veranda; he paid no sort of attention to the publican who pressed him to do so. The iron roofs of the little township crackled in the sun with a sound as of distant musketry; their sharp-edged shadows lay on the sand like sheets of zinc that might be lifted up in one piece; and a hot wind in full blast played steadily upon Swift’s neck and ears. He had pulled up in the shade, and was leaning forward, with his wide-awake tilted over his nose, and his eyes on a cloud of dust between the bellying sand-hills and the dark blue sky. The cloud advanced, revealing from time to time a growing speck. That speck was the coach which Swift had come to meet.

  He was a young man with broad shoulders and good arms, and a general air of smartness and alacrity about which there could be no mistake. He had dark hair and a fair mustache; his eye was brown and alert; and much wind and sun had reddened a face that commonly gave the impression of complete capability with a sufficiency of force. This afternoon, however, Swift lacked the confident look of the thoroughly capable young man. And he was even younger than he looked; he was young enough to fancy that the owner of Wallandoon, who was a passenger by the approaching coach, had traveled five hundred miles expressly to deprive John Swift of the fine position to which recent good luck had promoted him.

  He could think of nothing else to bring Mr. Luttrell all the way from Melbourne at the time of year when a sheep station causes least anxiety. The month was April, there had been a fair rainfall since Christmas, and only in his last letter Mr. Luttrell had told Swift that all he need do for the present was to take care of the fences and let the sheep take care of themselves. The next news was a telegram to the effect that Mr. Luttrell was coming up country to see for himself how things were going at Wallandoon. Having stepped into the managership by an accident, and even so merely as a trial man, young Swift at once made sure that his trial was at an end. It did not strike him that in spite of his youth he was the ideal person for the post. Yet this was obvious. He had five years’ experience of the station he was to manage. The like merit is not often in the market. Swift seemed to forget that. Neither did he take comfort from the fact that Mr. Luttrell was an old friend of his family in Victoria, and hitherto his own highly satisfied employer. Hitherto, or until the last three months, he had not tried to manage Mr. Luttrell’s station. If he had failed in that time to satisfy its owner, then he would at once go elsewhere; but for many things he wished most keenly to stay at Wallandoon; and he was thinking of these things now, while the coach grew before his eyes.

  Of his five years on Wallandoon the last two had been infinitely less enjoyable than the three that had gone before. There was a simple reason for the difference. Until two years ago Mr. Luttrell had himself managed the station, and had lived there with his wife and family. That had answered fairly well while the family were young, thanks to a competent governess for the girls. But when the girls grew up it became time to make a change. The squatter was a wealthy man, and he could perfectly well afford the substantial house which he had already built for himself in a Melbourne suburb. The social splashing of his wife and daughters after their long seclusion in the wilderness was also easily within his means, if not entirely to his liking; but he was a mild man married to a weak woman; and he happened to be bent on a little splash on his own account in politics. Choosing out of many applicants the best possible manager for Wallandoon, the squatter presently entered the Victorian legislature, and embraced the new interests so heartily that he was nearly two years in discovering his best possible manager to be both a failure and a fraud.

  It was this discovery that had given Swift an opening whose very splendor accounted for his present doubts and fears. Had his chance been spoilt by Herbert Luttrell, who had lately been on Wallandoon as Swift’s oversee
r, for some ten days only, when the two young fellows had failed to pull together? This was not likely, for Herbert at his worst was an honest ruffian, who had taken the whole blame (indeed it was no more than his share) of that fiasco. Swift, however, could think of nothing else; nor was there time; for now the coach was so close that the crack of the driver’s whip was plainly heard, and above the cluster of heads on the box a white handkerchief fluttered against the sky.

  The publican whom Swift had snubbed addressed another remark to him from the veranda:

  “There’s a petticoat on board.”

  “So I see.”

  The coach came nearer.

  “She’s your boss’s daughter,” affirmed the publican— “the best of ‘em.”

  “So you’re cracking!”

  “Well, wait a minute. What now?”

  Swift prolonged the minute. “You’re right,” he said, hastily tying his reins to the brake.

  “I am so.”

  “Heaven help me!” muttered Swift as he jumped to the ground. “There’s nothing ready for her. They might have told one!”

  A moment later five heaving horses stood sweating in the sun, and Swift, reaching up his hand, received from a gray-bearded gentleman on the box seat a grip from which his doubts and fears should have died on the spot. If they did, however, it was only to make way for a new and unlooked-for anxiety, for little Miss Luttrell was smiling down at him through a brown gauze veil, as she poked away the handkerchief she had waved, leaving a corner showing against her dark brown jacket; and how she was to be made comfortable at the homestead, all in a minute, Swift did not know.

  “She insisted on coming,” said Mr. Luttrell, with a smile. “Is it any good her getting down?”