The Author's Daughter/Chapter 1
THE AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
A SAD WELCOME TO THE COLONY.
It was drawing towards evening in the later summer, when a young man was riding slowly and steadily homeward on a rather tired horse, along a rough district-road, which led—I will not say in what direction, or to what locality—in the colony of South Australia. Suffice it to say, that it was somewhere on the borderland where agricultural farming ceases and the great sheep-runs begin, and that it was as beautiful a country as could be seen in all the colony. Even at the season of the year when Australian scenery looks its worst, when the grass is burnt almost to the colour of the earth it covers, an experienced eye could tell, by the length and closeness of the herbage, by the lay of the country and the look of the soil, and more especially by the numbers of fine gum-trees that enlivened the sombre colouring of the landscape with their great white stems and luxuriance of green foliage, that it was a well-watered region, and land that in ordinary seasons would grow anything.
Allan Lindsay rode slowly, for two reasons: the first and best was that his horse was tired, and had been frightened by a violent storm of thunder and lightning, which had rolled and flashed all the afternoon; and the second was, that he was taking that leisurely and critical survey of the country which is natural when a man returns from a land-sale through the property which he has just bought. Though he had not been a purchaser on his own account, as he was not yet twenty years of age, he had been entrusted by his father to bid for him, and he had even gone a little beyond the limit which the old experienced colonist had set. But as he looked affectionately on the open, slightly undulating country, he felt that his father would have been more disappointed if he had let their neighbour, Mr. Hammond, outbid him, than he could possibly be at the little extra price that was to be paid.
"Yes," said Allan half aloud, "this land is worth more to us than to Mr. Hammond; and if we have early rains, as I thought we should have with this storm, it will look first-rate in a month or two. But it is strange that his season of the year we have so much thunder and lightning, with scarce a drop of rain. Steady, Charlie, my man," said he, affectionately addressing his horse, whom a more vivid flash than usual right across the eyes had terrified afresh—"you've gone far enough to-day to sober you, so you needn't plunge like that," and he patted and soothed he frightened animal.
He had not ridden half a mile farther when he heard voices apparently of some people in distress, where voices were not usually heard, and a loud "cooey" directed him to the spot, which was a some distance off he road. There he found his was not he only horse made restive by the lightning, for Mr. Hammond's spring-cart had been overturned; the horse having dragged it till the wheel had caught in a charred stump, when it had tilted over, and thrown out the three occupants of the vehicle, while the horse had got loose from his traces and had run off. One of the party he knew well—Tom Cross, Mr. Hammond's groom—who now limped sadly towards him with a badly sprained ankle; but the other two—a gentleman who lay on the ground dead or insensible, and a girl apparently about thirteen, who hung over him in an agony of grief and terror—were absolute strangers to Allan."What is all this, Tom Cross?" said Allan. "How did you get this terrible upset?"
"Rattler took fright and dashed off with us," said Tom; and lowering his voice," I think it is all over with the poor gentleman. Neither me nor the girl there can make him speak, and it's a quarter of an hour since we had the spill. It was on his head, d'ye see, and that's bad."
"Oh! papa, dearest papa, do speak to me!" said the child. "Oh! please do try to revive him!" and she turned to the stranger, as if he must be able to do something, when such unlooked-for assistance had come to aid her own and the groom's inadequate efforts. "He is only fainting; mamma used to faint often if she was a little too tired, and this was a terrible fall. Oh! if I had any drops to give him!"
The young bushman took a flask out of his pocket, and tried to get a few drops out of it into the mouth of the stranger, but it was of no avail. He had been pitched on his head with great violence, and a concussion of the brain had caused instant death.
"Will he never speak?" said the child again.
"Can we not send for a doctor, and get him taken to a house?"
"You cannot go so far as Mr. Hammond's, but Branxholm is not far off, and you can take him there. My mother would do all in her power for you—and for him," said Allan with an effort, for he knew nothing could be done. "If the cart could be trusted to go as far as Branxholm, Charlie will go in harness even if you cannot catch Rattler."
"I'm of as little as no use," said Tom, "but I don't think there's much the matter with the cart; one of the shafts is broke, but you can splice it, I'll be bound, and you'll drive softly, as is most fitting, leastways, at any rate."
Allan took his knife and a piece of strong whipcord from his pocket, and began to splice the broken shaft in a most workmanlike manner. "This is a terrible business, Tom," said he. "Do you know who this gentleman is?"
"He was coming to be tutor to them big boys, and to keep the store and accounts, it is likely too, and I was sent to the township with the trap to meet them. A very pleasant-spoken gentleman he was, too, and him and the girl asked such heaps of questions about the trees, and flowers, and such like, and the birds that we saw hopping about. They were all new to them apparently, for they are new chums. But what is to be done with her now? In course she must go to Mr. Hammond's and be took care on till her friends is wrote to, but it's a poor welcome this to South Australia. There, Allan, don't you see Rattler? After doing all this mischief he comes back penitent, and it is as well, for though you say Charlie will go in harness, the harness is all on Rattler's back. You catch hold of him, he's like a lamb now."
