THE little town of Fremantle, with its imposing centre, the great stone prison, is built on the shore, within the angle formed by the broad Swan River as it flows calmly into the calm sea. At its mouth, the Swan is about two miles wide. The water is shallow, and as clear as crystal, showing, from the high banks, the brown stones and the patches of white sand on the bottom. The only ripple ever seen on its face, except in the rainy season, is the graceful curve that follows the stately motion of the black swans, which have made the beautiful river their home, and have given it its name.
One mile above the mouth of the river, where the gloomy cliff hangs over the stream, are situated the terrible stone-quarries of Fremantle, where the chain-gang works. Many a time, from the edge of the overhanging cliff, a dark mass had been seen to plunge into the river, which is very deep at this point. After this, there was one link missing in the chains at night, and there was little stir made and few questions asked. Not one swimmer in a thousand could cross a mile of water with fifty pounds of iron chained to his ankles.
For ten miles above Fremantle, the Swan winds in and out among the low hills and the wooded valleys. Its course is like a dream of peace. There is never a stone in its bed great enough to break the surface into a whirl or ripple. Its water turns no busy wheels. Along its banks are seen no thriving homesteads. Here and there, in the shallows, a black man,
On a lovely bend of the river, ten miles from its mouth, stands the little city of Perth, the capital of the penal colony, and the residence of the Governor. It is a petty town to-day, of four or five thousand people; it was much smaller at the date of our story. The main building, as in all West Australia towns, is the prison; the second is the official residence, a very spacious and sightly mansion.
Just outside the town, on a slope of exquisite lawn, running great stone prison, running down to the river, stood a long, low building, within a high enclosure. This was the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy, where the children of the colony were educated.
In the porch of the convent one evening, some two weeks after the arrival of the Houguemont, sat Alice Walmsley, Sister Cecilia, and two growing girls from the convent school.
"Yes," said Alice, in answer to some remark of the nun, "this is, indeed, a scene of utter rest. But," she added, sadly, "it is not so for most of those who see what we see. There is no rest for—"
"The wicked, Alice," said one of the schoolgirls, the daughter of a free settler. "Neither should there be. Why do you always pity the convicts so? One would think you ought to hate them."
The other girl stood beside Alice's chair, touching her soft hair with her hand in a caressing manner.
"Alice couldn't hate even the convicts," she said, bending to smile in Alice's face.
It was evident that the loving nature was fully alive, sending out already its tendrils to draw towards it everything within its reach. Sister Cecilia smiled kindly as she heard the girls, and saw their expressions of love for Alice. She, however, changed the subject.
"Mr. Wyville's yacht, with Mr. Hamerton and Mr.
Alice turned her head as if interested in the news. Sister Cecilia continued reading.
"And then they will start for Mr. Wyville's home in the Vasse."
Alice silently sank back in her chair. Her eyes slowly withdrew from the newspaper in her friend's hand, and settled far away on the other side of the Swan, in a waking dream and a dream that was not content. A few moments later she rose, and said she would walk home early that evening.
"You like your new home and friends?" said Sister Cecilia, not trying to detain her, though the girls did. "I thought it would be pleasanter and more natural to you than our monotonous convent life."
"They are very kind," said Alice; "and I love to work in the dairy and among the children. It reminds me of my own dear old home in England."
She said the words without pain, though her eyes filled with tears.
"My good Alice!" said Sister Cecilia, taking her face between her hands in the old way; I am so happy to hear you say that. Come, girls, let us walk to Mr. Little's farm with Alice."
With characteristic wisdom and kindness, Sister Cecilia had obtained for Alice, shortly after their arrival, a home in a rich settler's family. Her mind, so recently freed from the enforced vacancy, became instantly filled with new interests, and her life at once took root in the new country.
When she had been settled so for about a fortnight, and was becoming accustomed to the new routine, she received a letter from Will Sheridan. She knew it was from him; but she did not open it among the children. When her duties for the day were done, she walked down towards the convent, which was only half a mile away; but when she came to the tall rocks beside the river, where she was utterly alone, she opened and read her letter.
It was a simple and direct note, saying "Good-bye for a time," that he was going to Adelaide to leave the crew of the convict ship there; but he should call on her, "for the old time's sake," when he returned.
Alice read the letter many times, and between each reading her eyes rested on the placid river. Once before, she had been haunted with the last words of his letter, "Yours faithfully;" and now she repeated and repeated the one sentence that was not prosaic—"I will come for the old time's sake."
A few weeks later she received a letter from him, written in Adelaide, telling her of the voyage, and stating the time of their probable return to Fremantle. Alice could not help the recurring thought that he was thinking of her.
One day, at dinner, Mr. Little spoke to her about the voyage.
"You brought us back a man we wanted in this colony, Miss Walmsley," he said; "the man who has made the country worth living in."
"Mr. Wyville—yes," said Alice confidently; "he could ill be spared from any country."
"No, I don't mean Wyville; I mean Mr. Sheridan—Agent Sheridan, we call him,"
"Yes, sir," said Alice, her eyes lowered to the table.
"He's the cleverest man that ever came to this colony," said the well-meaning farmer; "I hope he'll get married and settle down here for life."
"O, Sam, who could he marry in the West? There is no one here," said the farmer's wife.
"Nonsense," said Mr. Little; "there's the Governor's daughter for one, and there are plenty more. And don't you know, the Governor is going to give Mr. Sheridan a grand dinner, in the name of the colony, when he comes back from Adelaide?"
Throughout the dinner Alice was particularly attentive to the children, and did not eat much herself.
"Mr. Wyville is coming here to-morrow," said Mr. Little, presently. "He wants to buy that meadow below the convent, to put up another school. He's a good man that, too, Miss Walmsley; but the other man knows the needs of this colony, and has taught them to us."
"Mr. Wyville is a man whose whole life seems given to benefit others," said Alice, quite heartily; and she joined the conversation in his praise, telling many incidents of his care for the prisoners on the journey.
But, though Farmer Little again and again returned to the praise of Sheridan, who was his man of men, Alice sat silent at these times, and earnestly attended to the wants of the children.
THE inn where Draper had taken up his residence, known as "The Red Hand," was one of the common taverns of the country, the customers of which were almost entirely of the bond class, ticket-of-leave men, working as teamsters or woodcutters, with a slight sprinkling of the lowest type of free settlers. The main purpose of every man who frequented the place was to drink strong liquor, mostly gin and brandy. The house existed only for this, though its sign ran "Good Victuals and Drink for Man and Beast." But whatever food was eaten or sleep taken there was simply a means towards longer and deeper drinking.
Champagne, too, was by no means unknown. Indeed, it was known to have been swilled from stable buckets, free to all comers to the house. This was when a crowd of sandalwood-cutters or mahogany sawyers had come in from the bush to draw their money for a year, or perhaps two or three years' work. These rough fellows, released from the loneliness of the forest, their pockets crammed with money, ran riot in their rude but generous prodigality.
There was no other way to have a wild time. In a free country, men who have honest money and want to spend it may do as they please. But, in West Australia, the freehanded, and, for the time, wealthy ticket-of-leave man, can only drink and treat with drink, taking care that neither he nor his companions are noisy or violent or otherwise ostentatious. The first sign of disturbance is terribly checked by the police.
Draper's introduction to this strange company was most favourable to him. He was known to be the captain of the convict ship; and every frequenter of "The Red Hand" was ready to treat him with respect. This is one of the unexpected
But Draper had no power to keep this respect. In the first place, he did not believe in its existence; be was too shallow and mean of nature to think that these rugged fellows were other than vicious rascals all through, who sneered at morality. He felt a sense of relief as soon as he found himself among them, as if he had at last escaped from the necessity of keeping up a pretence of honesty or any other virtue.
Acting under this conviction, Draper let loose his real nature in the convicts' tavern. He did not drink very deeply, because he was not able; but he talked endlessly. He joined group after group of carousing wood-cutters, keeping up a stream of ribaldry and depravity, until, after a few days' experience, the roughest convicts in the place looked at him with disappointment and aversion.
Then a rumour crept to the inn, a story that was left behind by the sailors of the Houguemont, of Harriet's confession on board ship, exposing the heartless villainy of Draper. When this news became current at the inn, the ticket-of-leave men regarded Draper with stern faces, and no man spoke to him or drank with him.
One evening he approached a group of familiar loungers, making some ingratiatory remark. No one answered, but all conversation ceased, the men sitting in grim silence over their glasses.
"Why, mates, you're Quakers," said Draper, rallying them.
"We're no mates of yours," growled a big fellow, with a mahogany face.
"And we don't want to be," said a slighter and younger man, with pronounced emphasis.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Draper, in a surprised and injured tone. "Have I done anything to offend you fellows? Have I unconsciously said something, to hurt your feelings by alluding to your—"
"Shut up, you miserable rat," cried one of the convicts, starting to his feet indignantly; "you couldn't hurt our feelings by any of your sneaking allusions. We're not afraid to hear nor say what we are; but we have just found out what you are, and we want you never to speak to us again.
Do you understand? We are men, though we are convicts, and we only want to talk to men; but you are a cowardly hound."
Draper's jaw had fallen as he listened; but he backed from the table, and gained confidence as he remembered that these men were wholly at the mercy of the police, and would not dare go any further.
"You are an insolent jail-bird," he said to the speaker; "I'll see to you within an hour."
At this, one of the men who sat at the end of the table nearest Draper, leant towards him, and, taking his glass from the table, cast its contents into his face.
"Get out!" he said; and, without noticing him further, the ticket-of-leave men resumed their conviviality.
Burning with wrath, Draper left the tavern, and walked rapidly down the street towards the police station. As he left the inn, a tall man, who had sat at a side table unnoticed, rose and followed him. Half way down the street he overtook him.
"Hello, Preacher!" said Draper, giving a side glance of dislike at the man, and increasing his speed to pass him. But Mr. Haggett, for it was he, easily kept by his shoulder, and evidently meant to stay there.
