Читать книгу Just a Girl - Charles Garvice - Страница 4

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Three Star Camp was not exactly the place in which a tender parent or a careful guardian would have chosen to bring up a child, though it was no better and no worse than any other Australian gold camp. The men were rough and rowdy, but there were very few really bad ones among them, and there were a great many whose roughness hid very excellent qualities. In no place on earth do you meet with such a variety of the human species as in a camp such as Three Star.

The fatal fascination which gold has for all sorts and conditions of men, draws, as by a lodestar, the wild and rackety younger son, the insolvent tradesman, the out-at-elbows baronet, the ruined gamester, the unsuccessful farmer, and the loafer of all and no profession.

At Three Star they worked hard, drank hard, gamed hard, and fought hard. Sometimes they were flush, and proceeded to paint their own, and neighboring camps, a brilliant red; at others, luck was bad and times were hard; but, whether the luck was good or bad, they were always cheerful, always ready for a drink or a fight, and ever prompt to help a friend or shoot a foe.

In a word, they were like a lot of healthy, reckless, and utterly irresponsible school-boys, holding life as a jest and as something never exceedingly precious.

Amidst this crew of good-natured desperadoes Esmeralda grew up. If she had been a princess instead of a waif and stray of a diggers’ camp, she could not have been more tenderly cared for than she was by Mother Melinda, who lavished upon the child the maternal affection which had been pent up for years; and, as for the diggers, they simply worshiped the child, their pride and delight in her knowing no bounds. It was true that Varley Howard had won her, and was by right of acquisition her adoptive father: but the whole camp also adopted her, and evinced their pride in her by votive offerings of the most extravagant kind.

One of them, a Welshman called Taffy, the roughest dare-devil of the lot, found gold a few days after Esmeralda’s arrival, and he at once sent to Ballarat for the most expensive cradle that could be bought.

“What we want,” he said to the man who was sent after it, “is the first-rate article. None of your blank wicker things, but a splendacious set-out that swings under a kind of tent, you know. And it’s got to have plenty of satin and lace about it, mind you; real satin and real lace. Never you mind the blank expense. The Orphan of Three Star is going to have the spankest cradle the earth can produce, or Three Star will know the reason why.”

The man returned with a cradle of so elaborate and costly a kind, that even Three Star was satisfied. It was brought into the Eldorado saloon, and Esmeralda placed in the nest of costly satin and lace, and the men, gathering round, raised a triumphant cheer, which they repeated as they carried the cradle and the child back to Mother Melinda’s hut.

In the same fashion, Varley Howard sent for rich and costly infantile clothing; nothing was too good for her; and if the diggers could have constructed a set of robes from beaten gold, they would have been only too delighted to have done so.

They bragged about her at neighboring camps; and if any outsider ventured to receive with incredulity the assertion of a Three Star man that “our Esmeralda” was the finest and prettiest child in the whole world, the incredulous one was promptly knocked down or shot.

When Esmeralda went through the troublous period of teething the whole camp was subdued by anxiety; and when, later on, she was attacked by measles, the diggers went about with gloomy and desponding countenances, and the doctor at once rose to the position of the most important man in the camp. They hovered about the hut in twos and threes, walking on tiptoe, and making their inquiries in hushed voices; no one was allowed to fire a revolver or sing or shout within hearing of the child during her illness, and when she recovered, the joy and relief of the camp were demonstrated by a gala night at the Eldorado, of which men speak with solemn enthusiasm to this day.

The morning she was well enough to leave the hut they carried her into the sunlight as tenderly as if she were a delicate flower, and poured the strangest offerings in her tiny lap—picture books, dolls, mechanical monkeys, gold chains, rings ten sizes too large for her, and even seven-bladed knives and razors.

The child received this adoration with a frank fearlessness which filled her worshipers with delight. She was a light-hearted child, with a smile and a laugh for one and all; and nothing seemed to frighten her or to astonish her.

In this superb air, amidst these surroundings, she grew with astonishing rapidity and strength. She was not only a strong child, but a pretty one, and she promised to become exceedingly beautiful. Her hair was of that dark red which is described as auburn, but with touches of a lighter gold which shone in the sunlight as brightly as the dust which the diggers often poured into her hands. Her eyes were of a very dark brown, and wonderfully expressive; they were generally brimming over with merriment, but at times they grew dreamy and thoughtful, and then they seemed almost as black as the long lashes which shaded them; her mouth was rather large, but as expressive as her eyes—so expressive, that one of the men declared that he could always tell what Ralda was going to say before she uttered a word. She would have had the exquisite complexion which goes with hair of her color, but the sun had browned her cheek, and sown a plentiful crop of freckles upon her dainty nose and level brow.

