The Author's Daughter

Front matter

THE

AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER.

By

Chapter I

THE AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER I.

A SAD WELCOME TO THE COLONY.

It was drawing towards evening in the later summer, when a young man was riding slowly and steadily homeward on a rather tired horse, along a rough district-road, which led—I will not say in what direction, or to what locality—in the colony of South Australia. Suffice it to say, that it was somewhere on the borderland where agricultural farming ceases and the great sheep-runs begin, and that it was as beautiful a country as could be seen in all the colony. Even at the season of the year when Australian scenery looks its worst, when the grass is burnt almost to the colour of the earth it covers, an experienced eye could tell, by the length and closeness of the herbage, by the lay of the country and the look of the soil, and more especially by the numbers of fine gum-trees that enlivened the sombre colouring of the landscape with their great white stems and luxuriance of green foliage, that it was a well-watered region, and land that in ordinary seasons would grow anything.

Allan Lindsay rode slowly, for two reasons: the first and best was that his horse was tired, and had been frightened by a violent storm of thunder and lightning, which had rolled and flashed all the afternoon; and the second was, that he was taking that leisurely and critical survey of the country which is natural when a man returns from a land-sale through the property which he has just bought. Though he had not been a purchaser on his own account, as he was not yet twenty years of age, he had been entrusted by his father to bid for him, and he had even gone a little beyond the limit which the old experienced colonist had set. But as he looked affectionately on the open, slightly undulating country, he felt that his father would have been more disappointed if he had let their neighbour, Mr. Hammond, outbid him, than he could possibly be at the little extra price that was to be paid.

"Yes," said Allan half aloud, "this land is worth more to us than to Mr. Hammond; and if we have early rains, as I thought we should have with this storm, it will look first-rate in a month or two. But it is strange that his season of the year we have so much thunder and lightning, with scarce a drop of rain. Steady, Charlie, my man," said he, affectionately addressing his horse, whom a more vivid flash than usual right across the eyes had terrified afresh—"you've gone far enough to-day to sober you, so you needn't plunge like that," and he patted and soothed he frightened animal.

He had not ridden half a mile farther when he heard voices apparently of some people in distress, where voices were not usually heard, and a loud "cooey" directed him to the spot, which was a some distance off he road. There he found his was not he only horse made restive by the lightning, for Mr. Hammond's spring-cart had been overturned; the horse having dragged it till the wheel had caught in a charred stump, when it had tilted over, and thrown out the three occupants of the vehicle, while the horse had got loose from his traces and had run off. One of the party he knew well—Tom Cross, Mr. Hammond's groom—who now limped sadly towards him with a badly sprained ankle; but the other two—a gentleman who lay on the ground dead or insensible, and a girl apparently about thirteen, who hung over him in an agony of grief and terror—were absolute strangers to Allan.

"What is all this, Tom Cross?" said Allan. "How did you get this terrible upset?"

"Rattler took fright and dashed off with us," said Tom; and lowering his voice," I think it is all over with the poor gentleman. Neither me nor the girl there can make him speak, and it's a quarter of an hour since we had the spill. It was on his head, d'ye see, and that's bad."

"Oh! papa, dearest papa, do speak to me!" said the child. "Oh! please do try to revive him!" and she turned to the stranger, as if he must be able to do something, when such unlooked-for assistance had come to aid her own and the groom's inadequate efforts. "He is only fainting; mamma used to faint often if she was a little too tired, and this was a terrible fall. Oh! if I had any drops to give him!"

The young bushman took a flask out of his pocket, and tried to get a few drops out of it into the mouth of the stranger, but it was of no avail. He had been pitched on his head with great violence, and a concussion of the brain had caused instant death.

"Will he never speak?" said the child again.

"Can we not send for a doctor, and get him taken to a house?"

"You cannot go so far as Mr. Hammond's, but Branxholm is not far off, and you can take him there. My mother would do all in her power for you—and for him," said Allan with an effort, for he knew nothing could be done. "If the cart could be trusted to go as far as Branxholm, Charlie will go in harness even if you cannot catch Rattler."

"I'm of as little as no use," said Tom, "but I don't think there's much the matter with the cart; one of the shafts is broke, but you can splice it, I'll be bound, and you'll drive softly, as is most fitting, leastways, at any rate."

Allan took his knife and a piece of strong whipcord from his pocket, and began to splice the broken shaft in a most workmanlike manner. "This is a terrible business, Tom," said he. "Do you know who this gentleman is?"

