Читать книгу Dinky Darbison - Edwin J Welch - Страница 3

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BOTH horse and rider were manifestly weary. The scrubby ridges and broken gullies, characteristic of the Upper Dawson country of Queensland, seemed interminable.

Over the ridge, longer and more forbidding than previous ones, the rays of a fast-disappearing sun shed a lustre that made it almost beautiful.

The young man on the flea-bitten grey drew rein mechanically, and muttered an imprecation. He was dressed bush fashion—slouch hat, Crimean shirt, serviceable riding pants, and a belt out of which protruded the handle of a murderous-looking revolver.

His carriage and demeanor denoted connection at some time or other with one of Her Majesty's services. He had the confidence which comes of training and discipline, and the reckless abandon which only youth and excellent health can give.

Turning in his saddle, he glanced around him. "By Jove," he muttered, "this has been a most trying day. It looks like camping out again, and sleeping with one eye open in case of blacks."

The game-looking, leg-weary horse pricked up his ears.

Manifestly he had heard something which had escaped the attention of his master.

The man's hand flew to his revolver, and his eyes searched the surrounding scrub. He discovered nothing, and the horse resumed its listless attitude.

Well, he would plug along a little further. Who knew what the top of the confounded ridge might not disclose? Perhaps the very station he was hoping for.

Harold Armstead, surveyor by profession, and just then in charge of a Government telegraph construction camp, pressed his heels into the sides of his horse and moved onward and upward.

The setting sun bathed the dreary-looking country in splendor. It heartened him.

On the top of the ridge he paused, and, shading his eyes with his hand, looked around him.

He gave an exclamation of unqualified satisfaction. There, right in front of him, with the setting sun flooding the homestead with golden light, was the head station of Barumbah. Moving slightly further forward, he got a full view of it. A glorious picture it made to the eyes of the tired traveller.

The house, a long, low building, was situated on the brow of a low-set ridge which sloped down gradually to the margin of a large lagoon shaded by gum trees, its surface ruffled only by the occasional movements of a large number of water fowl of many varieties. Everything about the place was bright and in a condition of perfect order, except the figure of a man, who looked as if his clothes had been thrown at him, as he wandered aimlessly about the well-kept garden in front of the house.

Armstead, who had been in the saddle since sunrise looking for timber suitable for telegraph poles, gazed on the scene before him, secretly rejoicing at his own good luck.

His journey had been profoundly solitary. He was a long way off the track dignified by the name of the Dawson-road, and had only seen one human being the whole day. The blacks were known to be bad in the neighborhood, and Harold had kept a sharp look-out for traces of them. He saw their tracks and some of their handiwork, but the blacks themselves were never visible.

Memories of the ghastly outrage not long before perpetrated by the natives at Hornet Bank Station, when a whole family, with the exception of one boy, was massacred, were still rife in the district, and every now and then reprisals by native police on the scattered remnants of the tribe which had so treacherously murdered its benefactors served to keep those memories active.

On the sheep stations two flocks were usually accommodated at each out-station hut, each flock having its own shepherd, and, in many cases, a hutkeeper was also provided, his duties comprising those of night-watchman, cooking for the shepherds, and shifting hurdles during the day.

Harold, who was well-mounted and carried his trusty revolver always handy, had kept on his way without misgiving.

During his ride something had moved behind one of the larger trees. He pushed on, revolver in hand, but could see nothing. There were no sheep in sight and no response came to his clear cooee. At any rate, for his own safety, the mystery must be solved. He had circled round the tree at what he considered a safe distance from any chance spear.

No one was to be seen, however, and he began to think that his strained nerves had been playing tricks with his imagination. He could swear he had caught a glimpse of a moving shadow more than once. What on earth could it be?

Angry at being baffled, and with his revolver ready for instant action, he had ridden straight at the tree.

To his utter astonishment a weird-looking figure, with long hair and unkempt beard, jumped out from behind it, and, calling out:—"Vell, vat der teufel vas you lookin' for?" threw the gun he carried to his shoulder.

The man had his clothes over his left arm, and they were scanty enough in all reason.

To his question Harold had replied with another.

"Who the——are you, and what are you doing out here in the bush in that Garden of Eden garb? Are you lost?"

