Читать книгу The Outlaws of Weddin Range - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 3

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Ben's superior education and his habitual manner of superiority (acquired from his mother's training) made him an unpopular figure on his return to Breeza. The local lads were quick to resent his affectation of the gentleman, and he was promptly brought to book. He soon discovered that in the bush no claims to captaincy are recognised that cannot be enforced with the strong hand, and he abandoned grammar for the gloves. His manner, however, had already become too intimately a part of him to be resigned, then or later, and to the last hour of his life an elegant and cynically arrogant deportment distinguished him from his kind.

It is recorded of him that he fought and beat all the boys residing in the neighborhood of Breeza of within five years above his own age, and the only occasion on which he lowered his flag was when he met and was worsted in the ring by a young man seven years his senior. But even that defeat enhanced his reputation, since he refused to surrender until he was beaten into unconsciousness, when his opponent claimed victory by default.

Ben Hall was still a mere youngster when his mother died. Soon afterwards his father removed to the Lachlan River to assume the management of Mr. Hamilton's run or station, situated some fifteen miles from Forbes, on the road to the Pinnacle. Ben accompanied his father, and remained on the station until he was eighteen years old. It says much for him that when he quitted Breeza the youths of that district were inconsolable at his departure, and they testified their affection and regret by presenting the boy they had formerly disliked with a silver-mounted saddle and bridle.

Arrived at the Lachlan, Ben immediately began to earn his own living. Although little more than a child, he sought and secured a probationary appointment as accountant and stock-keeper to the station. In this he was speedily confirmed by Mr. Hamilton, who was both surprised and delighted by the lad's cleverness and accuracy; and he retained the position for several years, completely to the satisfaction of his employer. Young Ben's duties rapidly extended. It was part of his father's arrangement with Mr. Hamilton that the manager should be permitted to graze his own cattle on the squatter's holding. Ben was given charge of his father's stock, and thus received a double wage. Being naturally of a thrifty disposition, he saved money, and ere long he had sufficient capital at command to become a stock-holder in a small way on his own account. As Mr. Hamilton freely accorded of the boy the same rights of grazing that the elder Hall enjoyed, and in other ways generously encouraged the youngster's enterprise, Ben started out on his career with the fairest prospects.

For a considerable period fortune was his devoted mistress. The seasons were good, grass was plentiful, and all the herds in his control multiplied and throve unceasingly. There can be no doubt that in this stage of his life Ben was as honest as the sun. And he was as capable as he was honest, and brimful of energy into the bargain. His complex trust was discharged in the most exemplary manner. Not a single dispute as to brands ever arose on the station. Mr. Hamilton's herds were attended to with unfailing care, and the elder Hall, although a hard and exacting man, had never a complaint to make of his son. In view of subsequent happenings, too much emphasis can hardly be laid upon the upright and sterling character which Ben exhibited during these early years. He was in a position to benefit greatly by employing methods of chicane, but his conduct was always unimpeachable. His capacity as a stockman was of a remarkably high order. He knew every beast on the station by heart, and such was his power of perception, and so retentive was his memory, that he could recognise and unerringly locate young cattle which he had only seen once and casually when just calved a year before. These exceptional faculties were at all times loyally disposed to the advantage of the squatter and of his father, and his own interests occupied a minor place.

In the circumstances it is not surprising that his name became a synonym for good judgment and integrity, and that his word was cheerfully accepted in settlement of every contention, small or large, that seemed to fall within the scope of his elastic and constantly expanding jurisdiction. Everybody on the station and in the surrounding district liked and trusted Ben, and he fully justified the confidence reposed in him. Before three years had elapsed he was virtually the manager of the estate and of all the diverse interests its boundaries contained. His father, it is true, continued to administer the office, but his rule was formal. Ben was the real authority. He eclipsed his father in all directions, even as a salesman, and the elder Hall rarely ventured on any important action without having previously taken counsel with his son, in whose business capacity he placed unbounded faith.

