Part 48 (1/2)

”Major,” said Frank, ”how many outlying huts have you?”

”Five,” said the Major. ”Four shepherds' huts, and one stockkeeper's in the range, which we call the heifer station.”

”You have no church here, I know,” said Frank; ”but do these men get any sort of religious instruction?”

”None whatever,” said the Major. ”I have service in my house on Sunday, but I cannot ask them to come to it, though sometimes the stockmen do come. The shepherds, you know, are employed on Sunday as on any other day. Sheep must eat!”

”Are any of these men convicts?”

”All the shepherds,” said the Major. ”The stockman and his a.s.sistant are free men, but their hut-keeper is bond.”

”Are any of them married?”

”Two of the shepherds; the rest single; but I must tell you that on our run we keep up a regular circulation of books among the huts, and my wife sticks them full of religious tracts, which is really about all that we can do without a clergyman.”

”Do you find they read your tracts, Mrs. Buckley?” asked Frank.

”No,” said Mrs. Buckley, ”with the exception, perhaps, of 'Black Giles the Poacher,' which always comes home very dirty. Narrative tracts they will read when there is nothing more lively at hand; but such treatises as 'Are You Ready?' and 'The Sinner's Friend,' fall dead. One copy lasts for years.”

”One copy of either of them,” said Frank, ”would last. Then these fellows, Major, are entirely G.o.dless, I suppose?”

”Well, I'll tell you, Dean,” said the Major, stopping short, ”it's about as bad as bad can be; it can't be worse, sir. If by any means you could make it worse, it would be by sending such men round here as the one who was sent here last. He served as a standing joke to the hands for a year or more; and I believe he was sincere enough, too.”

”I must invade some of these huts, and see what is to be done,” said Frank. ”I have had a hard spell of work in London since old times; but I have seen enough already to tell me that that work was not so hopeless as this will be. I think, however, that there is more chance here than among the little farmers in the settled districts. Here, at all events, I shan't have the rum-bottle eternally standing between me and my man. What a glorious, independent, happy set of men are those said small freeholders, Major! What a happy exchange an English peasant makes when he leaves an old, well-ordered society, the ordinances of religion, the various give-and-take relations between rank and rank, which make up the sum of English life, for independence, G.o.dlessness, and rum! He gains, say you! Yes, he gains meat for his dinner every day, and voila tout! Contrast an English workhouse schoolboy--I take the lowest cla.s.s for example, a cla.s.s which should not exist--with a small farmer's son in one of the settled districts. Which will make the most useful citizen? Give me the workhouse lad!”

”Oh, but you are over-stating the case, you know, Dean,” said the Major. ”You must have a cla.s.s of small farmers! Wherever the land is fit for cultivation it must be sold to agriculturists; or, otherwise, in case of a war, we shall be dependent on Europe and America for the bread we eat. I know some excellent and exemplary men who are farmers, I a.s.sure you.”

”Of course! of course!” said Frank. ”I did not mean quite all I said; but I am angry and disappointed. I pictured to myself the labourer, English, Scotch, or Irish--a man whom I know, and have lived with and worked for some years, emigrating, and, after a few years of honest toil, which, compared to his old hard drudgery, was child's-play, saving money enough to buy a farm. I pictured to myself this man acc.u.mulating wealth, happy, honest, G.o.dly, bringing up a family of brave boys and good girls, in a country where, theoretically, the temptations to crime are all but removed: this is what I imagined. I come out here, and what do I find? My friend the labourer has got his farm, and is prospering, after a sort. He has turned to be a drunken, G.o.dless, impudent fellow, and his wife little better than himself; his daughters dowdy hussies; his sons lanky, lean, pasty-faced, blaspheming blackguards, drinking rum before breakfast, and living by cheating one another out of horses. Can you deny this picture?”

”Yes,” said the Major, ”I can disprove it by many happy instances, and yet, to say the truth, it is fearfully true in as many more. There is no social influence in the settled districts; there are too many men without masters. Let us wait and hope.”

”This is not to the purpose at present, though,” said Mrs. Buckley.

”See what you can do for us in the bush, my dear Dean. You have a very hopeless task before you, I fear.”

”The more hopeless, the greater glory, madam,” said Frank, taking off his hat and waving it; called, chosen, and faithful. ”There is a beautiful house!”

”That is Toonarbin,” said the Major; ”and there's Mary Hawker in the verandah.”

”Let us see,” said Mrs. Buckley, ”if she will know him. If she does not recognise him, let no one speak before me.”

When they had ridden up and dismounted, Mrs. Buckley presented Frank.

”My dear,” said she, ”the Dean is honouring us by staying at Baroona for a week, and proposes to visit round at the various stations.

To-morrow we go to the Mayfords, and next day to Garoopna.”

Mary bowed respectfully to Frank, and said, ”that she felt highly honoured,” and so forth. ”My partner is gone on a journey, and my son is away on the run, or they would have joined with me in bidding you welcome, sir.”

Frank would have been highly honoured at making their acquaintance.

Mary started, and looked at him again. ”Mr. Maberly! Mr. Maberly!” she said, ”your face is changed, but your voice is unchangeable. You are discovered, sir!”