"He was coming to be tutor to them big boys, and to keep the store and accounts, it is likely too, and I was sent to the township with the trap to meet them. A very pleasant-spoken gentleman he was, too, and him and the girl asked such heaps of questions about the trees, and flowers, and such like, and the birds that we saw hopping about. They were all new to them apparently, for they are new chums. But what is to be done with her now? In course she must go to Mr. Hammond's and be took care on till her friends is wrote to, but it's a poor welcome this to South Australia. There, Allan, don't you see Rattler? After doing all this mischief he comes back penitent, and it is as well, for though you say Charlie will go in harness, the harness is all on Rattler's back. You catch hold of him, he's like a lamb now."

It was the work of some little time to catch the horse, to mend the traces roughly, and to put Rattler in his old position between the shafts. Allan next bound up Tom's leg as well as he could with pockethandkerchiefs, and helped him up into the spring-cart. He next lifted the body of the lifeless stranger, placed it gently on the floor of the cart, removing the seat, and resting the head on a carpet-bag; and then took the girl in his arms, and laid her so that she might be near her father, but where she could not feel the weight press on her to convince her that-all hope was over. She looked surprised at the manner in which she was lifted, and perhaps a little offended, but a glance at Allan's kind face, with the honest blue eyes full of a moisture very unusual to them, made the little lady forgive the liberty. He next fastened Charlie to the spring-cart, as Tom had declined to drive so sad a load with his lame foot. Under any other circumstances, Tom would have thought nothing of driving with a sprained ancle, for, as he said, his feet had nothing to do with the business; but though the storm was over and the horizon clear, he would not venture to handle the reins.

"Are we not going to Mr. Hammond's?" asked the little girl "No, we are going to my father's at Branxholm, for it is nearer," said Allan Lindsay.

"And you will send for a surgeon; For you know he must be bled or something done to make him speak."

"If it had no been for his foot I'd have mounted Charlie and gone to the township, but I suppose there's some one to be found at Branxholm to go there for Dr. Burton, and somebody must go across to Aralewin. Mr. Hammond is sure to be home by this time, though he was not when I left it to-day. I know he won't be pleased at our putting Rattler in the spring-cart, which he ain't used to, but Mrs. Hammond she said as how there would likely be a lot of luggage, and the spring-cart is the roomiest. But you see we have had to leave the boxes after all. We're heavy enough without them. There's nobody will run away with them, I suppose, till we can send down for them, and they're all marked plain enough, 'G. Staunton,' for us all to swear to if they are stole."

"You have not been long in the colony?" said Allan to the girl.

"Only a fortnight in Adelaide, but we were in Melbourne for more than a month."

"And your papa was going to be tutor at the Hammonds'?"

"Yes, when he is better he must go here, for Mr. Hammond says that I may stay there too, and I promised mamma, that I never would leave dear "Is your mamma in England?" asked Allan.

"No, no! mamma is in heaven But I cannot spare papa to her yet. Mamma must wait a little longer. There are saints and angels in heaven, and my little brothers are there; but if I lose papa, I have nobody—nobody."

"Have you any shipmates that you liked?" said Allan, thinking of that only friendless strangers in the colonies.

"Our shipmates are all in Melbourne, for we came over in a steamer to Adelaide; but we did not care much about our fellow-passengers. The captain was very unkind, and the people on board were not like papa. Papa is Gerald Staunton, you know."

Allan did not know anything about Gerald Staunton, but he had a reverence for learning and he had envied the young Hammonds the succession of private tutors they had had, and had wondered why they did not profit more by their advantages. And there was something in the countenance of the dead man so refined, so intellectual, and so gentlemanly, that he was sure he was superior to any Mr. Hammond had previously engaged.

"I suppose your papa—Mr. Staunton, I mean—knew everything that boys should know; languages, and figures, and geography, and spelling, and all ha sort of thing," said Allan.

"Papa never was a tutor in his life. I don't quite know how he will like it. He was an author in London, and a critic for the Palladium."

Allan's reverence for the dead man rose still higher. What treasures were to be buried with him, that Allan would give up his fair worldly prospects to possess! No doubt he was a genius, and his want of success in life perhaps was rather proof of it than otherwise.

"He's an Oxford man, I heard Mrs. Hammond saying to Mr. Louis," said Tom Cross; "and she seemed mightily taken up with he notion that he had got some sort of a degree, though I am sure I don't know what it is; but of course she knows. She's uppish, and always was; but she's kind too, and this poor young lady will find that out, never fear."