When she grew old enough to ride, Varley Howard broke in a wild pony for her; the best saddle and habit that Melbourne could produce were procured, and in company with Varley or one or two of the diggers she rode about the beautiful country which surrounded the camp.

She took to it very readily, and acquired a seat and a confidence which entitled her to the reputation of the most fearless woman rider in the district. She could not only ride well, but walk long distances, swim across the Wally River—no small feat for a young girl—climb trees, and shoot with a precision scarcely surpassed by Varley himself.

No wonder that Three Star was proud of the girl, and worshiped her as a tribe of aborigines worship their queen! She went about the camp with perfect freedom, and when she was present, the roughest and rowdiest lowered their voices and selected their language. One day the ruined baronet raised his hat when he met her, and the rest of the diggers, quick to take a hint, afterward followed suit. As she grew out of the “all legs and wings” period of existence into young womanhood, they added “Miss” to “Ralda,” and some of the better bred of them went so far as to call her “Miss Howard;” but this was considered rather too high-toned for use among themselves, though any stranger would have been a bold man, and would very probably have paid for his temerity with his life, who should have failed to give her the full prefix and name.

Varley Howard watched the growth and development of his ward with great interest and pride. Her physical training afforded him profound satisfaction, but her mental education caused him some little anxiety. Among the motley crew at Three Star was an old school-master. He was a shaky and broken-down individual, whose chief occupation at the camp was the writing of letters for the other men, the keeping of Dan MacGrath’s accounts, and the reading aloud to any digger who might be sick and need amusing. Varley engaged this man to teach Esmeralda, and it must be admitted that The Penman, as he was called by the camp, had an exceedingly rough time of it.

Esmeralda had a hatred of reading and writing and arithmetic. It was torture to her to sit still for longer than five minutes; and at first she blandly but firmly refused to take advantage of The Penman’s instruction, and the poor old man, who was as fond of her as the rest of the camp, was almost in tears of despair.

He appealed to Varley.

“She’s the sweetest girl, Mr. Howard,” he said, with a stiff little bow which remained to him from his old scholastic days—“the sweetest and most amiable girl you could possibly find, and she has a remarkable capacity for acquiring knowledge; indeed, she has an extraordinary quick and retentive mind. It would be easy enough to teach her anything, Mr. Howard, if one could only induce her to apply herself for even a short time each day. But it is almost impossible to do so! She will jump up after we have been at work five minutes, and run out of the room and leave me with the book before me. Sometimes she will keep away altogether, and hide in the woods, or ride off on that pony of hers. Yesterday she—she hit me over the head with the grammar, and declared that if she couldn’t talk without that rubbish she wouldn’t speak again. I don’t tell you this in a spirit of complaint, Mr. Howard, but—er—simply that you may understand why Miss Esmeralda makes such slow progress, and that you may not be dissatisfied with me.”

“That’s all right,” said Varley Howard. “I’ll speak to her.”

The Penman took alarm immediately.

“I do hope you won’t be—be angry with her, Mr. Howard,” he said. “It’s—er—mere thoughtlessness on her part. She is most amiable and affectionate, and—er—if I thought you were going to be harsh with her I should regret having spoken. As it is, I suppose, if the boys knew I had made even a shadow of complaint, I should be shot on sight.”

Varley Howard reassured him, and went in search of Esmeralda. He found her lying at full length under the trees by the stream. Her pony was nibbling the grass a few feet from her; her hat was hanging over her eyes, her arms folded behind her head. She looked the picture of girlish grace and loveliness.

Varley thought she was asleep, but her quick ears had caught his footsteps, and she sprung to her feet with a glad cry, and threw her arms round his neck, nearly knocking his cigarette out of his mouth and quite knocking off his sombrero. As the camp worshiped her, she worshiped Varley Howard; to her he was everything that was good and handsome and noble.

She drew him down to a seat beside her, picked up his sombrero and put it on, of course uncomfortably and all on one side.

“What a time you have been away, Varley, dear”—Varley had been making a tour of the other camps in the pursuit of his vocation—“I hope you’ve come to stay a long while.”

“Just a week or two, Esmeralda,” he said. “How are you getting on?”

“Oh, very well,” she said. “I’ve taught the pony to jump the dike at the end of the camp, and I can swim across the Wally and back again; and yesterday I won four shots out of six with Taffy at a sovereign apiece.”

“That’s very good,” he said. “The boys are kind to you and you are happy.”

“Kind to me! Of course they are!” She opened her eyes with astonishment. “And I’m happy, or I should be if you wouldn’t go and leave me so much. Why do you go?”

“Business,” he said. “Business must be attended to, my dear Esmeralda. You see, if I stayed here long I should win all the boys’ money, and so I have to shift the scene occasionally.”