"Hello, Pilferer!" retorted Haggett, with a movement of the lip that was expressive and astonishing.
Draper slackened his pace at once, but he did not stop. He glanced furtively at Haggett, wondering what he meant. Haggett ploughed along but said no more.
"What title was that you gave me?" asked Draper, plucking up courage as he thought of the friendlessness of the timid Scripture-reader.
"You addressed me by my past profession," answered Haggett, looking straight ahead, "and I called you by your present one."
"What do you mean, you miserable—"
Mr. Haggett's bony band on Draper's collar closed the query with a grip of prodigious power and suggestiveness. Haggett then let him go, making no further reference to the interrupted offence.
"You're going to report those men at the tavern, are you?" asked Haggett.
"I am—the scoundrels. I'll teach them to respect a free man."
"Why are they not free men?"
"Why? Because they're convicted robbers and murderers, and—"
"Yes; because they were found out. Well, I'll go with you to the station, and have another thief discovered."
"What do you mean?" asked Draper, standing on the road; "is that a threat?"
"I mean that those men in the tavern are drinking wine stolen from the Houguemont, and sold to the innkeeper by—the person who had charge of it."
Draper's dry lips came together and opened again several times, but he did not speak. He was suffering agonies in this series of defeats and exposures. He shuddered again at the terrible thought that some unseen and powerful hand was playing against him.
"Mr.—Reader," he said at last, holding out his hand with a smile, "have I offended you or injured you?"
Haggett looked at the proffered hand until it fell back to Draper's side.
"Yes," he answered, "a person like you offends and injures all decent people."
Without a pretence of resentment, the crestfallen Draper retraced his steps towards the tavern. Mr. Haggett stood and watched him. On his way, Draper resolved to leave Fremantle that evening, and ride to Perth, where he would live much more quietly than he had done here. He saw the mistake he had made, and he would not repeat it.
He quietly asked the landlord for his bill, and gave directions for his trunks to be forwarded next day. He asked if he could have a horse that night.
"Certainly," said the landlord, an ex-convict himself; "but you must show me your pass."
"What pass? I'm a free man."
"Oh, I'm not supposed to know what you are," said the landlord; " only I'm not allowed to let horses to strangers without seeing their passes."
"Who grants these passes?"
"The Comptroller-General, and he is at Perth. But he'll be here in a day or two."
Draper cursed between his teeth as he turned away.
A short man, in a blue coat with brass buttons, who had heard this conversation, addressed him as he passed the bar.
"There ain't no fear of your getting lost, Captain Draper. They take better care of a man here than we used to in Walton-le-Dale."
Draper stared at the speaker as if he saw an apparition. There, before him, with a smile that had no kindness for him, was Officer Lodge, who had known him since boyhood. His amazement was complete; he had not seen Ben Lodge on the voyage, the latter having quietly avoided his eye.
"Why, old friend," he said, holding out his hand with a joyful lower face, "what brings you here?"
Instead of taking his hand, Ben Lodge took his "glass a' hale" from the counter, and looked steadily at Draper.
"That's the foulest hand that ever belonged to Walton," said the old man.
Draper was about to pass on, with a "pshaw," when Ben Lodge stopped him with a word.
"Maybe you wouldn't want to go to Perth if you knew who was there."
"Who is there?"
"Alice Walmsley—free and happy, thank Heaven! Do you want to see her?"
Draper stepped close to the old man with a deadly scowl.
"Be careful," he hissed, stealing his hand toward Ben's throat, "or—"
A long black hand seized Draper's fingers as they moved in their stealthy threat, and twisted them almost from the sockets; and, standing at his shoulder, Draper found a naked bushman, holding a spear. It was Ngarra-jil, whom he did not recognize in his native costume, which, by the way, at first, too, had greatly shocked and disappointed Officer Lodge and Mr. Haggett.
"There's someone else from Walton will be in Perth by-and-by," continued Ben Lodge, with a smile at Draper's discomfiture; "and, let me tell you beforehand, Samuel Draper, if he lays eyes on you in that 'ere town, you'll be sorry you didn't die of the black womit."
Without a look to either side Draper strode from the tavern, and walked towards a hill within the town, which he climbed.
He sat down on the summit, amid the rough and dry salt-grass. He was shaken to the place where his soul might have been. He felt that he could not move tongue nor hand without discovery. The cunning that had become almost intellectual from long use was worthless as chaff. His life recoiled on him like a hissing snake, and bit him horribly. Before his death, he was being judged and put in hell.
He sat hidden in the salt-grass among the vermin of the hill, until the night had long fallen. The stars had come out in beautiful clearness; but he did not see them. He only saw the flame of the sins that had found him out, as they burned in their places along his baleful career. When the sea-wind came in, damp and heavy, and made him cough, for his chest was weak, he rose and crept down towards the tavern, to spend the remaining hours of the night on his bed of torture.
THERE was nothing apparent in the possibilities of Alice Walmsley's new life to disturb the calm flow of her returning happiness. Even her wise and watchful friend, Sister Cecilia, smiled hopefully as she ventured to glance into the future.
But when the sky was clearest, the cloud came up on the horizon, though at first it was "no larger than a man's hand."
The visits of Mr. Wyville to Farmer Little's pleasant house were frequent and continuous. Mr. Little's colonial title was Farmer; but he was a gentleman of taste, and had a demesne and residence as extensive as an English duke. He was hospitable, as all rich Australians are; and he was proud to entertain so distinguished a man as Mr. Wyville.
Gravely and quietly, from his first visit, Mr. Wyville had devoted his attention to Alice Walmsley, and in such a manner that his purpose should not be misunderstood by Mr. Little or his wife. Indeed, it was quite plain to them long before it was dreamt of by Alice herself. From the first, she had been treated as a friend by these estimable people; but after a while
Alice could discover no reason for any change; so she went on quietly from day to day. Mr. Wyville always drew her into conversation when he came there; and with him she found herself as invariably talking on subjects which no one else touched, and which she understood perfectly. It seemed as if he held a key to her mind, and instinctively knew the lines of reflection she had followed during her years of intense solitude. Alice herself would have forgotten these reflections had they not been brought to her recollection. Now, they recurred to her pleasantly, there are so few persons who have any stock of individual thought to draw upon.
She took a ready and deep interest in every plan of Mr. Wyville for the benefit of the convicts; and he, seeing this, made his purposes, even for many years ahead, known to her, and advised with her often on changes that might here and there be made.
One evening, just at twilight, when the ladies of the family were sitting, under the wide verandah, looking down on the darkened river, Mrs. Little pleasantly but slyly said something that made Alice's cheek flame. Alice raised her face with a pained and reproachful look.
"There now, Alice," said the lady, coming to her with a kind caress; "you musn't think it strange. We can't help seeing it know."
"What do you see?" asked Alice in bewilderment.
"Mr. Wyville's devotion, dear. We are all delighted to think of your marriage with so good and eminent a man."
Alice sank back in her chair, utterly nerveless. It was so dark they did not see her sudden paleness. She held the arms of her chair with each hand, and was silent for so long a time that Mrs. Little feared she had wounded her.
"Forgive me if I have pained you, Alice," she said kindly.
"Oh, no, no!" said Alice, with quivering lips; "I thank you with all my heart. I did not know—I did not think—"
She did not finish the sentence. Mrs. Little, seeing that her rallying had bad quite another effect from that intended, came to Alice's aid by a sudden exclamation about the beauty of the
A few days later, she sat in the arbour of the convent garden, while Sister Cecilia watered her flower beds. Sitting so, her mind went reaching, back after one memorable incident in her life. And by some chance, the already-vibrating chord was touched at that moment by the little nun.
"Here is my first rose-bud, Alice," she said, coming into the arbour; "see how pretty those two young leaves are."
Alice's eyes were suffused with tears as she bent her head over the lovely bud. It appealed to her now, in the midst of her happiness, with unspeakable tenderness of recollection. She held it to her lips, almost prayerful, so moved that she could not speak.
"Only think," continued Sister Cecilia, "for nine months to come we shall never want for roses and buds. Ah me! I think we value them less for their plenty. It's a good thing to visit the prison now and again, isn't it, Alice? We love rosebuds all the better for remembering the weeds."
Alice raised her head, and looked her eloquent assent at Sister Cecilia.
"I love all the world better for the sweet rose-bud you gave me in prison," she said.
Sister Cecilia seemed puzzled for a moment, and then she smiled as if she recalled something.
"It was not I who gave you that rose-bud, Alice."
Alice's face became blank with disappointment; her hands sank on her knees.
"O, do not say that it was left there by accident or by careless hands. I cannot think of that. I have drawn so much comfort from the belief that your kind heart had read my unhappiness, and had discovered such a sweet means of sending comfort. Do not break down my fancies now. If you did not give it me, you prompted the act? You knew of it, Sister, surely you did?"
"No. I did not know of it until it was done. I should never have thought of it. It was thought of by one whose whole life seems devoted to others and to the Divine Master.
Do not fear that careless hands put the flower in your cell, Alice. It was placed there by Mr. Wyville."
"By Mr. Wyville!"
"Yes dear; it was Mr. Wyville's own plan to win you back to the beautiful world. I thought you knew it all the time."
"It was nearly five years ago; how could Mr. Wyville have known?" There was a new earnestness in Alice's face as she spoke.
"He had learned your history in Millbank from the governor and the books; and he became deeply interested. It was he who first said you were innocent, long before he proved it; and it was he who first asked me to visit you in your cell."
Alice did not speak; but she listened with a look almost of sadness, yet with close interest.
"He was your friend, Alice, when you had no other friend in the world," continued Sister Cecilia, not looking at Alice's face, or she would have hesitated; "for four years he watched your case, until at last he found her whose punishment you had borne so long."
"Where did he find her?" Alice asked, after a pause.