The sprightly French philosopher of the Middle Ages who equipped posterity with his sardonic probe wherewith to expose the secret causes of the troubles that afflict and ruin men, might well have written with a foreknowledge of Ben Hall's career. "Cherchez la femme," advised the Frenchman—"In every disaster that overtakes a man, seek out the woman; for, be sure, a woman will be found at the bottom of it." It was a woman who wrecked Ben Hall's life, perverted his nature, and brought him to a premature and dreadful death.

At seventeen years of age his reputation was deservedly above reproach, his prospects were brilliant, and the whole world was his friend. Suddenly he met the woman predestined to be his evil genius. That was his darkest and most fateful hour; but Ben imagined it his most gloriously fortunate. He fell in love with her as immature boys so often do with women who are at once beautiful and experienced coquettes—madly, blindly, desperately in love—and he was deliriously happy in that she seemed to return his affection. To recount in detail the story of his wooing would be to pay too high a compliment to the memory of a worthless coquette, for such she afterwards proved herself to be.

The main facts, however, must be related. At that juncture she was a mere girl, and not much older than Ben. Her name was Bridget Walsh. Her father was a squatter, stationed near Wheogo, and there Bridget lived. To Ben's dazzled and inexperienced eyes she appeared a veritable angel of purity and loveliness. He was an excellent stockman, but a poor appraiser of women. It must be confessed that the girl had a pretty face, and was a physically perfect specimen of her sex, but no other virtues, if she possessed them, have been revealed to us. She was notorious throughout the district as a heartless flirt. It was her pride and pleasure to keep several admirers at a time dangling on a string, and to make each believe himself the sole repository of her favors. She hated work, and she adored finery. Her moral sense belonged to the palaeolithic era. In short, she was an idle, sly, and irresponsible person.

It was a flattering triumph to the vanity of such a girl to secure so popular a youth as Ben Hall as the captive of her bow and spear. Not a handsomer lad was to be found in the countryside. His generous disposition and unfailing willingness to assist his neighbors had endeared him to all, and everyone held in high esteem the enterprise, energy, and acumen he evinced in the conduct of business affairs. Moreover, he was already, despite his years, quite a substantial citizen. He owned a flourishing herd, and he was reputed to possess a large sum of ready money at call in the hands of his employer, Mr. Hamilton.

Miss Walsh encouraged Ben, and her parents, who had long been anxious as to her future, enthusiastically welcomed his suit. Mr. Hall, however, was of another mind. Having taken pains to acquaint himself with the girl's character, he perceived danger in the connection to his son, and he opposed the match with all his force. There was re-enacted the old, old tragic-comedy of blind and sanguine faith triumphing to its own undoing above experience. Mr. Hall brought convincing evidence to Ben that Bridget Walsh was trifling with him, that she had many lovers, and that one in particular, a young police constable whom we shall call James Garrett (for reasons that our readers will readily appreciate) had a better right than all others to become her husband. Ben sturdily refused to believe anything detrimental of his lady love. He passionately asserted his unconquerable faith in her integrity, and when his father persisted in attempting to open the boy's eyes, the pair quarrelled violently. Mr. Hamilton then intervened, hoping to save Ben from a mistake which he foresaw might wreck the lad's career. But Ben stubbornly refused to listen to any counsel, and proclaimed his resolve to marry Bridget, even though all the world should range against him.

Matters having come to this pass, Mr. Hall made a final desperate effort to prevent the marriage, which, in view of his opposition, the Walsh family was secretly arranging to expedite, notwithstanding the youth of the lovers. Apprehending that Bridget's parents considered Ben a desirable husband for their daughter principally on account of the lad's cattle and the money he had stored up, Mr. Hall decided on a coup d'etat. Exercising his legal right as the father of an infant, he withdrew from Mr. Hamilton's keeping the whole of Ben's little fortune, and, quitting the station, he removed both his own and his son's cattle to the other side of the country, returning to his earlier home near Murrurundi.