She did not look horrified. She was so accustomed to Varley Howard’s profession, that it seemed as proper and legitimate in her eyes as that of a lawyer or a doctor.

“And how are you getting on with your studies?” he asked.

She laughed, and stuck a flower in his button-hole, and leaned back, with her head on one side, to view the effect.

“How handsome you are, Varley!”

“Thanks. But about the studies, Esmeralda?”

She laughed again.

“Oh, they’re a bore, and The Penman is a dear old nuisance.”

“So I may take it that you are not getting on at all?” said Varley.

“That’s about it,” she admitted, cheerfully. “The fact is, I hate books, and sums drive me wild. What’s the use of them, Varley, dear? Why need I learn them? They make me cross, and give me a headache, and then I shy things at The Penman, and he looks cut up and deeply injured, and calls me ‘Miss Howard.’ I think you’d better chuck it, Varley; I do, indeed.”

“‘Chuck it,’” said Varley Howard, “though derived from the Greek, is very rarely used, even in the best society, where they are not over particular. I’m afraid you’ll have to stick to it, Esmeralda. You see, there is a prejudice—an unreasonable prejudice, perhaps—in favor of education. In fact, no young lady can be considered the complete article, unless she knows how to read and write, and add up, say, three figures.”

“Oh!” said Esmeralda. “Should you call me a young lady now, Varley?”

“Well, you are not a young gentleman.”

“I wish I was,” she said, with a sigh.

“I’m sorry to bother you about this,” went on Varley in his languid and impressive way; “but you see I’ve got to do my duty by you. I’m your guardian—but only your guardian—and some of these days some of your people may turn up and claim you. They would probably want to know what the devil I meant by it, if you did not know how to read and write.”

“They’ll never turn up,” said Esmeralda. “You’ve never found out anything about me, have you, Varley?”

“No,” he said, quietly; “and yet I’ve made diligent inquiry. But all the same, the time may come when you will be owned and walked off. You see, you may be a princess in disguise—though I don’t think it very probable—and a princess who couldn’t read or write would be somewhat of an appalling novelty.”

Esmeralda laughed, and threw her hair from her forehead with a slight graceful jerk which was unconsciously maddening.

“I did mean to send you to a boarding-school at Melbourne,” he continued in his slow, low voice; “but I’ve had a run of bad luck lately—”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Esmeralda. “Not that it matters—I shouldn’t have gone.”

“Indeed!” he said, rolling another cigarette. “So you will have to do with The Penman; and I shall take it as a favor if you cease to worry what remains of his hair off head, and learn as much as you can without any great inconvenience.”

“Oh! if you make a favor of it, Varley, all right—although I don’t see the use of it.”

“Well, you see,” he said, slowly, “you are growing up; you will marry some day—”

She received the information with an expansion of her glorious eyes.

“Shall I? I know who I shall marry!”

“I’m glad to know that,” said Varley; “it simplifies matters.”

“Yes—yes, I shall marry you, Varley, dear,” she remarked, coolly, as she wound a wreath of wild flowers round her hat.

“I think not,” said Varley.

“Why not?” she demanded. “I am very fond of you, and you are really the handsomest man I ever saw—and the very nicest.”

He did not smile at her innocence.

“For two reasons,” he said; “first, because I am old enough to be your real father; and secondly, because I should wish my ward to marry some one better than a professional gambler.”

“If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me,” she said. “And I shall never love any one half as well as I love you.”

She took off his hat, and put her flower-bedecked one in its place; and, strange to say, Varley’s remarkable good looks came through even this severe test triumphantly.

She put her arms round his neck and kissed him, the sweet, unconscious kiss of perfect innocence. Varley did not return the caress, and, making a proper exchange of hats, put her on the pony, and walked home beside her.

Although she had taken his admonition so easily, it produced a marked change in her. From that day The Penman had no cause for complaint. She learned with patience now, sitting for hours over her books, her ink-stained fingers thrust in her hair, her mobile lips repeating long rules of grammar and intricate passages of English and other history. But no one knew what she suffered!

One day—she was a little over seventeen—she was riding through the wood that rose from the edge of the stream half-way up the hill, her hat tilted over her eyes, her soft, full voice singing melodiously, when her horse, a beautiful young chestnut, purchased by the camp for her special use, started and shied, and then neighed.

An answering neigh came from behind the trees in front of her, and another horse trotted toward them. It was saddled, but riderless, and Esmeralda pulled up, and looked for the owner.

He was nowhere to be seen. She thought for a moment; then she got down and examined the ground, for, among other accomplishments, she had acquired the art of tracking, and very few of the men possessed keener eyes or sharper ears than hers.

