Part 6 (2/2)

”And is this the hut you spoke of, dear brothers?” exclaimed the sisters, in the same voice. ”What a delightful house! And this room, the very model of the dear old parlour. We are sure you intended it.”

And Jane and Susan kissed their brothers, who were more than amply repaid by the happiness they felt for the years of toil they had endured, and all the exertions they had made to get the house ready.

They had an idea that those sisters would not remain long under their roof, sorry though they would be to lose them; that is to say, not if their bachelor neighbours had a particle of good taste or judgment.

Willie was delighted with everything. His great ambition was to become a first-rate stockman. He was rather young to begin active life; but he had made good use of his time at school, and he promised, when he left England, that he would not give up reading and study. The Gilpins had found the time pa.s.s quickly before the arrival of their sisters, they now found it pa.s.s still more quickly; and it was only by managing it with the greatest care that they could accomplish what they had to do.

The Miss Gilpins entered warmly into all f.a.n.n.y's and Emily's plans-- which had, indeed, now become their brothers'--for giving religious instruction to the surrounding population, which had of late years considerably increased. Though many of the men went off to the diggings, the women remained, hoping to see them return, loaded with wealth. Not a hut nor a residence of any sort remained unvisited by these six active young missionaries, who left tracts or books wherever they went. They procured some Bibles from Sydney, and many a cottage, where the Word of G.o.d had never been heard, was supplied by them. They had great reason to believe that a blessing attended their efforts.

They had often made application in Sydney for an appointed minister of the Gospel. One at length came, but he had a wide circuit, so that he could not come to any spot within the Sunday morning's journey more than six or eight times in the year. He went his rounds, preaching on weekdays, from station to station, and holding a service every evening where he rested. Such is the only human agency by which spiritual life can be maintained in the wide-scattered sheep and stock stations in Australia, and it behoves all those connected with that magnificent land, who love the Lord Jesus Christ, to aid in sending missionaries of the Gospel through its length and breadth. There are many who have scarcely ever heard the glad tidings of salvation; many have pa.s.sed away, sunk almost in heathen darkness. At length, a regular place of wors.h.i.+p was built, to the satisfaction of many, which satisfaction was by no means decreased by an interesting event which took place there shortly afterwards, namely, the marriages of Jane and Arthur Gilpin. It would be difficult to find a more united, contented, and happy family than that now dwelling at Warragong, and certainly, if steady, persevering, industry and uprightness of conduct should be rewarded, the Gilpins richly deserved their success. Sam Green, too, had followed his young master's example, and had taken to himself as a wife the eldest daughter of his old acquaintance, Sykes, the former coachman of Mr Henry Prentiss, who had followed his master into the country, and settled near him. Larry Killock won the heart of another daughter; but, although Mr Sykes had himself come out at the Government expense, he objected to the alliance, because Larry was not yet entirely a free man.

Larry was, however, able to prove that his crime was having joined some popular outbreak; and being at length freed completely from bondage, his wishes were no longer opposed, and he settled down near the friends to whom he had, with good reason, become so warmly attached.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Some time had pa.s.sed since the events just mentioned. It was winter, not Christmas, however, but the period which in England is considered the warmest and sunniest in the year. Frost and snow are not looked for, but the wind blows from the cold south, and rain comes down in plentiful showers, filling the water-holes, and turning the sluggish streams into roaring torrents.

One evening, as Arthur and Willie were riding homewards from a distant station, their course not far from the Warragong river, a cry reached their ears.

”It is some one shouting for help!” exclaimed Arthur. ”From what direction does it come? Listen!”

”From up the stream!” cried Willie, spurring on his horse.

”Stay! there's a man in the river,” said Arthur; ”he is floating down.

We may pa.s.s him if we don't take care.”

They rode directly down to the bank of the now rapid river. Every stockman rides with a rope attached to his saddle. They looked out anxiously as they now rode up the stream. Again the cry was heard, but fainter though near; and through the thickening gloom of evening a man was seen clinging to a log, which was borne swiftly down the current.

He had lost all power of guiding it, and from the way his head hung down, it was evident that his strength was exhausted, and that he must soon drop off and sink. To leap from their horses and to secure them to a tree was the work of a moment.