In spite of the well-worn black frock and the plain straw hat, dusty with the long journey from Adelaide, even Tom Cross had seen that she was a little lady, and Allan had still more observation. He could not call her pretty; she was too pale and thin, and angular for beauty at this particular time, but she gave promise of being very lovely ere long. The face was expressive, her eyes perhaps too large at present, but dark and full of varied light; her head was beautifully set on her shoulders, and her feet and hands finely formed. Her fine accent, or rather the absence of any provincial accent, contrasted with Allan's Scotch, and Tom's Midland English; and they both felt that, whatever might be her circumstances, their unhappy fellow-traveller was something quite out of the common.

"When you get home will your mother try to make papa speak? Oh! papa, will you not speak to your own poor Amy?" and the girl kissed the lifeless face, and now for the first time she was aware of the chill that had come over it, and the horrible thought pressed itself on her that he was dead. Allan saw by the expression on her face that she now apprehended the truth, though she was too much horrified to speak of it. He endeavoured to soothe her as if she had been his own sister; he patted her gently on the back, saying—"Poor dear! poor dear! it is the will of God, and we cannot gainsay it May He help you to bear it." The familiarity of the action the child shrank from instinctively, but only for a moment, for Allan's face was so full of sympathy, his lips quivered with suppressed emotion, his eyes could not keep back the drops that rose to them, and his voice trembled as he spoke. She drew closer to him, allowed him to take her hand, and wept with a quiet, intense sorrow, speechless and noiseless. Now and then a deep shaking sob went to the hearts of her two living companions, but, alas! nothing could now awaken the sympathy or call forth an effort from one who had been all the world to Amy Staunton.

Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

BRANXHOLM AND ARALEWIN.

Allan was relieved when he came within sight of home. His mother and his sister Jessie were better able to comfort the poor little orphan than he could be: and then Mr. Hammond might be sent for, and he and his wife might be able to suggest something that could be done to send her to her friends, though in that case, of course, he would see her no more, nor have any opportunity of asking a thousand questions, which the daughter of an Oxford student and author might be able to answer, about things which in his bush life he had had no opportunity of hearing.

Branxholm was an irregular-looking building. It had been put up at different times upon no sort of plan. As an addition had been needed, it had been placed somewhere, without any consideration as to symmetry, and often with mistakes as to convenience. As Allan had grown older he had seen that this patchwork was rather unwise, and he had now notions in his head about the next alteration, which was to be a more thorough and systematic piece of work than had been before attempted. The farm-offices and stock-yards were on a level with the house, and much too near it, while the garden, which was really beautiful and well kept, lay back from the house, and was not much seen as you approached it. A never-failing creek ran through the garden, and was crossed by several rustic bridges and bordered by magnificent willows; and the ingenuity which Allan had shown since he was fourteen years old in irrigating the whole large garden from the creek, made its progress and is fertility something wonderful in the district. But from its position Amy could have seen little of the garden even if she had looked through her tears.

As the spring-cart drove up to the front door, which, however, lay at the side of the house, Allan called for his mother and sister in a voice so strange, that they hurried from the kitchen and the garden with alarm, and brought with them the master of the household, too, to find out what could be the matter. A few sad words old the tale. The body of the poor gentleman was lifted gently from the spring-cart, and laid on the bed in the spare room. Amy followed the remains of all that was dear to her in the world, and shrinkingly took the cold hand that would never press hers more, while Mrs. Lindsay and Jessie tried to comfort her.

They tried to coax her out of the room while they did the last sad offices for her father, but she would not leave it.

"This should be yours, now, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, as she began to take off the wedding-ring from the little finger.

"No, no," said Amy. "Papa never would part with that; he should carry that to the grave with him. I will not take it. But is he—is he really dead? They said they would send for a doctor."

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "he is past all doctor's skill now; but we'll send for Dr. Burton to satisfy you that no skill could have saved him from the first. Allan will go at once if it would be any comfort to you. I suppose George Copeland is in the house, Jessie; he maun ride to Aralewin as fast as he can, to tell Mr. Hammond of this awfu' dispensation."

"George is gone already. Tom Cross gave him the letters, and he was off in five minutes; and I think my father has sent Pat for the doctor," said Jessie. "Allan thought, as the poor lassie was better acquainted with him, he would not leave the house for so long a time. It is not that Allan grudged the trouble, but his heart is sore for the poor bairn."