"He found her in the jail of your native village, Walton-le-Dale."
"Walton-le-Dale!" repeated Alice in surprise; "he took much trouble, then, to prove that I was innocent."
"Yes; and he did it all alone."
"Mr. Sheridan, perhaps, could have assisted him. He was born in Walton," said Alice in a very low voice.
"Yes, Mr. Sheridan told me so when he gave me the package for you at Portland; but he was here in Australia all the years Mr. Wyville was searching for poor wretched Harriet. But come now, Alice, we will leave that gloomy old time behind us in England. Let us always keep it there, as our Australian day looks backward and sees the English night."
Soon after, Alice started to return to her home. She lingered a long time by the placid river, the particulars she had beard recurring to her and much disturbing her peace. In the midst of her reflections she heard her name called, and looking towards the road, saw Mr. Wyville. She did move, and he approached.
"I have come to seek you," he said, "and to prepare you to meet an old friend."
She looked at him in surprise, without speaking.
"Mr. Sheridan has just returned from Adelaide," he said; "and you were the first person he asked for. I was not aware that you knew him."
There was no tone in his voice that betrayed disquiet or anxiety. He was even more cheerful than usual.
"I am glad you know Mr. Sheridan," he continued; "he is a fine fellow; and I fear he has been very unhappy."
"He has been very busy," she said, looking down at the river; "men have a great deal to distract them from unhappiness."
"See that jagged rock beneath the water," he said, pointing to a stone, the raised point of which broke the calm surface of the river. "Some poet likens a man's sorrow to such a stone. When the flood comes, the sweeping rush of enterprise or duty, it is buried; but in the calm season it will rise again to cut the surface, like an ancient pain."
Alice followed the simile with eye and mind.
"I did not think you read poetry," she said, with a smile, as she rose from her seat on the rocks.
"I have not read much," he said—and his face was flushed in the setting sun—"until very recently."
As they walked together towards the house, Alice returned to the subject first in her mind. With a gravely quiet voice she said—
"Mr. Sheridan's unhappiness is old, then?"
"Yes; it began years ago, when he was little more than a boy."
Alice was silent. She walked slowly beside Mr. Wyville for a dozen steps. Then she stopped, as if unable to proceed, and, laying her hand on a low branch beside the path, turned to him.
"Mr. Wyville," she said, "has Mr. Sheridan told you the cause of his unhappiness?"
"He has," he replied, astonished at the abrupt question; "it is most unfortunate and utterly hopeless. Time alone can heal the deep wound. He has told me that you knew him years ago: you probably know the sad story."
"I do not know it," she said, supporting herself by the branch.
"He loved a woman with a man's love while yet a boy," he
"Does he love her still?" asked Alice, her face turned to the darkened bush.
"He pities her; for she is wretched and—guilty."
At the word, Alice let go the branch, and stood straight in the road.
"Guilty?" she said; in a strange voice.
"Miss Walmsley, I am deeply grieved at having introduced this subject. But I thought you knew—Mr. Sheridan, I thought, intimated as much. The woman he loved is the unhappy one for whom you suffered. Her husband is still alive, and in this country. I brought him here, to give him, when she is released, a chance of atonement."
A light burst on Alice's mind as Mr. Wyville spoke, and she with difficulty kept from sinking. She reached for the low branch again, but she did not find it in the dark. To preserve her control she walked on towards the house, though her steps were hurried and irregular.
Mr. Wyville, thinking that her emotion was caused by painful recollections, accompanied her without a word. He was profoundly sorry that he had given her pain. Alice knew, as well as if he had spoken his thought, what was passing in his mind.
As one travelling in the dark will see a whole valley in one flash of lightning, Alice had seen the error under which Mr. Wyville laboured, and all its causes, in that one moment of illumination. Then, too, she read his heart, filled with deep feeling, and unconscious of the gulf before it; and the knowledge flooded her with sorrow.
At the door of the house, Mrs. Little met them with an air of bustle.
"Why, Alice!" she exclaimed, "two gentlemen coming to dinner, and one of them an old friend, and you loitering by the river like a school-girl. Mr. Wyville, I believe you kept Alice till she has barely time to put a ribbon in her hair."
Mr. Wyville, with some easy turn of the subject, covered Alice's disquiet, and then took his leave, going to Perth, to return later with Sheridan and Hamerton.
"Dear Mrs. Little," said Alice, when his horse's hoofs sounded on the road, "you must not ask me to dine with you to-night. Let me go to the children."
There was something in her voice and face that touched the kind matron, and she at once assented, only saying she was sorry for Alice's sake.
"But you will see Mr. Sheridan?" she said. "Mr. Little says he was very particular in asking for you."
"I will see him to-morrow," said Alice; "indeed, I am not able to see anyone to-night."
An hour later, when the guests arrived, Alice sat in her unlighted room, and heard their voices; and one voice, that she remembered as from yesterday, mentioned her name, and then remained silent.
WITH the first warm flush of morning Alice was away on her favourite lonely walk by the river. The day opened, like almost all days in West Australia, with a glorious richness of light, colour, and life. The grand shadowy stretches in the bush were neither silent nor humid, as in tropical countries. Every inch of ground sent up its jet of colour, exquisite though scentless; and all the earth hummed with insect life, while the trees flashed with the splendid colours of countless bright-necked birds.
Alice breathed in the wondrous beauty of her surroundings. Her heart, so long unresponsive, had burst into full harmony with the generous nature of the Australian bush.
Down by the river, where the spreading mahogany trees reached far over the water, she loved to walk in the early morning and at the close of the day. Thither she went this morning; and an hour later someone followed her steps, directed where to find her by Mrs. Little.
That morning, as she left the house, Mrs. Little had told her that Mr. Sheridan was to call early, and had asked to see her.
"I shall be home very soon," Alice said, as she went out.
But she did not return soon; and when Mr. Sheridan called, much earlier than he was expected, Mrs. Little told him where Miss Walmsley usually spent her mornings, and
The shadows and the flowers and the bright-winged birds were as beautiful as an hour before, but Will Sheridan, though he loved nature, saw none of them. He walked rapidly at first, then he slackened his pace, and broke off a branch here and there as he passed, and threw it away again. When he came to the river, and stood and looked this way and that for Alice, all the determination with which he had set out had disappeared.
But Alice was not in sight. He walked along by the river bank, and in a few minutes he saw her coming towards him beneath the trees.
He stood still and waited for her. She walked rapidly. When within ten yards of where he stood she turned from the river, to cross the bush towards the house. She had not seen him, and in a minute she would be out of sight. Sheridan took a few paces towards her and stopped.
"Alice," he said aloud.
She turned and saw him standing with an eager face, his hands reached out to-wards her. Every premeditated word was forgotten. She gave one look at the face, so little changed; she felt the deep emotion in voice, and act, and feature, and her heart responded impulsively and imperatively. She only spoke one word.
"Will!"
He came forward, his eyes on hers, and the eyes of both were brimming. Without a word they met. Alice put out both her hands, and he took them and held them, and after a while he raised them, one after the other, to his lips, and kissed them. Then they turned towards the house and walked on together in silence. Their hearts were too full for words. They understood without speech. Their sympathy was so deep and unutterable that it verged on the bounds of pain.
On the verandah, Alice turned to him with the same full look she had given him at first, only it was clear as a morning sky, and with it she gave him her hand. Sheridan looked into the cloudless depths of her eyes, as if searching for the word that only reached his senses through the warm pressure of her hand.
It was a silent meeting and parting, but it was completely eloquent and decisive. They had said all that each longed for in the exquisite language of the soul. As Sheridan was departing, he turned once more to Alice.
"I shall come here this evening."
She only smiled, and he went away with a satisfied heart.
On that morning Mr. Wyville had started early for Fremantle, his mind revolving two important steps which he meant to take that day. Since the arrival of the ship he had been disquieted by the presence of Draper in the colony. He questioned his own wisdom in bringing him there, or in keeping him there when he might have let him go.
But, in his wide experience of men and of criminals, Mr. Wyville had never met one who was wholly bad; he had discovered, under the most unsightly and inharmonious natures, some secret chord that, when once struck, brought the heart up to the full tone of human kindness. This chord he had sought for in Draper. He had hoped that, in the day of humiliation, his heart would return to her he had so cruelly wronged.
There was only one step more to be taken—to release Harriet, and, if she would, let her seek her husband, and appeal once more to his humanity.
On this day Mr. Wyville intended to issue a pardon to Harriet Draper. The Government had awarded to Alice Walmsley, as some form of recompense for her unjust suffering, a considerable sum of money; and this money Mr. Wyville held, at Alice's request, for the benefit of Harriet.
Arrived at Fremantle, he proceeded to the prison, and signed the official papers necessary for the release. The money was made payable to Harriet at the Bank of Fremantle. He did not see her himself, but he took means of letting her know the residence of her husband; and he also provided that Draper should be informed of her release.
He watched her from his office window as she was led to the prison gate; and as she took the pardon in her hand and turned towards the outer world in a bewildered way, the utter misery and loneliness of the woman smote Mr. Wyville's heart.
"God help her!" he murmured; "she has no place to go but to Him."
This done, Mr. Wyville set his mind towards Perth, where, on his return that day, he was to enter on another act of even deeper personal importance. Somehow, his heart was heavy as he walked from the prison, thinking of the next few hours. He had been more deeply impressed than be thought, perhaps, by the wretched fate of the poor woman he had just released.
At the stable where his horses were put up, he found Officer Lodge, who, with Ngarra-jil, he sent on to Perth in a light carriage before him. He followed on horseback. As he rode through the town, he passed the bank. In the portico sat a woman on a bench, with her head bent low on her hands. He was startled by the attitude; it recalled to his mind the figure of the unhappy Harriet, as he had seen her in the lock-up of Walton-le-Dale.
