Allan Burst.

Otago Witness, Issue 1137, 13 September 1873, Page 17

Allan Burst.

A. TALE OF THE DIGGINGS. \

Chapter 111. ; It was a dull grey winter afternoon on : board the Hellican, bound for Australia. < The poop was crowded with passengers, Borne of whom were looking tearfully at the long dark line of land stretched across the horizon — the last of dear old England. '. Leaning over the aide of the vessel, and quite alone, stood a young man of about live or six-and-twenty, with his hat pulled down over his brows and his hands pushed down into the pockets of the great coat he wore. He had stood there for some time looking moodily before him, and taking no notice of those around, when the vessel gave a sudden lurch, and he had almost lost his balance. He caught hold of the bulwark to steady himself, and noticed that a book had been thrown at his feet in the commotion from the other side. He picked it up and looked around. A young lady not many yards from him was standing watching him in some embarrassment, with one hand resting on the back of an old gentleman's chair beside her ; he, however, was busy again with hi 3 book, and did not seem to have noticed the occurrence. The stranger went forward and handed it to her. " Thank you," she said, with a smile, as she took it from him, and at the same time noticed the moody anxious look upon his face. He bowed gravely and turned away, and she sat down and opened the book again at the page she had been reading. It was not long, however, befor she looked up again — this time at the old gentleman by her side. She spoke to him, but he did not hear ; then she laid a small white hand on the page he was reading, and raised her eyes to his. He looked up hastily, and pushed his spectacles up on his brow — " Weil, my dear, what is it," he said. "I know what is coming without your telling me. It's a favour, as you call it. But what in the world can you want here. And I was in the very middle of the most interesting chapter in the whole book. But it's like you, my dear, and I can't blame you. It's just a woman's failing." She waited patiently, for she knew his way. Her hand was still on the book, and her eyes were still fixed on his, but the colour had deepened in her cheeks as she went on. "Well, dear uncle, you are not far wrong. It is a favour. There is a poor young gentleman without any friends on board, and I wish you would speak to him. He seems so lonely, and poor, and — and — thoughtful that I thought you might." "It doesn't follow that I shoiild Bpeak to him," said her uncle, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "But uncle, it must be so dreadful to have no friends at all." " And how do you know that he has no friends, my dear, yoxt don't fancy half-a-dozen should be standing round him now, do you 1 If he's looking miserable on that account, he ought to be ashamed of himself, for thousands have had to leave their friends bet ore him. But where is he 1 I've never noticed any poor, half-starved, melancholy individual, such as you describe." " He's not quite so bad as that, uncle, but you never notice anything, you're always reading," she added, a little reproachfully. " And won't gossip, aye— Ruth ?" said her uncle, laughing. " But never mind, we must have a look at this hero, where is he, and what's his name V " I think it is Dean," Ruth said, a little awkwardly, " Phillip Dean ; I saw it on a valise he had in his hand. He came on board just before us, you remember." "No, I certainly do not," said her uncle, laughing again. "You won't catch me, Ruth. But upon my word, you're no better than the rest. What next, I wonder ; that inquisitive bump of yours will lead you into mischief." " But I couldn't help seeing it, uncle !" "No, no, ny dear, and you said his name was Dean. Surely, now I think of it, that's a name I know well. Why, bless my soul, it can't be any of Dr Dean's family. You've heard me speak of Tom, that went out — it seems a lifetime ago— to Australia. The ship, the Canada, went down, and his wife was drowned. Poor fellow, it was a terrible blow to him, and the old Doctor felt a good deal cut up about it too, for he had been very much against the marriage. She was a beautiful girl, and welf connected, but very delicate. Dear me, how the time slips by ; it seems but yesterday since it all happened." " And do you think this Philip Deane is a brother 1" said Ruth, bringing him back to the point. " Well, let me see ; there was Tom, he was a good mano years older than any of them ; then there was Grace, a little bit of a girl when I knew them ; was there any more t Yes, there was another, for I remember the old Doctor Baying that one

