Part 36 (2/2)
”Major,” said I, when we had gone a little way, ”do you never feel anxious about Mary Hawker's husband appearing and giving trouble?”
”Oh, no!” said he. ”The man is safe in Van Diemen's Land. Besides, what could he gain? I, for one, without consulting her, should find means to pack him off again. There is no fear.”
”By the bye, Major,” I said, ”have you heard from our friend Doctor Mulhaus since your arrival? I suppose he is at Drumston still?”
”Oh dear, no!” said he. ”He is gone back to Germany. He is going to settle there again. He was so sickened of England when all his friends left, that he determined to go home. I understood that he had some sort of patrimony there, on which he will end his days. Wherever he goes, G.o.d go with him, for he is a n.o.ble fellow!”
”Amen,” I answered. And soon after, having got towels, we proceeded to the river; making for a long reach a little below where I had crossed the night before.
”Look there!” said the Major. ”There's a bit for one of your painters!
I wish Wilkie or Martin were here.”
I agreed with him. Had Etty been on the spot he would have got a hint for one of his finest pictures; though I can give but little idea of it in writing, however, let me try. Before us was a long reach of deep, still water, unbroken by a ripple, so hemmed in on all sides by walls of deep green black wattle, tea-tree, and delicate silver acacia, that the water seemed to flow in a deep sh.o.r.eless rift of the forest, above which the taller forest trees towered up two hundred feet, hiding the lofty cliffs, which had here receded a little back from the river.
The picture had a centre, and a strange one. A little ledge of rock ran out into deep water, and upon it, rising from a heap of light-coloured clothing, like a white pillar, in the midst of the sombre green foliage, rose the naked carca.s.s of Thomas Troubridge, Esq., preparing for a header, while at his feet were grouped three or four black fellows, one of whom as we watched slid off the rock like an otter. The reach was covered with black heads belonging to the savages, who were swimming in all directions, while groups of all ages and both s.e.xes stood about on the bank in Mother Nature's full dress.
We had a glorious bathe, and then sat on the rock, smoking, talking, and watching the various manoeuvres of the blacks. An old lady, apparently about eighty, with a head as white as snow, topping her black body (a flourbag cobbler, as her tribe would call her), was punting a canoe along in the shallow water on the opposite side of the river. She was entirely without clothes, and in spite of her decrepitude stood upright in the c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l, handling it with great dexterity. When she was a little above us, she made way on her barque, and shot into the deep water in the middle of the stream, evidently with the intention of speaking us. As, however, she was just half-way across, floating helplessly, unable to reach the bottom with the spear she had used as a puntpole in the shallower water, a mischievous black imp canted her over, and souse she went into the river. It was amazing to see how boldly and well the old woman struck out for the sh.o.r.e, keeping her white head well out of the water; and, having reached dry land once more, sat down on her haunches, and began scolding with a volubility and power which would soon have silenced the loudest tongue in old Billingsgate.
Her anger, so far from wearing out, grew on what fed it; so that her long-drawn yells, which seemed like parentheses in her jabbering discourse, were getting each minute more and more acute, and we were just thinking about moving homewards, when a voice behind us sang out,--
”Hallo, Major! Having a little music, eh? What a sweet song that old girl is singing! I must write it down from dictation, and translate it, as Walter Scott used to do with the old wives' ballads in Scotland.”
”I have no doubt it would be quite Ossianic--equal to any of the abusive scenes in Homer. But, my dear Harding, how are you? You are come to eat your Christmas dinner with us, I hope?”
”That same thing, Major,” answered the new comer. ”Troubridge and Stockbridge, how are you? This, I presume, is your partner, Hamlyn?”
We went back to the house. Harding, I found, was half-owner of a station to the north-east, an Oxford man, a great hand at skylarking, and an inveterate writer of songs. He was good-looking too, and gentlemanlike, in fact, a very pleasant companion in every way.
Dinner was to be at six o'clock, in imitation of home hours; but we did not find the day hang heavy on our hands, there was so much to be spoken of by all of us. And when that important meal was over we gathered in the open air in front of the house, bent upon making Christmas cheer.
”What is your last new song, eh, Harding?” said the Major; ”now is the time to ventilate it.”
”I've been too busy shearing for song-writing, Major.”
Soon after this we went in, and there we sat till nearly ten o'clock, laughing, joking, singing, and drinking punch. Mary sat between James Stockbridge and Tom, and they three spoke together so exclusively and so low, that the rest of us were quite forgotten. Mary was smiling and laughing, first at one and then at the other, in her old way, and now and then as I glanced at her I could hardly help sighing. But I soon remembered certain resolutions I had made, and tried not to notice the trio, but to make myself agreeable to the others. Still my eyes wandered towards them again intuitively. I thought Mary had never looked so beautiful before. Her complexion was very full, as though she were blus.h.i.+ng at something one of them had said to her, and while I watched I saw James rise and go to a jug of flowers, and bring back a wreath of scarlet Kennedia, saying:--
”Do us a favour on Christmas night, Mary; twine this in your hair.”
She blushed deeper than before, but she did it, and Tom helped her.
There was no harm in that, you say, for was he not her cousin? But still I could not help saying to myself, ”Oh Mary, Mary, if you were a widow, how long would you stay so?”
”What a gathering it is, to be sure!” said Mrs. Buckley!--”all the old Drumstonians who are alive collected under one roof.”
”Except the Doctor,” said the Major.
”Ah, yes, dear Doctor Mulhaus. I am so sad sometimes to think that we shall never see him again.”
<script>