It was the work of some little time to catch the horse, to mend the traces roughly, and to put Rattler in his old position between the shafts. Allan next bound up Tom's leg as well as he could with pockethandkerchiefs, and helped him up into the spring-cart. He next lifted the body of the lifeless stranger, placed it gently on the floor of the cart, removing the seat, and resting the head on a carpet-bag; and then took the girl in his arms, and laid her so that she might be near her father, but where she could not feel the weight press on her to convince her that-all hope was over. She looked surprised at the manner in which she was lifted, and perhaps a little offended, but a glance at Allan's kind face, with the honest blue eyes full of a moisture very unusual to them, made the little lady forgive the liberty. He next fastened Charlie to the spring-cart, as Tom had declined to drive so sad a load with his lame foot. Under any other circumstances, Tom would have thought nothing of driving with a sprained ancle, for, as he said, his feet had nothing to do with the business; but though the storm was over and the horizon clear, he would not venture to handle the reins.
"Are we not going to Mr. Hammond's?" asked the little girl "No, we are going to my father's at Branxholm, for it is nearer," said Allan Lindsay.
"And you will send for a surgeon; For you know he must be bled or something done to make him speak."
"If it had no been for his foot I'd have mounted Charlie and gone to the township, but I suppose there's some one to be found at Branxholm to go there for Dr. Burton, and somebody must go across to Aralewin. Mr. Hammond is sure to be home by this time, though he was not when I left it to-day. I know he won't be pleased at our putting Rattler in the spring-cart, which he ain't used to, but Mrs. Hammond she said as how there would likely be a lot of luggage, and the spring-cart is the roomiest. But you see we have had to leave the boxes after all. We're heavy enough without them. There's nobody will run away with them, I suppose, till we can send down for them, and they're all marked plain enough, 'G. Staunton,' for us all to swear to if they are stole."
"You have not been long in the colony?" said Allan to the girl."Only a fortnight in Adelaide, but we were in Melbourne for more than a month."
"And your papa was going to be tutor at the Hammonds'?"
"Yes, when he is better he must go here, for Mr. Hammond says that I may stay there too, and I promised mamma, that I never would leave dear "Is your mamma in England?" asked Allan.
"No, no! mamma is in heaven But I cannot spare papa to her yet. Mamma must wait a little longer. There are saints and angels in heaven, and my little brothers are there; but if I lose papa, I have nobody—nobody."
"Have you any shipmates that you liked?" said Allan, thinking of that only friendless strangers in the colonies.
"Our shipmates are all in Melbourne, for we came over in a steamer to Adelaide; but we did not care much about our fellow-passengers. The captain was very unkind, and the people on board were not like papa. Papa is Gerald Staunton, you know."
Allan did not know anything about Gerald Staunton, but he had a reverence for learning and he had envied the young Hammonds the succession of private tutors they had had, and had wondered why they did not profit more by their advantages. And there was something in the countenance of the dead man so refined, so intellectual, and so gentlemanly, that he was sure he was superior to any Mr. Hammond had previously engaged.
"I suppose your papa—Mr. Staunton, I mean—knew everything that boys should know; languages, and figures, and geography, and spelling, and all ha sort of thing," said Allan.
"Papa never was a tutor in his life. I don't quite know how he will like it. He was an author in London, and a critic for the Palladium."
Allan's reverence for the dead man rose still higher. What treasures were to be buried with him, that Allan would give up his fair worldly prospects to possess! No doubt he was a genius, and his want of success in life perhaps was rather proof of it than otherwise.
"He's an Oxford man, I heard Mrs. Hammond saying to Mr. Louis," said Tom Cross; "and she seemed mightily taken up with he notion that he had got some sort of a degree, though I am sure I don't know what it is; but of course she knows. She's uppish, and always was; but she's kind too, and this poor young lady will find that out, never fear."
In spite of the well-worn black frock and the plain straw hat, dusty with the long journey from Adelaide, even Tom Cross had seen that she was a little lady, and Allan had still more observation. He could not call her pretty; she was too pale and thin, and angular for beauty at this particular time, but she gave promise of being very lovely ere long. The face was expressive, her eyes perhaps too large at present, but dark and full of varied light; her head was beautifully set on her shoulders, and her feet and hands finely formed. Her fine accent, or rather the absence of any provincial accent, contrasted with Allan's Scotch, and Tom's Midland English; and they both felt that, whatever might be her circumstances, their unhappy fellow-traveller was something quite out of the common.
"When you get home will your mother try to make papa speak? Oh! papa, will you not speak to your own poor Amy?" and the girl kissed the lifeless face, and now for the first time she was aware of the chill that had come over it, and the horrible thought pressed itself on her that he was dead. Allan saw by the expression on her face that she now apprehended the truth, though she was too much horrified to speak of it. He endeavoured to soothe her as if she had been his own sister; he patted her gently on the back, saying—"Poor dear! poor dear! it is the will of God, and we cannot gainsay it May He help you to bear it." The familiarity of the action the child shrank from instinctively, but only for a moment, for Allan's face was so full of sympathy, his lips quivered with suppressed emotion, his eyes could not keep back the drops that rose to them, and his voice trembled as he spoke. She drew closer to him, allowed him to take her hand, and wept with a quiet, intense sorrow, speechless and noiseless. Now and then a deep shaking sob went to the hearts of her two living companions, but, alas! nothing could now awaken the sympathy or call forth an effort from one who had been all the world to Amy Staunton.