Читать книгу Out There: A Romance Of Australia - James Edward Muddock - Страница 7

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ALTHOUGH Harold Preston's life so far as it had gone had been that of a bush farmer, intellectually and by temperament he was many degrees above the average of his class. Springing from intellectual and robust stock he found mental recreation in a speculative philosophy, and was bookishly inclined. He had been a voracious reader, and his reading had covered a wide field. He was by way also of being an idealist. His lines had been cast close to the heart of nature. He lived on the edge of the wilderness, and often as his eyes wandered over the seeming interminable spaces, which stretched far, far away to the blue distance, where the Western sun appeared to sink below the edge of the earth, his imagination was stimulated to a wide expansion, and he dreamed dreams, such dreams as came to those hardy pioneers who first set their feet on the shores of that wonderful land where, for tens of thousands of years, the primitive savage, half animal, half man, had roamed in undisputed freedom. Harold realised the illimitable possibilities of the country where he had had his birth, a country he ardently loved, whilst the immensity of his surroundings could not fail to deeply impress one of his temperament and lift him out of the narrow groove of sordidity, greed and selfishness which is the lot of the average settler. The result of it all was the development of a large-hearted altruism that found practical expression in a somewhat reckless generosity, and a trust and faith in his fellow-beings. He held to the belief that there is inherent goodness in all men, and it was opposed to his principles and disposition to think ill of anyone.

At quite an early age, when a student at Melbourne, his idealism had fostered in him a belief that it was his special mission to put an end for ever to the feud which had so long existed between his people and the Gordons. The bitter rivalry and fierce jealousy, which in the past had led to bloodshed and misery, was to end when he came into his inheritance. In a subconscious way this resolve had come to him, when as boy and girl, he and Mary Gordon had looked into each other's eyes. As they grew up together his resolve strengthened with the years, and when Margaret Bruce appeared upon the scene to take charge of the orphan girl, he felt that his dream would be realised. Margaret knew little of the ancient feud and cared less. Her niece's happiness was far more to her than musty traditions of rivalry, and stupid shibboleths. She grew to like young Preston, and encouraged him. There had been one little episode which had served to reveal her personality. Oliver Gordon, with the rashness and flippancy of youth, had dared to remind her that between the Gordons and the Prestons was a barrier, and woe betide anyone who attempted to break it down. She turned upon him with a fierceness that made him wilt, young as he was.

"You stupid boy," she exclaimed, "what do I know and what do I care about the senseless quarrels between the two families in the past. I have heard of them with astonishment and a sense of shame. And once and for all you will understand that I will be no party to keeping alive an un-neighbourly feeling. If Harold Preston and your kinswoman, Mary Gordon, are desirous of mating, I'll see to it, as Mary's guardian, that neither you nor anyone else shall prevent it. Now please take that as final. Harold is a good lad and honest and upright, and you will show your manliness by holding out the hand of fellowship and goodwill to him."