Something induced him to look at the woman a second time. As he did so, she raised her face, and smiled at a man who came quickly out of the bank, pressing something like a heavy pocket-book into his breast. The woman was Harriet; and the man was Draper, who had just drawn her money from the bank.
Mr. Wyville was in no mood to ride swiftly, so he let his horse choose its own pace. When about half way to Perth, however, he broke into a canter, and arrived shortly after the trap containing Ben Lodge and his native servant.
Mr. Wyville had not occupied the official residence of the Comptroller-General, but had kept his quarters at the hotel, a very comfortable establishment. As he dismounted in the yard, Ben Lodge held his horse, and seemed in garrulous humour.
"Mr. Sheridan were here, sir," said Ben, "and he asked after you. He said he were going to Mr. Little's to-night, and he hoped to see you there."
Mr. Wyville nodded to Ben, and was going towards the house; but Officer Lodge looked at him with a knowing look in his simple face, as if enjoying some secret pleasure.
"He's found her at last, sir," he said.
Mr. Wyville could only smile at the remark, which he did not at all comprehend.
"He were always fond of her. I've known him since he were a boy."
Still Mr. Wyville did not speak; but he seemed interested, and he ceased to smile. Old Ben saw that he might continue.
"I thought at one time that they'd be married. It's years ago; but I see them as plain as if it were yesterday. He were a handsome fellow when he came home from sea—just like his father, old Captain Sheridan—I knew him well, too—and just to think!
Here Old Ben stopped, and led the horse towards the stable, satisfied with his own eloquence. Mr. Wyville stood just where he had dismounted. He looked after Ben Lodge, then walked towards the hotel; but he changed his mind, and returned and entered the stable, where Ben was unsaddling the horse.
"Was Mr. Sheridan alone when he started for Mr. Little's?" he asked.
"Yessir, he were alone." Then Ben added with a repetition of the knowing look: "Happen, he don't want no company, sir; he never did when he were a boy, when she was 'round."
Mr. Wyville looked at Ben Lodge in such a way that the old man would have been frightened had he raised his head. There was a sternness of brow rarely seen on the calm, strong face; and there was a light almost of terror in the eye.
"He were very fond of Alice, surely," said the old fellow, as he went on with his work; "and I do believe he's just as fond of her to-day."
"Do you tell me," said Mr. Wyville, slowly, "that Mr. Sheridan knew Miss Walmsley, very intimately, in Walton-le-Dale, years ago?"
"Oh, yessir; they was very hintimate, no doubt; and they were going to be married, folk said, when that precious rascal, Draper, interfered. They say in Walton to this day that he turned her head by lies against the man she loved."
Ben Lodge carried the saddle to another part of the yard. Had he looked round he would have seen Mr. Wyville leaning against the stall, his face changed by mental suffering almost past recognition. In a minute, when the old man returned, Mr. Wyville passed him in silence, and entered the hotel.
The door of his room was locked for hours that day, and he sat beside his desk, sometimes with his head erect, and a blank suffering look in his eyes, and sometimes with his face buried in his hands. The agony through which his soul was passing was almost mortal. The powerful nature was ploughed to its depths. He saw the truth before him, as hard and
But the man had suffered woefully in the struggle. The lines on his bronzed face were manifestly deeper, and the lips were firmer set, as, towards evening he rose from his seat and looked outwards and upwards at the beautiful deep sky. His lips moved as he looked, repeating the bitter words that were becoming sweet to his heart—' Thy will be done!'"
Two hours later, when the glory of the sunset had departed, and the white moon was reflected in the mirror-like Swan, Will Sheridan and Alice stood beside the river. With one hand he held one of hers, and the other arm was around her. He was looking down into her eyes, that were as deep and calm as the river.
"It has been so always, dear," he said tenderly; "I have never lost my love for one day."
She only pressed closer to him, still looking up, but the tears filled her eyes.
"My sorrow, then, was not equal to yours," she said.
"Darling, speak no more of sorrow," he answered: "it shall be the background of our happiness, making every line the clearer. I only wish to know that you love me as I love you."
Their lips met in a kiss of inexpressible sweetness and unity—in a joy so perfect that the past trembled out of sight and disappeared for ever.
While yet they stood beside the river, they heard a footstep near them. Alice started with alarm, and drew closer to her protector. Next moment, Mr. Wyville stood beside them, his face strangely lighted up by the moonlight. He was silent a moment. Then Sheridan, in his happiness, stretched out his hand as to a close friend, and the other took it. A moment after, he took Alice's hand, and stood holding both.
"God send happiness to you!" he said, his voice very low and deeply earnest. "Your past sorrow will bring a golden harvest. Believe me, I am very happy in your happiness."
They did not answer in words; but the truth of his friendship was clearer to their hearts than the bright moon to their
IN the peaceful water of Fremantle harbour, Mr. Wyville's yacht had lain at anchor for several months. On her return from Adelaide with Mr. Sheridan, she had taken on board a cargo, contained in large cases and swathings, which had arrived from Europe some time before. She also took on board many persons of both sexes, mostly mechanics and labourers, with their families; and among the crowd, but with airs of trust and supervision, as caretakers or stewards, were Mr. Haggett and Officer Lodge. Their friend Ngarra-jil had come on board to bid them good-by, and as he strode about the deck, naked, except his fur boka hanging from the shoulder, and carrying two long spears in his hand, he seemed a strange acquaintance for two persons so prosaic as Mr. Haggett and Ben Lodge.
This thought, indeed, occurred to both of them with renewed strength that day; and it was emphasized by the remark of one of the mechanics—
"That black fellow seems to know you pretty well;" addressed to Ben Lodge.
"Yes," said Ben, with hesitation, and a glance of doubt at Ngarra-jil, "we knew him in England. He was dressed fine there."
"Well," said the good-natured mechanic, "he's the same man still as he war theer. 'Tisn't clothes as we ought to vally in our friends."
This remark brightened Officer Lodge's face, and his hesitating manner towards his wild friend vanished. When the anchor was weighed, and the last visitor had jumped on the barges to go ashore, there were no warmer farewells spoken than those of Mr. Haggett and Ben Lodge to Ngarra-jil.
That evening, at Mr. Little's pleasant dinner-table, Mrs. Little spoke to Mr. Wyville about the destination of the passengers.
"They are going to settle in the Vasse district," he said; "they have purchased homesteads there."
"You have built extensively on your own land there, I believe," said Mr. Little.
A shadow, scarcely perceptible, flitted over Mr. Wyville's face; but his voice had its accustomed tone as he answered—
"Yes; I have worked out an old fancy as to the site and plan of a dwelling-house. But the building was not for myself. Mr. Sheridan has bought the place from me."
"Bless me!" said Mrs. Little, in a disappointed tone; "after sending scores of workmen and gardeners from Europe, and spending four years and heaps of money to make a lovely place, to go and sell it all, just when it was finished! I'm sure Mr. Sheridan might go and make some other place beautiful. It really is too provoking."
"Mrs. Little," said Hamerton, adroitly taking the good lady's attention from a subject which she was in danger of pursuing, "will you not direct me to some rare spot that is capable of beauty and hungry for improvement? I, too, am hunting for a home."
The lure was quite successful. Mrs. Little ran over in her mind all the pretty places she knew in the colony, and instructed Mr. Hamerton with much particularity and patience.
The further conversation of the evening touched no matter of importance to the persons present.
After some weeks the steamer returned to Fremantle, and lay at anchor for several months, except some pleasure-trips round the adjacent coast, arranged by Mrs. Little, and taking in many of the ladies of the colony.
Mr. Wyville was engaged every day in directing the operation of the new and humane law he had brought to the colony. At first, it seemed as if it must end in failure. Its worst enemies were those it proposed to serve. The convicts, as soon as they found the old rigour relaxed, and a word take the place of a blow; when they saw offences that used to earn five years in chains, punished by five minutes of reproach from a superintendent, or at worst, by a red stripe on the sleeve—when first they saw this, they took advantage of it, and shamefully abused their new privileges.
Among the officials of the convict service were many who
At last, it came to such a condition—the reports from the outlying districts were so alarming, and the croakers and mischief-makers became so bold in their criticism—that even the warmest friends of the new system held their breath in fear of something disastrous.
But through the gloom, there was one steadfast and reliant heart and hand. He who had planned the system had faith in it. He knew what its foundations were. When even the brave quailed, he still smiled; and though his face grew thin with anxious application, there was never a quiver of weakness, or hesitation in it.
His near friends watched him with tender, sometimes with terrified interest. But, as the storm thickened, they spoke to him less and less of the danger, until at last they ceased to speak at all. They only looked on him with respect and love, and, did his few behests without a word.
Mr. Wyville knew that he was trying no experiment, though he was doing what had never been done before. It was not experimental, because it was demonstrable. He had not based his system on theory or whim, but on the radical principles of humanity; and he was sure of the result. All he wanted was time, to let the seething settle. Those who doubted, were doubting something as inexorably true as a mathematical axiom. His ship was in the midst of a cyclone; but the hand on the tiller was as true as the very compass itself, for it obeyed as rigidly a natural law.
One flash of passion only did the tempest strike from him. On the great parade-ground of the prison at Fremantle, one day, a thousand convicts stood in line, charged with grossly breaking the new law. On their flank was unlimbered a battery of artillery; and in their rear was a line of soldiers with fixed bayonets and loaded rifles. Scattered in front were the convict officers, and in the centre of the line, within hearing of the convicts, the malcontents had gathered, and were openly denouncing the law as a failure, and declaring that the colony was in danger. Among them, loud in his dissent, stood an officer with a broad gold band on his cap—the deputy superintendent of the prison.
Mr. Wyville had ridden hard from Perth, whence he had been summoned by a courier with a highly-coloured report. His face was deeply-lined and careworn, for he had scarcely slept an hour a day for weeks. But he knew that the turning-point had come. Six months of the new system had passed. During that time there had only been a moral restraint on the convicts—henceforth, there would be a personal and selfish one.
