The New Arcadia/Chapter 28
CHAPTER XXVIII.
BROKEN TRAPS AND BREAKING HEARTS.
"Two paths lead upward from below,
And angels wait above.
Who count each burning life-drop's flow,
Each falling tear of love.
While Valour's haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown,
Love walks unchallenged through the gate,
To sit beside the Throne!"—O. W. Holmes.
"The day drags through, though storms keep out the sun;
Byron.
Tom Lord had taken up "a twenty acre block" beside the lake, and was "graduating," so he termed it, "as a co-operative 'Cockie.'"
He had purchased "a Snowden blood warranted" quiet in saddle and harness. Since his memorable victory at the village races, Tom disported himself in most correct "bush" garb. A pair of immaculate riding-pants and top-boots, Crimean shirt with fiery-coloured "cummerbund," neck-scarf to match, had been procured from town. The hugest of cabbage-tree hat, swathed in pugaree, completed the little Englishman's outfit. Nay, we must not omit the long spurs, whose frequent collision with each opposing foot had left scars on either shining toe.
By the village artist Mr. Lord had been photographed astride his "Snowden," mounting and dismounting. The instantaneous representations of the tyro cracking his stock-whip were not quite successful. Rejected by the ardent knight, the artist retained copies which attracted attention after Mr. Lord's departure for "a peep at the old country."
The tell-tale camera depicted hat sent spinning far afield by the unaccommodating whip; which had, as Tom remarked, a remarkable affinity for his head, round which it coiled with boa-like affection.
Old "Snowden" was less patient, when the snake-like thong wound about the creature's ears, or inserted itself beneath his tail. He resented the indignity in a fashion that caused the Englishman anxiety as to "the tenure of his seat."
The gentleman-rider, as he liked to be styled, would, in true bush fashion, look after his own stable. True, his long-suffering steed raised objection to his currying its slender legs. The combing of its tail, when the flies were playful, caused anxious moments. Tom, nevertheless, had reason to be proud of the animal's glossy coat. Its food he administered in strict accordance with directions contained in a library of yellow-back works he collected on "The Horse," "The Pig," "The Cow," "My farm and four acres," with other such bucolic manuals.
Alas! an evil day arrived. "Snowden" ate without a relish. Had he been licking salt too much? That must be removed.
The hay might be sour, the oats musty; Tom would complain at the granary.
Yet another day and "Snowden" refused food entirely, actually lay down in his stall, the picture of misery, and, later, seemed to be considering the advisability of departing this weary life altogether. His master was in despair.
Hastily the local vet, old settler Snooks, was summoned. Travers attended too, out of sympathy. Snooks suggested bleeding, and terrified Tom by thrusting his arm half-a-yard down the patient creature's throat to administer a ball.
"I was relieved," explained Tom afterwards, "when I saw his hand reappear."
The next day the sad animal was worse. Some cruel wretch actually advised "another ball"—of lead this time, to "put him out of his misery." The hay, the oats, the green stuff, the bedding had all been duly examined. None could surmise the cause of the mysterious indisposition.
"What water do you give him? Let's have a look at that," said the leech in despair.
"Water! By Jove, I never thought of that!" exclaimed the amateur hostler. "Blowed if I gave him any!" speeding frantically for a bucket. "Poor brute, he's been nearly a week without a drop to drink! You see there's so much to think about in a stable."
"Slowly does it," counselled Mr. Snooks. "Another bucket in an hour, and he'll be all right."
"If you're thinking of riding across the continent, Tom," remarked Travers, "he'll be in fine form now. As good as a camel to bear you over the waterless desert."
The little man's troubles were not yet ended. The next afternoon Gwyneth met him, disconsolate, descending the hill towards the settlement. He was leading the unfortunate "Snowden," about whom harness was loosely hanging. The remains of a shaft balanced in the belly-band. At every other step the creature trod upon its breeching and trappings.
"What has happened, Mr. Lord?" exclaimed Gwyneth, smiling despite her sad thoughts.