She soon found the horse’s tracks, and, with her bridle over her arm, followed them to a little clearing at the edge of the stream. And there sat a young man in an attitude of dejection, with his head resting on one hand, the other hanging limply beside him.

At the sound of her approach he tried to start to his feet, but sunk down again, and, clutching the revolver he had drawn from his belt, stared at her questioningly.

Esmeralda’s quick eyes noted that he was young, that his eyes were blue, his hair yellow and curly; a slight golden mustache fringed his upper lip. He was dressed in a rough suit, with high riding-boots, and a red shirt. But, even to Esmeralda’s unsophisticated eyes, he looked somewhat different to the ordinary digger.

She stood and looked at him with the gravity of maiden innocence and fearlessness; and he, having at last got over his amazement at this sudden apparition of feminine grace and loveliness, as sudden as it was extraordinary in this wild place, dropped his revolver and raised his hat.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, and a faint color came into his face; “but could you tell me where I am?”

“Don’t you know?” said Esmeralda, rather unreasonably.

“I don’t,” he said; “I’ve lost my way.”

“This is the Wally Valley,” she said.

“Thank you. I’ve just come from Dog’s Ear Camp, and I want to find one called—called— I can’t remember the name; but it’s something to do with brandy.”

“Do you mean Three Star?” asked Esmeralda.

“Yes; that’s it,” he said.

Esmeralda explained where the camp lay, and added that she lived there.

“I’m glad of that,” he said.

“Why?” she demanded, with wide-open eyes.

The young man colored—he blushed like a girl—and, looking confused, mumbled something in evasion of this embarrassing, direct question; then he rose, but with a difficulty which Esmeralda remarked.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked.

“I think I’ve got a bullet in my leg,” he said. “The fact is,” he continued, modestly, “I got into a little row at Dog’s Ear Camp, and just as I was riding off a fellow fired and hit me in the leg. I scarcely noticed it at the time; but just now I felt faint, and tumbled off my horse.”

“Let me look,” she said.

But he drew back shyly.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” he said; “and I’m all right now—or should be, if I could get my horse and mount it.”

“You sit down,” she said; “I’ll get your horse—just hold mine.”

She went off into the wood, and presently returned with his horse. He thanked her warmly and gratefully.

“Now,” he said, staring ruefully at the saddle, “the job will be to get up.”

She led the horse close to a fallen tree, and held out her hand to him.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” she said, “and step on my knee.”

He blushed again at the mere idea of such a sacrilege.

“I couldn’t do it!” he said. “I’d rather stop here till I died!”

She looked at him with undisguised surprise.

“Then you’ll have to stop here till you die,” she said; “for I can’t pick you up and put you into the saddle as if you were a baby. Lean on my shoulder, anyhow.”

He seemed reluctant to do even this; but at last he put his hand on her firm, strong shoulder, and with a great effort scrambled into the saddle.

He had no sooner got his feet into the stirrups, and started to express his gratitude, when he saw her fling herself in front of him. The next instant the report of a revolver rang through the soft stillness, and her hat was cut from her head by the bullet that whizzed past him.

Before he had time to get out his revolver, she had snatched hers from her pocket and fired. He heard a cry, and saw a man rise from behind the bushes, sway to and fro, and then fall on his face.

Esmeralda sprung into her saddle.

“Come along!” she cried. “Ride all you know; there are more of them!”

He rode by her side; and she, guiding him, wound her way through the wood and on to the plain beyond. Here the bullets which had followed them ceased; and Esmeralda, slackening her speed, remarked:

“We’re safe now; they won’t come near our camp.”

She spoke quite cheerfully: her face had never lost its color for a moment; her lips were smiling.

The young man looked at her in speechless astonishment for awhile; then he burst out with:

“You saved my life—and at the risk of your own!”

She seemed amused by his agitation and his solemn earnestness.

“I reckon I spoiled his aim,” she said, lightly. “But none of those Dog’s Ear men can shoot worth speaking of; he mightn’t have hit you, after all.”

“It’s wonderful!” he exclaimed.

“What’s wonderful?” she asked.

“Your—your courage, your coolness! You throw yourself between me and a bullet as if it were a mere nothing. I’ve never seen—read—anything like it!”

“No?” she said, much interested by this new specimen of humanity. “Where do you come from?”

“From England,” he said. “I’ve only just come out here.”

“I thought so,” she said, thoughtfully. “What is your name?”

“Norman Druce,” he said.

She repeated it.

“How do you spell it?”

He took a card from a pocket-book and handed it to her. She had never seen a card before, and she turned it over in her gauntleted hand and looked at it curiously, and read:

“Lord Norman Druce, The Manor, Oakfield.”

“What is yours?” he asked.

“Esmeralda,” she said.

And “Esmeralda,” he repeated softly, and under his breath, as if it were a chord of music.