Mrs. Lindsay found all was done as Jessie had said, and now for the first time found an opportunity of asking who the poor gentleman was, and what was his connection with Mr. Hammond.

"It is a sudden and awfu' providence, Allan," said she.

"If it is awful to us, mother; what is it to that poor orphan, fatherless and motherless in a strange land? What can we do for her?"

"No doubt Mrs. Hammond will see to her, as is weel her part, and she seems a genty bit body, though no that very weel put on, and bonnie too, if it was not for the greeting."

"I forgot to ask you, Allan," said Mr. Lindsay, "in all this trouble, if you have got the land."

"Yes, father, over Mr. Hammond's head too; for his agent was bidding against me, and made me give five shillings more the acre for it than you set as my price."

"Mr. Hammond won't be over pleased at that, Allan, and he behoves to come here to-night about this unfortunate business, but it cannot be helped. I am not sorry that you have got it, nevertheless," said Hugh Lindsay.

It was a five miles' ride for George Copeland to the Hammonds' home-station. It was one of the perversities of fate that had planted the Hammonds so that their nearest neighbours were people who could not be visited, though they might be very worthy people in their way. The Lindsays, though Hugh Lindsay (or rather his wife for him, for she was more skilled in genealogical lore) could count kin with the Balcarras family, had begun their colonial career in a humble way, and indeed for many generations had been poor plain people. But Hugh Lindsay had brought to the colony habits of industry and frugality, and a useful though limited education. He was shrewd and clear-headed; he had a sensible and active wife, and a family of children whom he made useful to him; so that from his original position of a shepherd for another in the early days of the colony, he had risen to be a considerable stock-holder and landowner. He was, of course, a very much poorer man than Mr. Hammond, who had begun life with some capital, while Hugh Lindsay had his capital to create, and who had been equally fortunate in his opportunities and pretty nearly as shrewd in business.

Hugh was aware that his social position was far inferior to that of his neighbour, but he was not at all disposed to put himself forward. Only in the matter of land buying he had once or twice come into collision with Mr. Hammond, and this was not the only occasion in which he had bought land over his head. He could not help regretting that Jessie, who was so useful and such a treasure to her mother, and Allan his own right hand, whose judgment and skill he relied on in all matters of business, should have missed the advantages of the position they had helped to attain; and that while the younger members of the family were at school in Adelaide, the two cleverest and best of them all should be so backward in school attainments. It was of less consequence for Jessie, but for Allan it was indeed a loss, that by the time his father could spare him he was too big and too manly to send to school. Louis and Fred Hammond used to report to their mother that Allan was the handiest fellow in the district, and had wonderful knowledge of stock and horses, and was a famous shot; but Mrs. Hammond discouraged the lad's visits to Branxholm, for she could no bear her boys to associate with such unpolished boorish clodpoles as the Lindsays must be. She was ambitious for her children, and especially for her sons, and she had such exaggerated notions of dangers of bad company in public schools, that she had preferred enduring the annoyance of having a tutor in the house to sending her boys away from her side. But there had been long interregnums of idleness between the very limited monarchy of the tutors in the Aralewin school-room, and she could not help feeling that they were very backward, and that they could not expect to make any figure in England, where she hoped to be able to take them ere long.

She was delighted a day or two before my story opens, at the receipt of a letter from her husband, saying that he had been so fortunate as to secure for his boys the services of a gentleman of higher attainments and of more agreeable manners than any who had ever been at Aralewin. Mr. Hammond had been favourably impressed by his Oxford degree of Master of Arts, and by his credentials from the editors of various journals and periodicals to which he had been a contributor; he almost feared that the situation was not good enough for him. When he had seen the little girl, who must be considered in the light of an incumbrance, he had been equally taken with her, and thought she would be an excellent companion for his bush girls, as her acquirements appeared to him to be astonishing. He offered that she should be treated in every way as a child of the family, and that no deduction should be made from the salary he was prepared to give on her account. Mr. Staunton closed at once with the offer, and Mr. Hammond was overjoyed at the result. He had written a hasty note to his wife on the subject, saying, that as he might not be at home on Wednesday, he would like her to send to the township for the new tutor and his little daughter. He had gone home by another route because he wanted to be present at 3 races, and he had just got home half an hour before the Lindsays' man, George, came with his bad news.

"So you did not stay for the land sale," said Mrs. Hammond; "the races were too attractive."