Years had passed since that little incident, and between the two men it seemed as if a firm bond of friendship had been welded. Their rivalries were friendly ones. They were both fond of horses. Harold loved them for their own sake, but Oliver regarded them more from the pounds, shillings and pence point of view. He had a passion for racing, and entertained no sentiment for an animal that failed to gratify his desire for winnings. One of the little triumphs of his life had been when he rode Kangaroo in the Gold Cup Steeplechase stakes, and beat Charioteer ridden by his rival. The two horses seemed equally matched; they were bush bred and bush trained, and for weeks before the races the interest taken in them in Gordonstown and throughout the district rose to fever heat. It was a tremendous event in the life of the bush community. Thrones might have toppled over, the whole of Europe might have been in a blaze, the American continent might have been overwhelmed by some stupendous cataclysm, but these things would have sunk into insignificance in comparison with that one great event in the lives of the Gordonstown settlers, the race between Charioteer and Kangaroo. Never in the history of the place had there been so much excitement as on the day of the race. It was made a general holiday. From far and near, from stations scores of miles away, came riders astride of all sorts and conditions of horses, bush buggies, wagons, carts, four in hands; and there was not a man, possibly not many women, who had not "a bit" on the great event, whilst everyone knew, from the grey beard to the callow youth, that whichever horse won, piles of gold would change pockets. The betting was slightly in favour of Preston's Charioteer, and as each man was to ride his own horse, the public felt sure that only the best would win. The day was beautiful, and the winter sun was tempered by a fresh breeze. Neck and neck kept the two horses; the hearts of the multitude throbbed wildly; their voices rent the sky, as thundering cheers were swept like billows before the breeze; there were minutes of tense, strained suspense that was like an agony, then for a moment or two a silence that told of the pent-up feelings of the eager spectators, "By God Charioteer has it." "No, Kangaroo. Kangaroo, Kangaroo." Yes, it was true; just when the prize seemed Preston's, Gordon urged his mount to a final spurt, and the big horse crashed past his rival and won by a head only. The people seemed to go mad. A roar of cheering shook the earth. They swarmed, over the course, and were almost tempted to carry the winning horse shoulder high, but they hoisted his rider instead, and to the strains of "See the Conquering Hero Comes," they bore him into the paddock.

Harold Preston took his defeat like a man, and that night in a crowded Club House proposed in a felicitous speech the health and happiness of the winner. Oliver made no attempt to conceal the gratification he felt at having outstripped his rival. However sincere he might have been in his friendship, he desired to be and was determined to be—top dog. He could not brook defeat in anything, and he liked to believe, and encouraged the belief in others, that if he was not the greatest man in Gordonstown, he was certainly one of its leading lights. This was vanity, of course, but while it gratified him it did no harm to anyone.. In striking contrast with his friend, Gordon had no ideals; he was practical and materialistic, and it was inconceivable of him that he ever indulged in day dreams; nor had he any of Harold's altruism. He was self-centred, and never allowed other people's affairs to worry him. In spite of the diversity in their temperaments, Harold was sincerely attached to his friend, and one of his first resolves was, after that interview with Bill Blewitt, to take Gordon into his confidence and ask him to join in an expedition, and of course he could not keep the information from Mary.

As soon as ever he entered the house on his return from the hospital she saw by his changed expression that something had heartened him, and he did not keep her long in suspense. The two tin pots, one nearly full of scale gold, and the other of richly veined specimens of quartz, were fairly good evidence that old Blewitt was not romancing; it was evidence, that if made generally known would have caused hundreds of persons to make a wild rush for the district, however inaccessible it might appear. Men in their thirst for fold did not hesitate to take risks, and would face each itself in the mad struggle for wealth.

Mary could not but be gratified by the sight of so much gold, and she was glad indeed, for her lover's sake, but reaction followed the elation, and she said with very visible distress:

"I wish, dear, that Blewitt had not given you that information."

"Why?" asked Harold in amazement.

"Oh, well, it will unsettle you; besides, if you go in search of this El Dorado, think of the dangers you will have to run."

He took her in his arms; he strained her to his breast, and she clung to him as if afraid to let him go from her. He kissed her and soothed her, and with a light-hearted laugh, said:

"My darling little woman, you mustn't worry yourself about dangers. Risks, when one comes to face them, generally sink into insignificance compared with what one imagines them to be. Besides, I'm a seasoned bushman, and haven't passed my life on a bed of roses. You know that well."

"But from what Blewitt told you the place is a long way off, and you might have to be absent for many months. What about your farm during your absence?"

"Oh, that will be all right. You and Jim Dawkins can look after it for me; Jim's as true as steel, and is a capable and intelligent fellow. I'd trust him with my life."