"Nein. I vas not loshdt. Vas you lookin' for blackfellows?" and his eyes sparkled with maniacal glee as he clutched his antiquated musket still tighter.

"No. But what are you doing, anyway, and do you know how far it is to Barumbah?" he had asked.

"Ya, der sdadion is funf miles over dis vay. Der tam togs haf killed some sheeps, und hunted dem avay. If you go to der sdadion you besser dell dem, isn't it? I look for some but I don'd find dem."

"All right, I'll tell them. Better put your clothes on. Good day." And as Harold turned his horse in the direction indicated he had puzzled not a little as to where he had heard a voice like that before.

"I have never set eyes on the man in my life, that I can remember," thought Harold, "and you couldn't see his face for dirt, yet his voice seemed strangely familiar. Mere fancy, I expect."

Still thinking about the man and his weird appearance, he rode forward, wondering if the proprietor of the station, whose name he had been told was Darbison, could by any chance be a connection of his old shipmate. Lieutenant Aubrey Darbison, under whom he had served as a midshipman in the Rodney during the latter part of the old ship's commission on the Mediterranean station.

What if it should be "Dinky Darbison" himself—so called by the irreverent youngsters in the gunroom to distinguish him from a paymaster of the same name attached to the port guardship Hibernia, who was known as "Smouch Darbison" on account of certain little peculiarities of which they disapproved? He knew—and that was all he did know—that Darbison had thrown up the service on the death of his father, a tremendously wealthy manufacturer in the north of England. He had settled down on his property, after marriage with some society beauty of ancient family but sadly impoverished estate, since which he had quite lost sight of him.

Crossing the road below where it rounded the shoulder of the lagoon in front of the house and vanished in a sinuous track of many curves across the plain, Harold passed through the sliprails of the home paddock and headed for the neat garden fence, on the other side of which stood the man he had already seen, apparently in contemplation and taking no heed of the approaching horseman, who moved quietly over the thick carpet of couch grass. Getting within a few feet of the silent figure, whose back was towards him, Harold had barely time to note that the owner appeared to be in some sort of trouble, when the man turned, revealing an unfamiliar face, on which the lines of suffering and ill-health were plainly visible.

In response to the suddenly-acquired note of interrogation implied by his expression, Harold said:—

"Excuse me, but I wish to see Mr. Darbison, if he is at home."

"Yes, sir. Go ahead. I am Mr. Darbison. In what way can I be of service to you?"

"Well, I have ridden rather a long way to-day, and I should feel obliged for your permission to turn my horse out and remain for the night. My name is Armstead, and I am a surveyor in the government service."

"Certainly. With great pleasure, Mr.—Mr.——. Pardon me, but I didn't quite catch your name. I will get someone to take your horse round to the stables and attend to him, and then I will show you to a room."

"My name is Armstead, Mr. Darbison, but let me say that, whilst thanking you for your kindly reception, I cannot but feel a slight chill of disappointment. You see, I have been hoping all day, and against hope as it were, that it might be my luck to meet a gentleman of your name under whom I served many years ago in the Mediterranean. It was only the similarity of name, of course, which gave birth to the hope, for the same is by no means a common one."

"Armstead! Armstead! Surely you are not the Harold Armstead whose name I remember as that of a naval cadet during the last commission of the old Rodney? If so, indeed, you are wonderfully altered, but time brings many changes along in its wake, and we were both a good many years younger then. Ah, me! I have forgotten what Aubrey Darbison was like in those days, but he was a far happier man then than he is now, or is ever likely to be again. Hallo!" he called out, and in response a groom appeared from one of the outbuildings. "Take this horse," he said to the man, "and see it stabled and cared for."

Then turning to Armstead, he continued:—

"Here's your valise, and this is your room; come right through this passage when you are ready. It's like a breath of old times to meet with as old shipmate, and I'm more glad than I care to say to have you here."

The internal arrangements of the house came in the light of a surprise when compared with the somewhat primitive comforts incidental to the general run of way-back stations. The rooms were large and solidly furnished with all appliances of ease and elegance suggestive of ample means, and the general arrangements and decorations testified to the taste and supervision of a woman's hand.

As Harold entered the dining-room, the table of which was laid with scrupulous care and attention to the most minute detail, Darbison stood at the buffet in the act of helping himself liberally from a tantalus bottle of brandy, in which Harold was cordially invited to join.