"I wish I had stayed; I never thought of Hugh Lindsay going so high, I left my limit with my agent, and he of course would not take the liberty of going beyond it, and writes me that he's sorry, and all that nonsense."

"Was Lindsay at the sale himself?"

"No. Allan was there bidding for his father. The old man puts great trust in that boy."

"These low people can afford to pay more for land than you. Look at your expenses for labour that Lindsay gets his own family to do."

"His family are some expense to him now. It costs something to keep four boys and girls at school in Adelaide. But are you not pleased about the tutor, Mr. Staunton?"

"Staunton?" said Mrs. Hammond. "I thought you wrote the name Stratton."

"Not Stratton; I wrote the name as plain as possible. It is a remarkably fine name—Gerald Staunton. You ought to be able to read my handwriting by this time."

"Gerald Staunton!" echoed the lady, "Gerald Staunton!"

"Yes, the author. You may have heard of him, as you are more bookishly inclined than I am."

"I really think, George, that you have been much too hasty in this matter. You ought to have consulted me before you definitely arranged to have not only one person, but two additional persons as inmates of my house."

"I have always engaged the tutors hitherto, Clarissa."

"Yes; but what torments they have been; and this is a double risk. Does this Mr. Staunton know anything about teaching?"

"There's his degree; there's no mistake about that."

"His degree will not make him a good tutor, if he has no been accustomed to teach, and besides, I look rather suspiciously on his degree. According to all I can make out, he is a man who ought to have got on, and who has not done so. Talent I dare say he may have, but if there is anything morally deficient, that is far worse. And to bring a strange girl to be a companion to my daughters! Who knows what habits and what principles she may communicate? You have not acted with discretion in this matter, Mr. Hammond."

"Why, my dear, you seemed as pleased as Punch at the idea, and now you turn round all at once. If the man has not been successful, is he the first clever good man who has not made money? And it was because his health gave way after his wife's death that he threw up his literary appointments in London, and tries the milder climate. He has been some years on the African Coast—Sierra Leone, I think—in his younger days, and that has told on him."

"Then we are to have an invalid to nurse," said Mrs. Hammond.

"No, not an invalid," said Mr. Hammond, testily.

"The voyage and the climate have done wonders for him, and he seems as sound as you or I; and as for the girl, she is the nicest behaved and the cleverest little thing I ever saw. You are sure to like both of them"

"If you had come home at once instead of writing me such an indistinct message to send Tom to the township for them, this might have been altered. If I had only known sooner—but you never can withstand anything in the shape of amusement or horseflesh. I am sure these races were worth nothing."

"The best country match I ever saw. I should have tried Highflyer there, though. He would have beaten Zoe and Mazeppa all to pieces. I would not have missed the sight for ten pounds. I like these country races; they keep up the English love of sport. Williams has a filly rising three; I must have it; it is the most complete little thing I ever saw, and would be the very thing for you."

"Is that by way of a sugar-plum?" said Mrs. Hammond. "Well, here I sit day after day; I see nobody—I go nowhere; I devote myself to your family; and I must say that I do not think the step you have just taken is an advantageous one."

"I wish I heard the sound of wheels. It is more than time they were home; but Tom is a safe hand. I dare say it is all right. But here comes Lindsay's man in a great hurry. What can be the matter? Send the man in here directly, Ann," said Mr. Hammond.

Chapter III

CHAPTER III.

BUSH HOSPITALITY.

"There is bad news for you, sir," said George Copeland to Mr. Hammond. "There has been an accident with the spring-cart."

"What! nothing happened to Rattler?"

"No; Rattler is all right, but he took fright and dashed off the road wildly till he came against a stump, and the gentleman that was coming here has been thrown out."

"Is he hurt?" said Mrs. Hammond.

"He is dead, ma'am, quite dead. Tom Cross says he never gave a movement after he had the fall, and when Allan came up to them he was quite dead."

"Good God!" said Mr. Hammond; "how unfortunate! What a terrible business this is. Killed on the spot! What was Tom thinking of to let Rattler play such a trick? I never knew that horse shy before. It was lightning, and very near, I know, but my horse was like a lamb. I put such confidence in Rattler and in Tom."

"Tom has got a bad sprained ancle, or he would have brought his own bad news, sir," said Copeland.

"And the girl—the poor girl, is she hurt?" said Mr. Hammond.

"She may be bruised, but nothing serious, sir; but, poor thing, she takes on terribly about her father, and she has no mother either, they tell me, and not a friend or acquaintance in the colony."