From this day the convicts would begin to receive reward for good conduct, as well as reproach for bad.
A hundred yards behind Mr. Wyville, rode silently the two men who loved him best—Hamerton and Sheridan. They had seen him start, had questioned the courier, and discovered the cause. Thrusting, their revolvers into their holsters, they had followed him in silence.
Mr. Wyville checked his steaming horse as he drew near the prison. He rode up to the gate, and entered the yard calmly, but with such a bearing, even imparted to the horse, as made every man feel that he was full of power.
As he approached, there was deep silence for half a minute. Then his ear caught the sound of a murmur in the central group of officers. He reined his horse stiffly, and regarded them with flaming eyes.
There was no sound for a moment; then there was a whisper; and then the deputy with the gold band walked to the front, and, without salute or preface, spoke:—
"The warders cannot control the men by your new rules. The colony is in a state of mutiny."
There ran a sound, like a terrible growl, along the line of a thousand convicts.
Mr. Wyville dismounted. His horse stood unattended. Sheridan and Hamerton closed up, their hands quietly on their holster-pipes.
It was a moment of awful responsibility; the lives of thousands were in the balance. One weak or false step, and the yell of blind revolt would split the air, to be followed by the crash of artillery, and the shrieks of a wild tumult.
Two revolts stood in Mr. Wyville's presence—the warders', and the convicts'. Towards which side lay the dangerous step?
There was no indecision—not a moment of delay in his action. With a few rapid strides he was close to the mutinous deputy, had plucked the conspicuous cap from his head, rent
The leader of the warders had never moved—but he had grown pale. He had expected a parley, at least, perhaps, a surrender of the Comptroller's plan. But he was dealing with one who was more than a man, who was at that moment an embodied principle.
In a few moments the degraded and dumbfounded deputy was in irons, with a soldier at each shoulder.
"Take him to the cells!" said Mr. Wyville. His stern order reached every ear in the yard. Then he addressed the military commander.
"Limber up those guns, and march your riflemen to their quarters!"
In two minutes there was not a soldier nor a gun in sight.
"The warders will bring their prisoners into square, to listen to the first half-yearly report of the Penal Law."
Rapidly and silently, with faces of uncertainty, the movement was performed, and the thousand convicts stood in solid mass before the austere Comptroller-General, who bad mounted his horse, and looked down on them, holding in his hand the report. There was a profound silence.
Mr. Wyville read from the paper, in a rapid but clear voice, the names of twelve men, and ordered them to step to the front, if present. Seven men walked from the convict square, and stood before him; the other five were on the road-parties throughout the colony. Mr. Wyville addressed the seven.
"Men, by your good conduct as recorded under the old law and your attention to the rules of the present penal code, you have become entitled to a remission of the unexpired term of your sentences. To-day's misconduct shall not stop your reward. You are free. Guard, allow those men to pass through the gate!"
The seven men, wide-eyed, unable to realize the news, almost tottered towards the barrier. The eyes of their fellows in the square followed them in a daze till they disappeared through the outer gate.
There was a sound from the square, like a deep breath, followed by a slight shuffling of feet. Then again there was absolute stillness, every eye intently fixed on the face of the Comptroller-General.
Again he read a list of names, and a number of men came quickly to the front, and stood in line. The new law had awarded to these a certain considerable remission, which sounded to their ears like the very promise of freedom.
Still the lists were read, and still the remissions were conferred. When the report was ended, seven men had been released, and sixty-seven out of the thousand present, all of whom had that morning threatened mutiny, had received rewards striking away years of their punishment.
"Men! we have heard the last sound of mutiny in the colony."
Mr. Wyville's voice thrilled the convicts like deep-sounded music: they looked at him with awe-struck faces. Every heart was filled with the conviction that he was their friend that it was well to listen to him and obey him.
"From this day every man is earning his freedom, and an interest in this colony. Your rights are written down, and you shall know them. You must regard the rights of others as yours shall be regarded. This law trusts to your manhood, and offers you a reward for your labour; let every man be heedful that is not disgraced nor weakened by unmanly conduct. See to it, each for himself, that you return as speedily as you may to the freedom and independence which this colony offers you."
Turning to the warders, he gave a brief order to march the men to their work; and, turning his horse, rode slowly from the prison.
From that hour, as sometimes a tempest dies after one tremendous blast, the uproar against the new law was silent. As swiftly as couriers could carry the news, the scene in the prison yard was described to every road party in the colony.
Among the warders opposition disappeared the moment the gold band of the deputy's cap was seen under the Comptroller's foot. Among the convicts, disorder hid its wild head as soon as they realized that the blind system of work without reward had been replaced by one that made every day count for a hope not only of liberty, but independence.
In a word, from that day the colony ceased to be stagnant, and began to progress.
THERE was a large and pleasant party on the deck of Mr. Wyville's steamer as she slowly swung from her moorings and headed seaward through the islands of Fremantle harbour. It was evidently more than a coast excursion, for the vessel had been weeks in preparation, and the passengers had made arrangements for a long absence.
Beneath the poop awning, waving, their handkerchiefs to friends on shore, stood Mrs. Little and several other ladies. Standing with them, but waving no adieu, was Alice Walmsley; and, quietly sitting near her, enjoying the excitement and pleasure of the others, was Sister Cecilia.
There were many gentlemen on board, too, including the stiff old Governor of the colony, and several of his staff. Mr. Wyville stood with the Governor, pointing out, as they passed, something of interest on the native prison-isle of Rottenest; Mr. Hamerton lounged on the forecastle, smoking and with him the artillery officer of Fremantle; while Mr. Sheridan leant over the rail, watching the sea, but often raising his head and looking sternwards, seeking the eyes that invariably turned, as if by instinct, to meet his glance.
It was a party of pleasure and inspection, going to the Vasse, to visit the new settlement purchased from Mr. Wyville by Mr. Sheridan. They proposed to steam slowly along the coast, and reach their destination in two days.
The excursion was a relief to Mr. Wyville, after the severe strain he had borne for months. From the day of the threatened mutiny, which he had quelled by the report, the new law had become an assured success, and the congratulations and thanks of the whole colony had poured in on the Comptroller-General.
It appeared to those who knew him best, that, during the period of trial, he had withdrawn more and more from social life, and had increased his silence and reserve. This change
‘The individual withers, and the world is more and more,’ quoted Hamerton one day, as the subject of Mr. Wyville's reserve was quietly discussed on the poop. "I don't know what he will do for a cause, now that his penal law has succeeded."
"He will turn his attention to politics, I think," said one of the gentlemen of the staff; "every patriotic man has a field there."
There was a pause, as if all were considering the proposition. At length Hamerton spoke.
"Can you call Mr. Wyville a patriot?"
"Every Englishman is a patriot," answered the first speaker; "of course he is one."
Again there was a lapse; and again Hamerton was the first to speak.
"I don't like the word—applied to him. I don't think it fits, somehow."
"Surely, it is a noble word, only to be given to a noble character," said one of the ladies.
"Well," drawled Hamerton, assenting, but still dissatisfied.
Mr. Wyville has the two highest characteristics of an Englishman," said the old Governor, sententiously.
"Which are?" queried Hamerton.
"Patriotism, and love of Law."
There was an expression of approval from almost every one but Hamerton, who still grumbled. The Governor was highly pleased with himself for his prompt reply.
"Are these not the noblest principles for an Englishman, or any man?" he asked exultingly.
"Let us leave it to Mr. Wyville himself," said Hamerton; "here he comes."
"We have been discussing public virtues," said the Governor to Mr. Wyville, who now joined the group; "and we appeal to you for a decision. Are not Patriotism and love of Law two great English virtues?"
"English virtues—yes, I think so;" and Mr. Wyville smiled as he gave the answer.
"But are they virtues in the abstract?" asked Hamerton.
"No; I think not—I am sure they are not."
There was a movement of surprise in the company. The answer, given in a grave voice, was utterly unexpected. The old Governor coughed once or twice, as if preparing to make a reply; but he did not.
Patriotism not a virtue at length exclaimed one of the ladies. "Pray, Mr. Wyville, what is it, then?"
Mr. Wyville paused a moment, then told a story.
"There were ten families living on a beautiful island, and owning the whole of it. They might have lived together in fraternal peace and love; but each family preferred to keep to themselves, neither feeling pride nor pleasure in the good of their neighbours, nor caring about the general welfare of the whole number. They watched their own interests with greedy care; and when they were strong enough they robbed their fellows, and boasted of the deed. Every person of each family was proud of its doings, though many of these were disgraceful. The spirit which filled these people was, I think, patriotism—on a small scale."
"Good!" said Hamerton, looking, at the Governor; "I thought that word didn't fit, somehow."
"Well, if patriotism is to be condemned, shall we not still reverence Law?" asked someone. "Have you another allegory, Mr. Wyville?"
Again he thought a moment, before his reply came.
"There was a lake, from which two streams flowed to the sea. One river wound itself around the feet of the hills, taking a long course, but watering the fields as it ran, and smiling back at the sun. Its flood was filled with darting fish, and its banks fringed with rich grass and bright flowers. The other stream ran into a great earthen pipe, and rolled along in the dark. It reached the sea first, but it had no fish in its water, except blind ones, and no flowers on its banks. This stream had run so long in the tunnel without its own will that it preferred this way to the winding course of its natural bed; and at last it boasted of its reverence for the earthen pipe that held it together and guided its blind way."
"The earthen pipe is Law, I suppose," said Mr. Little, "that men come in time to love."
Mr. Wyville, who had smiled at the ladies all through his allegory, did not answer.
"But do you apply the allegory to all law?" asked a gentleman of the staff
"To all law not founded on God's abstract justice, which provides for man's right to the planet. Sooner or later, human laws, from the least act to the greatest, shall be brought into harmony with this."
"Will you give us substitutes for those poor virtues that you have pushed out? What shall we have instead?"