of his sons would be a doctor yet. He must have been at school, for I don't remember him, and yet I have an indistinct recollection of a pale, studious little beggar sitting listening to his father, and at our disputes. He must be melancholy inclined, my dear Ruth, and I've no doubt this hero of your's is the very one. Wheie is he." The stranger was standing some distance off, talking to one of the seamen. Ruth pointed him out. "But, dear uncle," she said, trying to detain him, "he might not be the one." The old gentleman did not hear her, however. He hurried across to the stranger, and holding out his hand in the heartiest manner, said, loud enough to be heard all over the deck, "Mr Philip Deane, I'm glad to see you. My name is Northcote. I knew your father well." Several of the passengers looked round, and it was with no little relief that Ruth saw the other holding his hand out frankly, and heard him saying, though in a lower tone, that he was glad of it. In another moment they were standing beside her. "Ruth, my dear, this is just as yoa thought, Mr Philip Deane, a son of the old doctor's." Ruth shook hands a little stiffly, for the stranger held his out to her. At the same time she wondered how her uncle could have been so foolish as to say it was as sh« thought, but she was doomed to be still more annoyed before he settled down to his book. "You see, Mr Philip," the old gentleman went on enthusiastically, as they sat down, and pushing his spectacles still further up on his brow, "my niece was just saying how friendless you looked standing over there by yourself." Ruth glanced at her uncle reproachfully, but he was looking straight into his new friend's face and did not notice her. Philip, however, caught the warning look, and returned it with a polite bow, in which she thought she could trace a touch of sarcasm, and she looked down in some confusion. "I'm always reading, you see," her uncle went on, " and never notice anything. It's my hobby ; but Ruth does all the noticing for me. Aye, Ruth?" Poor Ruth felt too much hurt to make any reply. Things seemed to be getting worse and worse. What would the stranger think of her ? " I knew that you must be one of Dr Deane's sons, directly she told me the name she had seen on your valise." " Oh, uncle !" cried poor Ruth, with crimson cheeks, and unable to restrain herself longer. "It was just by accident I saw it. There is no use mentioning it." "I knew that, my dear. lam quite aware of it," said the old gentleman quickly. "I never thought it was through anything else ; nor would Mr Deane either." Philip was beginning to feel as uncomfortable as Ruth herself. He was afraid of hurting her feelings by taking any notice, even in a joking way, of what her uncle said, and he was fairly at a loss what to do. "You like to know the outs and ins of things, Ruth, my dear," began her uncle again, who had hastily cut out an elaborate speech in his own mind, and in which he determined to bring his niece out of the uncomfortable position in which he could see by her face she felt herself placed, when Philip, who was afraid of what was coming, broke in sud- > denly upon what he was going to say. "You are bound for Melbourne, too, I suppose, Mr Norbhcote." !■ " Yes, yes, of course, we are. I have i been there for many a year, and have a > fine little property not far from the township, though I suppose that's boasting, ! Ruth," and he looked fondly, and yet "■ with a puzzled and half-apologetic look L upon his face at his niece, who was sit' ting with tearful eyes and averted face, • tapping the deck with her foot. " But I ' have not heard how you left them all. i How is your mother and Grace ? If I had i kown where you went after my old ' friend's death, I should have sought you out ; but nobody could tell me, though we were a day or to in Earle before we I left looking up old friends. They spoke ■ of you all as if you had been gone for half i a century." » "Itis so long since we left," said Philip ' absently ; " and we have had so much to • take up our time and thoughts that I am > afraid our old friend's letter suffered in ■ consequence. My mother and Grace have > been for the last ten years in London. > During that time, as I had always been t determined to follow in my father's foot-" ■ steps, I managed, though not without r some difficulty — for other duties took up 1 a great deal of time— to study and take I- my degree. "Indeed, indeed ! allow me to congra1 tulate you. "Who would have thought it 1 t Another Dr Deane. Your poor father" — and the tears started to the old gentle- [ man's eyes. "It seems just the other day f that we were boys together, roving out : in the woods, or fishing in the old mill- | pond at Earle ; and you're going out to • make a practice. Aye, well, I am glad it's j > to Melbourne you're going ; it's a fine