”Here, hold one end, Willie! I think I can reach him!” cried Arthur, binding the two ropes together, and fastening one end round his own waist.

Throwing off his coat, and without waiting for any expostulation from Willie, he plunged into the stream, and swam boldly out towards the drowning man. The whirling eddies of the torrent bore the log along, now carrying it towards one side of the river, now towards the other.

This much increased the difficulty of reaching it. The man clinging to it had still sufficient consciousness to be aware of the effort made to save him, but had no strength to help himself. Arthur had swum out very nearly to the extent of which the rope would allow, and yet he feared that he should not reach the man. He doubted whether he should be strong enough to return to the sh.o.r.e without the aid of the rope.

”Stretch out your arms, Willie; give me all the rope you can, but don't fall in. In mercy take care!” he shouted.

Willie stood on the very edge of the bank uncoiling the whole of the rope, and keeping only the end in his hands. He dreaded lest, his feet slipping, he should be dragged in himself; and though he did not fear for himself, he knew that, if he was dragged in, Arthur would in all probability be lost. He found that he could not stand still either, but had to move down the stream, as his brother was swept on by the current.

”If it is difficult to hold him now, what will it be when he grasps the drowning man?” he thought. He would have shouted for help had he believed that any one was near to afford it. Arthur, meantime, saw the drowning man approaching. An eddy seemed to be carrying him off towards the opposite bank. Should he venture to swim across without the rope?

Had he a right to run so great a risk of losing his life, and bring grief and sorrow to the heart of his young wife? He prayed for strength and aid. He was about to loose himself from the rope, when again the log was whirled near him. The moment for the greatest exertion had arrived. He sprang forward. His right hand grasped the drowning man, but the log on which he floated escaped from his hold, and was borne onwards by the current. As he caught the man, the spring he made and the additional weight almost overbalanced Willie, who was on the point of falling into the water, when he found himself close to a young tree, of the willow tribe, bending over the stream. He grasped it with his left hand, hauling with all his might till he drew in a sufficient length of the rope to pa.s.s it round the stem. His dread was lest his brother should sink before he could reach the sh.o.r.e. He then feared that the man for whom Arthur had risked so much might be torn from his grasp before he could get him in. The fact of the willow growing there showed that there was a permanent water-hole at the spot, and that, therefore, the depth must be considerable. He dragged in the rope slowly, for Arthur seemed scarcely able to support his burden. ”Keep-- keep up, brother!” he cried out, considering whether he should not make the rope fast and jump in to help him. Just then he discovered that the current itself was doing what he wished; scarcely had he secured the rope than Arthur was swept close up to the bank. He sprang on to help him. The bank, happily, shelved, and together they dragged the nearly drowned man to the sh.o.r.e. He was dressed as a labourer, and his rough hands showed that he was accustomed to hard work. It was too dark to distinguish his features. After they had rubbed him for some time, he gave signs of life; and on his further recovering they placed him on Willie's horse, and, supporting him on either side, led him up to the house, which was about half a mile distant. The stranger scarcely spoke all the way; indeed, he was but partially recovered from the effects of his immersion. The ladies of the family, who had been expecting them at an earlier hour, ran out as they reached the house. Emily hurried off her husband to change his wet clothes; while Willie, briefly describing how bravely his brother had behaved, conducted the stranger to his room, that he might go to bed, while dry garments were got for him and some hot potation was prepared. Had he been of the highest instead, apparently, of the lowest rank, he could not have been more kindly treated. Willie was delighted to be of use, and having collected some clothes from his brother's wardrobe, brought them to the stranger, who, having taken the remedies prescribed for him, insisted on getting up.

”Why, whose house am I in?” exclaimed the stranger, his eye falling on the mark of some of the linen brought for him.

His young attendant told him.

”Then you surely must be little Willie Gilpin!” cried the stranger; ”and that fine fellow who jumped into the river and pulled me out is Arthur, and those are your sisters. I thought I knew their faces.”

”And who are you?” asked Willie.

”An old friend, though I think it likely a forgotten one,” answered the stranger. ”Do not say that I know your people. If they recollect me, well and good; if not, it matters little: I am not worth recollecting.”

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