"Mankind and Liberty—instead of Patriotism and Law. Surely, the exchange is generously in our favour."
Then followed a general discussion, in which everyone had a hasty word. Mr. Wyville said no more; but drew off the Governor and Hamerton to his cabin to settle some geographical inaccuracy in a chart of the coast.
So the hours passed on the steamer, as she slowly rounded headlands and cut across bays. The air was laden with the breath of the interminable forest. On shore, when the great fires swept over miles of sandalwood and jamwood bush, the heavy perfume from the burning timber lingered on the calm air, and extended fax over land and sea.
On the afternoon of the second day, they saw before them the mountains of the Vasse, running sheer down to the sea, in two parallel ridges about six miles apart.
The land between these high ridges was cut off, some four or five miles back, by a line, of mountain which joined the ridges, thus forming the valley which Mr. Sheridan had bought from Mr. Wyville.
As the steamer drew close to the land, the valley assumed the perfect shape of a horse-shoe. From the sea, at a distance, it seemed a retreat of delicious coolness and verdure. The mountains were wooded high up their sides, and the tops were so steep they seemed to overhang the valley. Two broad and bright shallow streams, which tumbled from the hills at the head of the valley, wound through the rich plain, and calmly merged in the ocean.
Exclamations of wonder and delight were on every lip as the surpassing beauties of the scene came one after another into view.
The end of the ridge on the southern side ran far into the sea; and here, under Mr. Wyville's directions, years before, a strong mahogany pier had been erected, which made a safe
Awaiting their arrival were easy, open carriages, evidently of European build, in which the astonished party seated themselves. The drivers were some black, some white, but they were all at home in their places.
The scene was like a field from fairy-land. No eye accustomed only to northern vegetation and climate, can conceive unaided the glory of a well-watered Australian vale. The carriages rolled under trees of splendid fern from fifteen to twenty feet in height; the earth was variegated with rich colour in flower and herbage; spreading palms of every variety filled the eye with beauty of form; the green and crimson and yellow parrots and paroquets rose in flocks as the carriages passed; and, high over all the beauteous life of the underwood, rose the grand mahogany and tuad and gum trees of the forest.
They passed cottages bowered in flowers, and ringed by tall hedgerows composed wholly of gorgeous geraniums. The strangers who looked on these changing revelations of loveliness sat silent, and almost tearful. Even those long accustomed to Australian scenery were amazed at the beauty of the valley.
Mr. Wyville and Mr. Sheridan had ridden rapidly on before the others, and stood uncovered and host-like on the verandah of the house where the drive ended.
Alice Walmsley sat in the foremost carriage, and was the first to alight, with Sheridan's hand holding hers. Their eyes met as she stepped to his side. His lips formed one short word, of which only her eye and ear were conscious—
"Home!"
Exclamations of wonder came from all the party at the peerless beauty of their surroundings. The house was wholly built of bright red mahogany beams, perfectly fitted, with rich wood-carving of sandalwood and jamwood on angle, cornice, and capital. It was very low, only one story high for the most part, though there were a number of sleeping rooms raised to a second story. From the verandah, looking seaward, every part of the wooded valley was visible, and the winding silver
The house within doors was a wonder of richness, taste, and comfort. Everything was of wood, highly finished with polish and carving, and the colours were combined of various woods. Soft rugs from India and Persia lay on halls and rooms. Books, pictures, statuary, rare bric-a-brac, everything that vast wealth and cultivated taste could command or desire, was to be found in this splendid residence.
Almost in silence, the strangers passed through the countless rooms, each differing from the others, and each complete. Mr. Wyville led the larger party of guests through the place. He had not before seen it himself; but he was wholly familiar with the plans, which, indeed, were largely his own.
"But it will have an owner now," he said, "who will better enjoy its restfulness, and take closer interest in its people."
"But you should rest, too, Mr. Wyville," said Mrs. Little; "the colony is now settled with your excellent law."
"There is much to be done yet," he said, shaking his head, with the old grave smile. "I have not even time to wait one day."
There was a general look of astonishment.
"Why, Mr. Wyville, surely you will not leave this lovely place—"
"I must leave to-night," he said; "I am very sorry, but it is imperative."
Then, not waiting for further comment, he took them out to the stables and village-like out-houses. There was no regular garden; the valley itself was garden and farm and forest in one.
Alice Walmsley had lingered behind the others, in a quiet and dim little room, looking away out to sea. Contentment filled her soul like low music. She wished to be alone. She had sat only a few minutes when she heard a step beside her. She did not look up; she knew whose hand was round her cheek, and standing over her. They did not say a word; but remained still for a long, long time, Then he bent over her, turning her face to his. She raised her arms, and he took her to his breast and lips in the fullness of happiness and love.
When they left the dim little room, which was ever after to
"Where shall the school be, Sister?" asked Sheridan; "have you selected your site?"
"She shall build it on the choicest spot that can be found," said Alice, seating herself beside Sister Cecilia.
"Dictation already!" laughed Sheridan, at which Alice blushed, and sent him away.
Towards evening there stood on the verandah, having quietly withdrawn from the guests, Mr. Wyville, Sheridan, and Hamerton. Mr. Wyville meant quietly to leave, without disturbing the party.
"I am sorry beyond expression," said Sheridan, holding his hand; "your presence was our chief pleasure. Can you not even stay with us to-night?"
"It is impossible!" answered Mr. Wyville, with a look of affectionate response; "the work yet before me will not bear delay. Good-bye. God bless you—and yours!"
He walked rapidly away, his horse having been led by Ben Lodge before him to the entrance.
"Good-bye, Sheridan," said Hamerton, suddenly seizing his friend's hand, "I'm going, too."
"What? You—"
"Stop! Don't try to prevent me. I can't let him go alone. Go in to your people, and say nothing till to-morrow. Goodbye, my dear fellow."
That night the steamer returned to Fremantle, having on board Mr. Wyville and Hamerton.
ON Mr. Wyville's return from the Vasse, he set himself with tireless will to the complete organization of the Penal Law. Not content with writing copious rules for the guidance of warders, he proposed to visit all the districts in the colony, and personally instruct the chief officers of depots, from whom the system would pass directly to their subordinates.
For many days Mr. Hamerton saw little of him, and the time was heavy on his hands. He intended to purchase land in the colony, and bring some of his old farmers from England to settle on it.
One day, he went to the prison at Fremantle, and waited for Mr. Wyville in his office. As he sat there, by a window that looked over a wide stretch of sandy scrub, he noticed that though the sky was clear and the heat intense, a heavy cloud like dense vapour hung over all the lowland. He remembered that for a few days past he had observed the smoky sultriness of the atmosphere, but had concluded that it was the natural oppression of the season.
"That vapour looks like smoke," he said to the convict clerk in the office; "what is it?"
"It is smoke, sir," said the man. "This is the year for the bush fires."
Just then Mr. Wyville entered, and their meeting was cordial. Mr. Wyville, who looked tired, said he had only an hour's writing to do, after which he would ride to Perth. He asked Hamerton to wait, and handed him some late English papers to pass the time.
Hamerton soon tired of his reading, and having laid aside the paper, his eyes rested on Mr. Wyville, who was intently occupied, bending over his desk. Hamerton almost started with surprise at the change he observed in his appearance—a change that was not easily apparent when the face was animated in conversation. When they sailed from England, Mr. Wyville's hair was as black as a raven; but now, even across the room, Hamerton could see that it was streaked with white. The features, too, had grown thin, like those of a person who had suffered in sickness.
But, when the hour had passed, and he raised his head and looked smilingly at Hamerton, it was the same striking face, and the same grand presence as of old. Still, Hamerton could not forget the change he had observed.
"Come," he said, unable to conceal an unusual affectionate earnestness, "let us ride to Perth, and rest there—you need rest."
"Why, I never felt better," answered Mr. Wyville, lightly; "and rest is rust to me. I never rest unless I am ill."
"You will soon be ill if this continue."
"Do you think so?" and as he asked the question, Hamerton saw a strange light in his eye.
"Yes, I think you have overtaxed yourself lately. You are in danger of breaking down—so you ought to rest."
Hamerton was puzzled to see him shake his head sadly.
"No, no, I am too strong to break down. Death passes some people, you know; and I am one of the—fortunate."
Hamerton did not like the tone nor the mood. He had never seen him so before. He determined to hurry their departure. He walked out of the office and waited in the prison yard. Mr. Wyville joined him in a few moments.
"I thought this smoke was only a sultry air," Hamerton said; "where does it come from?"
"I think it comes from Bunbury district; a native runner from there says the bush is burning for a hundred miles in that direction."
"Are lives lost in these fires? A hundred miles of flame is hard to picture in the mind."
"Yes, some unlucky travellers and wood-cutters are surrounded at times; and the destruction of lower life, birds, animals, and reptiles, is beyond computation."
"Does not the fire leave a desert behind?"
"For a season only; but it also leaves the earth clear for a new growth. The roots are not destroyed; and when the rain comes they burst forth with increased beauty for the fertilizing passage of the flame."
By this time they were riding slowly towards Perth. The road was shaded with tall mahoganies, and the coolness was refreshing. Hamerton seized the opportunity of bringing up a subject that lay upon his mind.
"You gave me, sir," he said, "some documents in London which you wished me to keep until our arrival here. Shall I not return them to-morrow?"
Mr. Wyville rode on without answering. He had heard; but the question had come unexpectedly. Hamerton remained silent until he spoke.
"Do not return them yet," he said at length; "when we get back from our ride to the Vasse, then give them to me."
"When shall we start?"
"In ten days. By that time ray work will be fairly done; and the rest you spoke of may not come amiss."
"Shall we ride to Sheridan's settlement?"
"O no; we go inland, to the head of the mountain range. Those papers, by the way, in case anything should happen to me—the sickness you fear, for instance—belong to one whom we may see before our return. In such a case, on breaking the outer envelope, you will find his name. But I may say now, else you might be surprised hereafter, that he is a native bushman."