"Yes, I know that, dear; all the same I wish—"

"Oh, come, come, Mary sweetheart, don't let us get moody because a lucky chance at the psychological moment has shown me a possible way to fortune. It could not have come at a more opportune time, as you know. If Blewitt is correct in what he says about the richness of the district, there must be an enormous amount of wealth for the picking up. Why should I miss such an opportunity? Gordon and I will work out a scheme together—"

Mary gave a little start, and there was a strange, a quite unusual expression in her eyes as she looked at him and asked quickly:

"Do you intend to let Gordon into the secret?"

"Why, of course I do, dear. Why shouldn't I?" He was astonished at her question. There was something in her manner and tone that seemed to imply mistrust of Gordon. As she remained silent he asked again: "Why shouldn't I? Have you any reason to suppose that he is not to be trusted?"

"Pray, don't attach any importance to my question," she said, with some confusion. "I really don't know what prompted me to speak as if I had some doubt. To be quite frank, what I really thought was, if the position were reversed, would Oliver be as generous as you?"

"Yes—I believe he would," answered Harold with an air of abstraction. "I believe he would," he repeated. "I don't like to think ill of my friend."

"No, of course you don't," said Mary, as she put her hands on his arm and looked up into his face. "You are a big-hearted, generous man with Catholic sympathies, and not quick to suspect anyone of evil intent..."

"Good God, Mary," he interrupted, "do you suggest that Oliver has any evil intentions?"

"Oh, no, no, but I think he is rather selfish, and would not, as you would, go out of his way to serve a friend."

Harold did not pursue the argument; though he had never seriously thought of it before, he could not but admit now that Mary was right. It was a tiny rift in the lute, a little flaw in the bond of friendship. All the same he was quite willing to co-operate with his friend if Gordon was willing, anyway he could not entertain the idea for a moment of withholding the information from him.

As he went down town on his way to Gordon's house he looked in at the Club and had a chat with Doctor Blain, as he had promised to do.

"Well, what did you make of our mysterious patient?" asked the doctor.

Harold realised that however frank and open he might be with Gordon, it was necessary to be reticent with other people, and so his answer was somewhat in the nature of equivocation.

"Oh, I found him rather an interesting old chap, and what is more, an honest and grateful one. Although I had forgotten the incident, it appears he and three pals were on my Run about three years ago. They were stony broke and were going west, gold hunting. Of course I did what any man in this country would have done under the circumstances. I fed the poor beggars, and gave them a little money. Since then Blewitt, the only survivor of the four, so he tells me, has been fossicking round somewhere, and has picked up a few ounces of dust, and remembering my hospitality to him and his chums, he was obsessed with a desire to repay me."

"Has he struck anything?" asked the doctor with some eagerness.

"He has brought back a few pieces of veined quartz which he has placed in my possession, but of course it's impossible to express an opinion until they have been assayed. I shall send them down to Melbourne."

"It sounds as if Blewitt had made a find," remarked the doctor thoughtfully. "Has he told you where he got the stone?"

"He hopes to get strong enough to guide a little expedition to the place," answered Harold evasively.

"Oh, by Jove, then we shall have to patch him up," said the doctor with a cheery laugh, "and if he's able to go, I should be tempted to throw up doctoring here and join the expedition."

"By the way, Doc., let the old fellow have any luxuries or strengthening things he wants, I'll pay," said his friend.

"That's suggestive," remarked the doctor, with a knowing wink. "Bill Blewitt's life is valuable—eh, old chap?"

"Well, it would be a pity if his secret died with him."

"I agree with that," answered Doctor Blain. "Well, I'll do my best, and I shall try and pump his secret out of him."

As Harold rose to go and, put out his hand, he said:

"You may pump, Doc., but I don't think you will get anything out of him. Bill Blewitt, I should say, is a man who knows how to hold his tongue when it suits his purpose. Besides, if the facts were known in the town there would be a rush ending possibly in death and disaster."

"You're right, you're right," muttered the doctor reflectively, and as he shook Harold's hand he added, "You can rely upon me, my friend. I will be as silent as the grave. Gold mania is very infectious, and when it seizes a community, it generally means tragedy, so be cautious."