Just at that moment an attractive and beautifully-dressed woman entered from one of the French lights opening on to the verandah, and came towards them with an expressive shrug of her bare and gleaming shoulders.

Armstead looked at her with undisguised admiration. She was in evening dress, and, indeed, beautiful. Her features were perfect and the wealth of raven-black hair set off a face the beauty of which was insistent and compelling. Her dark brown eyes, shaded by silken lashes, lighted up for a moment with glad surprise, then relapsed into their moody and ill-concealed expression of contempt which the earlier shrug of the shoulders had all too plainly indicated.

"Mrs. Darbison, this gentleman is an old and welcome brother officer of mine. Permit me to introduce Mr. Armstead—Mrs. Darbison."

With a slight, but graceful inclination of the head, the lady sailed round to the other side of the room and assumed a statuesque attitude near the fire, leaving, however, a decidedly Arctic temperature behind her, which Darbison promptly proceeded to thaw with another nip of brandy. Again came the action of the shoulders, which meant disgust if it meant anything, and the sound of the dinner gong from the passage heralded another introduction.

"Mr. Evesham, this is Mr. Armstead, once an old shipmate of mine, now in the service of the Government." He was soon followed by a bright-faced, happy-looking young man named Morrison, of twenty or thereabouts, and the party was complete.

As a dinner the entertainment was perfect. The only attendant was a grey-haired old man in regulation attire, who answered to the name of Robson, and, as it afterwards appeared, he had been for many years butler in the house of Darbison's father. The plate was real and massive, the viands numerous and well-cooked, and the wines beyond criticism. Yet over all there hung an air of depression and mystery which spoilt all sense of enjoyment.

Darbison said nothing, ate very little, but drank very freely. Mrs. Darbison and Evesham exchanged a few common-place remarks at long intervals, and Morrison left at an early stage with some half-muttered explanation about something he had omitted to attend to. The feeling of restraint was becoming intolerable, when Harold suddenly introduced the subject of his meeting with the partially-clad shepherd on the run.

"Ha! yes, that was old Carl you met, and, thanks to the message you were good enough to deliver, I have already sent him help. Niggers' dogs, of course. They are a veritable curse to us," said Evesham.

"I think you referred to him as Carl. Do you happen to know his other name?"

"Can't say I do, but it will be in the store books. He's quite mad, you know, although he behaves rationally enough sometimes."

"Wonder if his name is Geffel? I couldn't think at the time whom he reminded me of, but I know now. A man of that name came out in the steerage of the ship I came in, and that he was mad I well remember. But he was landed in Melbourne, and his wife and a young daughter with him."

"And all three are now on Barumbah," broke in Darbison; "the wife is our cook, and the daughter is Mrs. Darbison's maid; that is, if she is his daughter, which I don't for one moment believe!"

"Aubrey, again I must request you to abstain from making those absurd comments. There it no more foundation for it than for any of your other ridiculous suspicions!"

"All right, madam, so be it." Then, turning to his guest, he said: "Come to my den, Armstead, and have a smoke by the fire. It's too cold outside these nights."

There, by the cheerful blaze, Darbison became more communicative. Referring to the Geffels, he told how they were engaged and sent up to him by his agents in Brisbane about six months before. "The woman is a jewel, the girl a beautiful mystery, but as good as she is pretty. The man had been kept on the place as groom and general knockabout, but was constantly quarrelling with his wife, so we gave him a flock, with more wages, just to get him away from the house. Good shepherd? Yes, as good as the rest of them, but in terror of his life for the blacks. Yes, they are a bit troublesome at times, and then we send for the native police. Have another drop of Martell, old man, it won't hurt you."

"No more, thanks. I'm a trifle tired, and, if you don't mind, I'd rather turn in. I've a long way to go yet, and would like to get an early start in the morning."

"Not if I know it, you don't. Nonsense, man. Why, I've sent your horse out to the big paddock on the river, and you can't get him for a couple of days at the earliest. A bit of the old cloth is not so common out this way that we can part so soon. Besides, I want you to stop for a day or two as a personal favor. You won't say no to that, I'm sure, for the sake of old times."

So the matter was settled, as there was evidently no other way but of it, and the next day began a series of hideous complications, which terminated in wreck and disaster.