"A native! Would he understand?"
"Yes; he would understand perfectly. He is my heir—heirs generally understand."
He was smiling as he spoke, evidently enjoying Hamerton's astonishment.
"Seriously, the package you hold contains my will. It is registered in London, and it bequeaths a certain section of land in the Vasse Mountains to the native chief Te-mana-roa, and his heirs for ever, as the lawyers say. We may see the chief on our ride."
"Then why not give him the package?"
"Because he is a bushman, and might be wronged. With two influential persons, like you and Sheridan, to support his title, there would be no question raised. You see I compel you to be my executor."
"Is he not the grandfather of Koro, of whom she often spoke to me?"
"Yes, said Mr. Wyville, smiling, "and also of Tapairu. This property will descend to them."
"Are they with the chief now?"
"No; by this time they have reached Mr. Sheridan's happy valley, where it is probable they will remain. You see, it is possible to step from the bush into civilization; but it is not quite so pleasant to step back into the bush—especially for girls. Ngarra-jil, you observed, had no second thought on the subject; he was a spearman again the moment he landed."
The ride to Perth was pleasantly passed in conversation; and, on their arrival, they ordered dinner to be served on the cool verandah.
While waiting there, a rough-looking man approached and touched his hat to Mr. Wyville.
"Be you the Comptroller-General?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Well, sir, here, you see my ticket, and here's my full discharge. I want to leave the colony; and I want a pass to King George's Sound, where I can find a ship going to Melbourne."
Mr. Wyville examined the papers; they were all right. The man had a right to the pass. He rose to enter the hotel to write it, holding the documents in his hand.
"You're not going to keep them papers, sir, be you?" asked the man, in evident alarm.
"No," said Mr. Wyville, looking closely at him; "but if I give you a pass, you do not need them."
"Well, I'd rather keep them, sir; I'd rather keep them, even if I don't get the pass."
"Well, you shall have them," said Mr. Wyville, rather surprised at the fellow's manner. He entered the hotel and wrote the pass.
But, as the hand wrote, the mind turned over the man's words, dwelling on his last expression, that he would rather have his ticket-of-leave than take a pass from the colony yet, in any other country, it was a proof of shame, not a safeguard. The man did not look stupid, though his words were so. As Mr. Wyville finished writing, he raised his head and saw Ngarra-jil watching him as usual. He raised his finger slightly—Ngarra-jil was beside him.
A few words in the native tongue, spoken in a low tone, sent Ngarra-jil back to his bench, where he sat like an ebony figure till he saw Mr. Wyville return to the verandah. He then rose and went out by another door.
Mr. Wyville called the ex-convict towards him till he stood in the strong lamplight. He spoke a few words to him, and gave him his papers and the pass. The man clumsily thanked him and went off.
"That's an ugly custom," said Hamerton. "I suppose you know it from his papers. He was strangely restless while you were writing his pass."
Mr. Wyville did not answer, but he took hold of Hamerton's arm, and pointed to a corner of the street where at the moment the man was passing under a lamp, walking hurriedly. Following him closely and silently strode a tall native with a spear.
"Ngarra-jil?" said Hamerton.
Mr. Wyville smiled and nodded.
"I thought it just as well to know where the man passed the night," he said.
A few minutes later, Ngarra-jil came to the verandah, and spoke in his own language to Mr. Wyville, who was much disturbed by the message. He wrote a letter, and sent it instantly to the post-office.
"The callous wretch!" he said, unusually moved. He had gone straight to Draper, by whom he had been hired to get the pass. Draper's purpose was plain. He intended to leave the colony, and desert again his most unfortunate wife, with whose money he could return comfortably to England.
"What will you do with the miscreant?" asked Hamerton.
"Nothing, but take the pass from him."
"But he is a free man. Can you interfere with his movements?"
"No man is allowed to desert his wife, stealing her property. He can have a pass by asking; but he dare not come here for it. And yet, I fear to keep him; he may do worse yet. If no change for the better appear, I shall hasten his departure, and alone, on our return from the Vasse."
IT was the afternoon of a day of oppressive heat on which Mr. Wyville and Hamerton started from Perth to ride to the mountains of the Vasse. They were lightly equipped, carrying with them the few necessaries for the primitive life of the bush.
For weeks before, the air had been filled with an irritating smoke, that clung to the earth all day, and was blown far inland by the sea-breeze at night.
As the horsemen were leaving Perth, they met a travel-stained police trooper, carrying the mail from the southern districts. He recognized the Comptroller General, and saluted respectfully as he passed.
"Where is the fire, trooper?" asked Mr. Wyville.
"In the Bunbury district, sir, and moving towards the Vasse Road. It has burnt on the plains inside the sea-hills for three weeks, and in a day or two will reach the heavy bush on the uplands."
They rode at a steady and rapid pace, conversing little, like men bent on a long and tedious journey. The evening closed on them when they were crossing the Darling Range. From the desolate mountain-road, as they descended, they saw the sun standing large and red, on the horizon. Before them, at the foot of the range, stretched a waste of white sand, far as the eye could reach, over which their road lay.
The setting of the sun on such a scene has an awfulness hard to be described. The whiteness of the sand seems to increase until it becomes ghastly, while every low ridge casts a black shadow. During this time of twilight the sand-plain has a weirdly sombre aspect. When the night comes in its black shroud or silvery moonlight, the supernatural effect is dispelled.
As the travellers rode down towards the plain, impressed by this ghostly hour, Mr. Wyville called Hamerton's attention to two dark objects moving on the sand at a distance.
Hamerton unslung his field-glass, and looked at the objects.
"A man and a woman," he said, "they are going ahead, and the woman carries a load like the natives."
Soon after, the sun went down beyond the desert, and the plain was dark. The horsemen spurred on, oppressed by the level monotony before them. They had forgotten the travellers who were crossing, the weary waste on foot.
Suddenly Hamerton's horse swerved, and a voice in the darkness ahead shouted something. It was a command from the man on foot, addressed to the woman, who, in her weariness and with her burden, had not been able to keep pace with him, and had fallen behind.
"Come along, curse you! or I'll be all night on this plain."
The speaker had not seen nor heard the horsemen, whose advance was hidden by the night and the soft sand. They rode close behind the woman, and heard her laboured breathing as she increased her speed.
A sense of acute sorrow struck at once the hearts of the riders. They had recognized the voice as that of Draper—
they knew that the miserable being who followed him and received his curses was his wife.
They rode silently behind her, and halted noiselessly as she came up with her husband. He growled at her again as she approached.
"I am very tired, Samuel," they heard her say in a low, uncomplaining voice; "and I fear I'm not as strong as I thought I was."
She stood a moment as she spoke, as if relieved by the moment's breathing-space.
"Look here," he said in a hard voice, meant to convey the brutal threat to her soul; "if you can't keep up, you can stay behind. I'll stop no more for you; so you can come or stay. Do you hear?"
"O, Samuel, you wouldn't leave me in this terrible place alone! Have pity on me, and speak kindly to me, and I will keep up—indeed, I'll not delay you any more to-night."
"Have pity on you?" he hissed between his teeth you brought me to this, and I am to have pity on you!"
He turned and strode on in the dark. She had heard, but made no reply. She struggled forward, though her steps even now were unsteady.
Mr. Wyville, having first attracted her attention by a slight sound, so that she should not be frightened, rode up to her, and spoke in a low voice.
"I am the Comptroller-General—do not speak. Give me your burden. You will find it when you arrive at the inn at "Pinjarra."
She looked up and recognized Mr. Wyville; and without a word she slipped her arms from the straps of the heavy load, and let him lift it from her.
"God bless you, sir!" she whispered tremulously; "I can walk easily now."
"Here," said Hamerton, handing her his wine-flask, keep this for yourself, and use it if you feel your strength failing."
"Where is your husband going?" asked Mr. Wyville.
"He is going to the Vasse, sir. A whale ship has come in there, and he thinks she will take us off."
They rode on, and soon overtook Draper. Mr. Wyville addressed him in a stern voice.
"If your wife does not reach Pinjarra to-night in safety, I shall hold you accountable. I overheard your late speech to her."
The surprised caitiff made no reply, and the horsemen passed on. They arrived at the little town of Pinjarra two hours later.
Next morning, they found that Draper had arrived. Mr. Wyville arranged with the innkeeper and his wife for Harriet's good treatment, and also that a stockman's team, which was going to Bunbury, should offer to take them so far on their way.
It was a long and fatiguing ride for the horsemen that day, but as the night fell they saw before them, across an arm of the sea, the lights of a town.
"That is Bunbury," said Mr. Wyville, "the scene of our friend Sheridan's sandalwood enterprise."
They stopped in Bunbury two days. Mr. Wyville spending his time in the prison depot, instructing the chief warder in the new system. They found Ngarra-jil there, with fresh horses. He was to ride with them next day towards the Vasse.
As they were leaving the town, on the afternoon of the third day, they met a gang of wood-cutters, carrying bundles on their backs, coming in from the bush.
"Are you going to the Vasse?" asked one of the wood-cutters, who was resting by the roadside.
"Yes."
"Well, keep to the eastward of the Koagulup Swamp and salt marshes. The fire is all along the other side. We've been burnt out up that way."
They thanked him, and rode on. Presently, another man shouted after them—
"There's a man and woman gone on before you, and if they take the road to the right of the swamp, they'll be in danger."
They rode rapidly, striking in on a broad, straight road, which had been cleared by the convicts many years before. Mr. Wyville was silent and preoccupied. Once or twice Hamerton made some passing remark, but he did not hear.
The atmosphere was dense with the low-lying smoke, and the heat was almost intolerable.
A few miles south of Bunbury, the road cut clear across a hill. From the summit, they caught their first sight of the fire. Mr. Wyville reined his horse, and Hamerton and the bushman followed his example.