Ben, of course, could not be kept in ignorance of his father's intentions, but he was helpless to avert them. He witnessed the preparations for the exodus in a state of burning indignation. But his rage was futile. Mr. Hall proved inexorable alike to menaces and abject protestations. He believed that it was his duty to do what he was doing, and nothing could turn him from his purpose. Ben was in despair. He saw himself bereft of all the property that he had toiled for years to amass, and it was no comfort to him to know that he might regain it, for he could only do so by giving up the girl he loved and abandoning the district. One last stormy interview took place between father and son. It was fruitless. Cruel speeches were exchanged, and the pair parted—for ever.

That night Ben left the station surreptitiously on foot, saying good-bye to no one, and, very probably, uncertain of his future course, for he had no mind, being a proud lad, to beg help of any man, least of all from the father of his sweetheart. Calf-love, however, is a compelling force, and daylight found Ben on the road to Wheogo. He arrived there at even-fall, tired out, hungry, and infinitely miserable. Mr. Hall had made one mistake. It was a crucial one. In assuming that Mr. John Walsh, Bridget's father, was a mere worldling, he had profoundly erred. Ben's sterling character and abilities, and not Ben's herds and money, had been this worthy man's chief motive in accepting the lad's suit for Bridget's hand.

Penniless and starving, Ben received a warmer welcome from John Walsh than had ever been accorded him when at the top of his fortunes. He was instantly appointed head stock-keeper of the station, at a high salary, and that very night Ben and Bridget were formally betrothed before an assembly of the station hands and servants over which the squatter presided; and the young couple's health and happiness were toasted in flowing bumpers of champagne.

Twelve months later the lovers were married, and took up their residence on a run named Sandy Creek, adjoining Wheogo, which Ben was helped to stock with cattle and horses through his father-in-law's generosity.

The ensuing six years passed like a happy dream for Ben, only a single untoward incident occurring to disfigure its blissful tranquillity. One winter evening he returned home late and unexpectedly from a journey after stock. Entering the house softly, intent upon giving his wife a pleasant little surprise, he found her standing before the fire in the living room locked in the embrace of Constable James Garrett. But Bridget was a clever woman. She saw the door open, and, guessing the intruder, she at once began to rant and struggle and to cry out. Ben dashed to her assistance, and hurled the constable aside. A fight followed, in which Garrett was severely beaten and almost killed before he could effect his escape. Then came confidences, and Ben indignantly lamented that he was not a homicide when he learned how his darling's innocent hospitality had been abused, and how only his own fortunate return had preserved her (for it seems that her strength had been all but spent in strife with her cowardly assailant) from outrage worse than death.

Ben's confidence in Bridget's fidelity increased rather than diminished as time proceeded. His love for her was an all-absorbing passion, amounting very near to sheer idolatry. She bore him two children, and he was, perhaps, the only person for fifty miles around who never questioned her faithfulness, for he did not dream that it was her practice to entertain admirers in his absence. And Ben was often absent from the homestead, since his manifold duties and growing enterprises called him constantly afield.

The end came like a bolt shot from the blue. Early in the year 1862 Ben was required to attend to a big muster at Bland. He took a most affectionate leave of Bridget and the babies, and the former lovingly entreated him not to be long away. He hurried home at the earliest moment possible to find the house a desert. His wife and her children had vanished. A letter was pinned to the central panel of her bedroom door. It was addressed to Ben. He tore the envelope across, and the following lines were unfolded to his gaze:—

Dear Ben,

Try to forgive me, for I shall never forgive myself. But I cannot help what I am doing. I love Jack Taylor, and I cannot live without him. Do not follow us. It would be useless. I never cared for you like I do for Jack, and I would not go back to you if you gave me gold to walk on.

BRIDGET.

Until that instant Ben had never as much as heard of the man with whom his wife had eloped.