"What has not happened?" was the reply. "I never imagined before how stupid are the ways of horses. You must know I started off this morning in my buggy to see Mr. Bloakes the banker at Gumford. I 'hung up,' as they call it, my horse and trap to the post set for the purpose in front of the stuccoed building. It was literally a 'hang up.' I came out in a few moments to find my Rosinante actually strangling, tied up in the most awful way. The more it backed, the more it somehow pulled itself together, till down it fell, its head tied round its neck. Even now I don't know how it all happened. There's something very wrong about the ways of harness that acts like that."
"You left the reins in the rings on the saddle," suggested Gwyneth, laughing, "and then tied him up by them."
"Yes, I looked to see all was right."
Gwyneth explained, as best she could, that the Australian way, whatever gentlemen practised in England, was to draw the reins out of the rings under such circumstances.
"Oh, I see now," replied Tom; "why can't they give a fellow all these wrinkles, and not leave him to find them out by bitter experience?
"It's the way of the world," he continued, solemnly shaking his head. "No doubt it would take a long time to tell a man all he needs to know before he graduates as a bushman. Cambridge and 'the Little-go' are nothing to this 'big-go' in Australia.
"Well, that wasn't all," the rusticated undergraduate continued. "Some grinning urchins and a blacksmith, who, I know, was laughing in his greasy, upturned sleeve all the while, extricated my lashed-up steed. The fat baker was cruelly seated on poor 'Snowden's' head throughout the unravelling process. Now that I am sure was unnecessary. I had had enough of the dusty streets and smirched faces of Gumford for that day. I drove slowly homewards, a sadder but a wiser man.
"Across the bridge, you remember, is a rare patch of grass. 'My poor old sat-upon beast, in more senses than one,' I exclaimed, 'you shall browse the luscious herb awhile.' I was afraid to take the brute out of his terrible trappings, lest I might be unable to incarcerate him again. You know I never can remember the number of holes in the 'belly-band' and 'turns' of the breeching round the shaft; not to mention sundry needful adjustments of traces and reins. So I thought he should feed as he was, while I enjoyed the more fragrant weed and cogitated upon 'what may happen to an Englishman in Australia.'
"How could he, I thought, see to eat and avoid the wretched thistles with those horrid, hot winkers on? In tender regard for my long-suffering nag I managed, by dint of standing on tip-toe (he would stick his ears in the clouds, of course), to drag off, somehow, the headgear.
"I hardly know what happened next," continued Tom, wiping the perspiration from his face. "As one possessed, hurling me into a bed of thistles, the creature dashed off. Trap and horse went bounding and crashing over logs, through bushes, till, smash! they were caught in a thicket. I limped after them. At sight of me the creature started again. By furious kickings, of which I could not have thought my placid steed capable, he had extricated himself from my precious 'Abbott.' I caught the beast at length, and here I am," concluded the unfortunate Jehu, looking demurely upon his wrecked harness and dusty steed.
Gwyneth comforted the little man as best she could, and, inserting the straggling straps into buckles and rings, essayed to proceed on her way.
"Miss Elms," said Tom, placing his hand on the girl's arm. Her face had resumed the expression of settled melancholy that imparted to her clear-cut features a solemn beauty of their own.
"I have long wanted to impart some information to you," he began. "I can tell you something of your sorry young lover."
The girl started, imagining that he spoke of Travers. Malduke was in his mind, as he continued—
"He's not worthy of you. I can tell you of a little intrigue I witnessed at Heatherside."
The mention of Eva's home roused the girl.
"Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Lord," Gwyneth replied, "but really I do not care to discuss the matter."
"Do please sit for a moment on this bench," he replied. "I dare not hang up 'Snowden' again, but I can hold the reins. Let me tell you what I know."
Ah, why did she not stay and hear? A few words as to Malduke's movements would have cleared up everything. Days and nights of anguish would have been spared the lonely girl had she only listened to the little man's story. How often do the Fates, our own impatience, or readiness to believe the worst, cause us to miss the chance, when it comes, of forgiving and being forgiven!
"I must tell you," continued Tom, intent upon conveying his information, "I saw him in Eva's room, cutting out a beautiful representation of yourself from a silver case."
The girl would not hear more.
"Mr. Lord," she replied, with trepidation, "I know all about the wretched affair; please say no more."
Hurrying away, she left the little man scraping absently at his sorry steed's sides.