Before them stretched a vast sea of smoke, level, dense, and grayish white, unbroken, save here and there by the topmost branches of tall trees, that rose clear above the rolling cloud that covered all below.
"This is Bunbury racecourse," said Mr. Wyville; "the light sea-breeze keeps the smoke down, and rolls it away to the eastward. This fire is extensive."
"Where is our road now?" asked Hamerton.
"Through the smoke; the fire had not yet reached the plain. See: it is just seizing the trees yonder as it comes from the valley."
Hamerton looked far to the westward, and saw the sheeted flame, fierce red with ghastly streaks of yellow, hungrily leaping among the trees in waves of terrific length. For the first time in his life he realized the power of the element. It appalled him, as if he were looking on a living and sentient destroyer.
"We must ride swiftly here," said Mr. Wyville, beginning the descent; "but the plain is only three miles wide."
In a minute they had plunged into the murky air, and, with heads bent, drove their horses into a hard gallop. But the animals understood, and needed a little pressing. With ears laid back, as if stricken with terror, they flew, swift-footed.
The air was not so deadly as the first breath suggested. The dense smoke was thickest overhead; beneath was a stratum of semi-pure air. The heat was far more dangerous than the fumes.
At last they reached the rising ground again, and filled their lungs with a sense of profound relief. The prospect was now changed, and for the better.
The fire in their front appeared only on the right of the road. It stretched in a straight line as far as they could see, burning the tall forest with a dreadful noise, like the sea on a rocky shore, or like the combined roar of wild beasts. The wall of flame ran parallel with the road, about a mile distant.
"It is stopped there by a salt marsh," said Mr. Wyville; "but that ends some miles in our front."
"Koagulup there," said Ngarra-jil, meaning that where the marsh ended the great swamp began. The wood-cutters had warned them to keep to the left of the swamp.
"We must surely overtake those travellers," said Mr. Wyville to Hamerton, "and before they reach the swamp. They might take the road to the right, and be lost."
They galloped forward again, and as they rode, in the falling dusk of night, the fire on the right increased to a glare of terrific intensity. They felt its hot breath on their faces as if it panted a few yards away.
Suddenly when they had ridden about two miles, Mr. Wyville drew rein, looked fixedly into the bush, and then dismounted. He walked straight to a tall tuad-tree by the roadside, and stooped at its base, as if searching for something.
When he rose and came back, he had in his hand a long rusty chain, with a lock on one end.
"You have keen sight, sir," said Hamerton, astonished.
"I did not see it," he answered quietly; "I knew that it was there. I once knew a man to be chained to that tree."
He tied the chain on his horse's neck, and mounted with more words. From that moment he seemed to have only one thought—to overtake and warn those in front.
Half an hour later, they drew rein where the roads divided, one going to the right, the other to the left of the swamp. The travellers were not yet in sight.
"Which road have they taken?" asked Hamerton.
Ngarra-jil had leaped from his horse, and was running along the road to the left. He came back with a disappointed air, and struck in on the other road. In half a minute he stopped, and cried out some guttural word.
Mr. Wyville looked at Hamerton, and there were tears in his eyes. He rode to him, and caught him by the arm.
"Take the other road with Ngarra-jil, and I will meet you at the farther end of the swamp. It is only twelve miles, and I know this bush thoroughly."
Hamerton answered only with an indignant glance.
"Do not delay, dear friend," and Wyville's voice was broken as he spoke; "for my sake, and for those whose rights are in your hands, do as I say. Take that road, and ride on till we meet."
"I shall not do it," said Hamerton, firmly, and striking
His horse flew wildly forward, terrified by the tremendous light of the conflagration. Wyville soon overtook him, and they rode abreast, the faithful bushman a horse's length behind.
On their left, a quarter of a mile distant, stretched the gloomy swamp, at this season a deadly slough of black mud, with shallow pools of water. On their right, a mile off, the conflagration leaped and howled and crashed its falling trees, as if furious at the barrier of marsh that baulked it of its prey. The bush between the swamp and the fire was brighter than day, and the horsemen drove ahead in the white glare.
They saw the road for miles before them. There was no one in sight.
Five, seven, nine of the twelve miles of swamp were passed. Still the road ahead was clear for miles, and still no travellers.
As they neared the end of the ride, a portentous change came over the aspect of the fire. Heretofore it had burned high among the gum-trees, its red tongues licking the upper air. There was literally a wall of fire along the farther side of the salt marsh. Now, the tree-tops grew dark, while the flame leaped along the ground, and raced like a wild thing straight towards the swamp.
"The fire has leaped the marsh!" said Mr. Wyville.
The whole air and earth seemed instantly to swarm with fear and horror. Flocks of parrots and smaller birds whirled screaming, striking blindly against the horsemen as they flew. With thunderous leaps, herds of kangaroo plunged across the road, and dashed into the deadly alternative of the swamp. The earth was alive with insect and reptile life, fleeing instinctively from the fiery death. Great snakes, with upraised heads, held their way, hissing in terror, towards the water, while timid bandicoot and wallaby leaped over their mortal enemies in the horrid panic.
The horses quivered with terror, and tried to dash wildly in the direction of the swamp.
"Hold on, for your life!" shouted Wyville to Hamerton. "Do not leave the road."
As they spurred onward, their eyes on the advancing fire,
Hamerton did not know what to do, but he saw Mr. Wyville rein up, and he did so also. They looked back, and a mile behind saw the two unfortunates they had come to warn. They had strayed from the road, and the riders had passed them. The fire had now closed in behind them, and was driving, them forward with appalling fury.
"For God's sake, ride on!" shouted Mr. Wyville to Hamerton, his voice barely heard in the savage roar of the conflagration.
"And you?" cried the other, with a knitted brow.
"I am going back for these—I must go back. God bless you!"
He struck his spurs, into his horse, and the animal sprang to the front. But next instant he was flung back on his haunches by Ngarra-jil, dismounted, who had seized the bridle. The bushman's eyes blazed, and his face was set in determination.
"No! no!" he cried in his own language; "you shall no you shall not! It is death, MOONDYNE! It is death."
Wyville bent forward, broke the man's grasp, speaking rapidly to him. His words moved the faithful heart deeply, and he stood aside, with raised hands of affliction, and let him ride forward.
Hamerton did not follow; but he would not try to escape. He sat in his saddle, with streaming eyes following the splendid heroism of the man he loved dearest of all the world.
It was a ride that could only be faced by audacious bravery. The hot breath of the leaping fire was moving the whole bush through which Wyville rode. The leaves on the trees overhead shrivelled and smoked. The cinders and burning brambles floated and fell on man and horse.
But the rider only saw before him the human beings he meant to save. Nearer and nearer he drew; and he shouted, as best he could, to cheer them; but they did not hear him.
He saw with straining eyes the man throw up his hands and sink to the earth; and he saw the woman, faithful to the last, bending over him, holding the wine flask to his parched lips. He saw her, too, reach out her arms, as if to shield the fallen one from the cruel flame that had seized them. Then she
It was too late. The woman had fallen in front of the flame, as if to keep it from the face of the man who had deserved so little of her devotion; and still the hand of the faithful dead held to his lips the draught that might have saved her own life.
One moment, with quivering face, the strong man bent above her, while his lips moved. Then he raised his head, and faced his own danger.
Already the fire had cut him off; but it was only the advanced line of the conflagration that bad reached the water. It was possible to dash back, by the edge of the swamp.
The awful peril of the moment flashed on him as he rode. The horse bounded wildly ahead; and the skilled hand guided him for the best. But, as he flew, other scenes rose before the rider even brighter than that before him. The present was filled with horror; but the past overtook him and swept over his heart like a great wave of peace.
A tree crashed to the earth across his path. He was forced to drive his horse into the fire to get round the obstacle. The poor animal reared and screamed, but dashed through the fire, with eyes scorched and blinded by the flame, now solely dependent on the hand of its guide. The rider felt the suffering animal's pain, and recorded it in his heart with sympathy.
It was that heart's last record, and it was worthy of the broad manhood that had graved it there. He had given his life for men—he could pity a dumb animal.
By the side of the swamp he was stricken from the saddle by the branch of a falling tree. His body fell in the water, his head resting on the tangled rushes of the swamp.
Once, before he died, his opened eyes were raised, and he looked above him into the sea and forest of fire. But he would not accept that; but upwards, with the splendid faith of his old manhood, went the glazing eyes till they rested firmly on the eternal calmness of the sky. As he looked, there came to him, like a vision he had once before dimly seen, a great Thought from the deep sky, and held his soul in rapt communion. But the former dimness was gone; he saw it clearly now for one instant, while all things were closing peacefully in upon him.
Then the man's head sank peacefully to its couch, the limbs stretched out for their lone, rest, the strong heart stopped its labours.
He was dead.
They found his body next day, unscathed by the fire, preserved by the water in which he had fallen. Reverent hands lifted the burden and bore it into the dim recesses of the bush, followed by numerous dusky mourners.
One white man stood among the children of the forest; but he had no claim higher than theirs. Above the dead stood the white-haired chief, Te-mana-roa, bowed in silent grief. A spearwood litter was made, and the body placed on it. It was raised by the bushmen, who stood awaiting the old chief's orders.
Te-mana-roa turned to Hamerton, who alone of all the assembly belonged to the dead man's race. The old chief read profound grief in his face, and drew closer to him.
"This man belonged to us," he said, laying his dark finger on the wide brow of the dead; "he was true to my people, and they understood and loved him better than his own. We shall bury him in the Vasse."
The litter-bearers moved slowly forward, the old chief took his place behind the dead, and the bushmen with trailed spears followed in sad procession.
Hamerton's heart went strongly with the mourners; but he could not question their right. Two strange spearmen stood near him, to guide him safely through the bush. The faithful Ngarra-jil was gone, to mourn by the lonely grave of the MOONDYNE.