"There is some mystery here. I wonder where Travers comes in? "he muttered to himself as he turned toward his "homestead"—as he called his primitive habitation. "Confound it, if Travers were not in love with the girl," he said to himself, "I should fall head over ears myself. She looks 'so sweet,' as the girls say. But, hang it all, it's enough to drive a horse about, without seeking to chevy a wife. No, I'm game with cattle, and am getting on, but I'll not just yet undertake any further 'breakings in.'"
Gwyneth moved on, sad and desperate. She was absolutely alone in the world. Malduke had been tormenting her again, and hinting at the place being his, her father's, and hers, shortly. Some plot was brewing. Travers was not himself. A love-sick man has a short temper. The men were finding that out. O'Lochlan, with best intentions, was not succeeding. The men were unsettled since their day-star had disappeared.
Gwyneth seriously contemplated flight. In the city she could forget her troubles, and not ever be meeting the man she loved, who loved her not, and the man she hated, who loved her still.
She proceeded to the gooseberry field, where, with other maidens, her task was to pick the ripening fruit. Doggedly she settled herself to the "sad, mechanic exercise, like dull narcotics, numbing pain." Eva, passing by, happened to see her. In her impulsive, gleeful way, the child of the forest hurried forward, exclaiming—
"Gwyneth dear, you do look so charming! My dear," she continued, taking the elder girl's hand, "I must tell you. I have such news. I am so happy. I dare not inform any but you. Travers Courtenay," she added—Gwyneth's clear brow darkened; all the world seemed conspiring to sound her ungracious lover's name in her ear—"has proposed virtually," continued Eva. "I think his way so much nicer than fine sentences lovers string together in novels. He's given me a beautiful silver case with—what do you think?—my own likeness and his side by side. He sent a message by my maid that he had taken the liberty of putting a keepsake on my shelf, and there I found it."
As a matter of fact, Malduke had given the message to the servant-girl, Ann, with whom he had ingratiated himself. Travers had, indeed, in an absent mood, plucked some flowers, as he strolled in the Heatherside garden, and, not knowing why, told Ann to give them to her mistress, with his compliments. Meeting the young man the next morning, Eva, in her simple way, had said, with the silver case in her mind, that she felt she ought not to keep his beautiful gift. He, thinking of the bouquet, begged her to accept his present as a souvenir of their pleasant drive. "I hope we may have a longer one together some day." The girl pondered the passing words. Her youthful imagination associated varied sentiments with the beautiful present so strangely conferred. She recalled the words with which Oliver Wendell Holmes' "Autocrat" proposed to the "little schoolmistress." "Shall we take the long walk together?" This other "longer drive," what could it mean but life's pleasant wandering through Elysian Fields in company?
As to Travers, the girl's artless joy touched him. Unconsciously it revealed to him the fact that he, whose few flowers, as he thought, had caused her such delight, was object of much interest to her. Love begets love. Travers, with pain and mortification, experienced the fact, in slight degree. Gwyneth was first and all to him in the universe—ever in his thoughts—but somehow, as he moved moodily about his lonely lodge on the hillside, the face of the bonny, brown-eyed maiden of Heatherside would obtrude itself unsummoned upon his imagination.
Gwyneth, as she returned at the close of the afternoon to her desolate home, said to herself—
"I need know no more. He discarded me for her. There can be no mistake now."
Her father had arranged that Alec and his wife should live with his daughter and care for her. Throughout a sleepless night the heartbroken girl formed her plans. Fortunately Mrs. McDowl was away, nursing a settler's wife. Alec's duties involved his absence. When the good couple returned at nightfall, they found on the parlour table a note from their ward stating that, feeling life in the old home intolerable without her father, she had resolved upon leaving for a while. Would they care for her domestic charges, and excuse her hurried departure? This episode, associated as it was with Travers' treatment of the village belle, did not improve the discipline of the settlement. The girl could not be traced beyond Gumford, where she had taken train for Melbourne. Travers, anxious for the fate that might befall the friendless maiden in the great city, after struggling long with the sense of duty that would keep him at his post, finally left the settlement to discover, if it were possible, traces of his lost love in the mazes of the metropolis.