I place. Linden township is not far from there, and we'rte not far from Linden township, and will be glad to see you whenever you have a day or two to spare. Ruth, my dear, why don't you say you'll be glad to see him at Northcote Lodge ?" " f shall be very glad to see you indeed, or any old friend of my uncle's," said | Ruth, turning to him somewhat reassured, and looking at him with her soft brown eyes, while the remains of a half-embar-rassed smile lingered on her lips, and a faint glow of colour dyed her cheeks. Philip thanked her, while he noticed for the first time what a sweet, expressive face she had. " But we were talking of your friends/ began Mr Northcote, as Philip waß about to speak to Ruth. " How is Grace ? It's a good thing she gave up that ne'er-do-weel on the diggings." Philip started, and his face flushed. Ruth saw that her uncle had made another mistake. " Aren't you confusing things, uncle ?" she said, trying to warn him by her tone, for she was afraid of risking another warning look. " No, no, my dear," said her uncle impatiently. " He's on the L diggings — the very man there has been such a talk about ; and I say again what I said before, that she did well to give him up." "You mistake," said Philip, a little haughtily, and yet with a touch of anxiety in his tone ; "my sister is still engaged to him. It is Allan Hurst, you mean." " That's the very name," said the old gentlemau. "Well, it's strange ; I thought it was broken off. But I beg your pardon, Philip, Ido indeed. It was quite a mistake on my part. " "But, Mr Northcote, do you know him ? Can you tell me anything about him ?" said Philip, anxiously. "We can't understand his behaviour ; he has been out for so many years, and there is as little prospect of his returning as when he went away. He still writes, but just barely tells us that he is well. I should be sorry to say anything against your friend, Philip," said Mr Northcote, hesitatingly. "But I must say that I have heard no good of him myself." " Tell me what you do know. Believe me, I will take it in good part," said Philip, earnestly. " Nothing can be worse than the horrible suspense and uncertainty we have been in about him." " Its about six years since his brother died, and we have dated his strange behaviour from that time. Indeed, it was six months before he wrote home to tell us of his death. No doubt, he must have felt terribly cut up ; but he did not suffer it alone. There was his mother and poor Grace, too, and they suffered more, for they felt for him as well." Mr Northcote glanced hurriedly at Ruth. She mistook his meaning. " Shall I go down and finish the letter I was writing, uncle ?" she said. " Nu, no, my dear ; I was only thinking of this friend of Philip's, and trying to remember what it was that I had heard about him. Why, it was just about six years ago that I heard of him first. It | was at the time we were staying in Melbourne, Ruth, just before you left school. I had been down seeing my niece," he went on, turning to Philip, ' ' and when I went home, I found that an old friend was there waiting to take me up to his station — a hundred miles up country. Well, I went with him — I remember it was sorely against my will — but that has nothing to do with it ; and when I came back again, I heard of a murder that had been committed at the L diggings." "A murder," said Philip, "six years ago ! We never heard a word of it. But, stay, there is no wonder, poor fellow—that is just about the time his brother died." "I could never get the right particu- 1 lars," said Mr Northcote. " I wasn't in- ' terested in it enough to look up the papers ; but wait, I believe I did look up, and couldn't find the one it was in, and. then it went out of my memory for some time, until I heard a man, who stayed all night with the shearers on his way to town, speaking of it to one of the men. I asked him about it. He told me there had been a terrible murder up that way, but he couldn't even tell mci the name of the murdered man." i " Never mind that," said Philip, anxiously. " Tell me what else he said." "But, mind you, Philip, there mightn't be a single word of truth in what he said. I didn't like his looks. lam afraid I have been too hasty. I should never have said anything about it at all." " You are only keeping me in suspense, Mr Northcote," said Philip quickly, "for I must hear it sooner or later." "Well, believe me, Philip, I feel that I am making a mistake in telling you anything of such a serious nature heard in that way. The man said that Allan Hurst knew more of the murder than he | chose to tell, and had wrongfully accused an innocent man." '

I " Good heavei s!" said Philip, gazing horror-struck at his companion. "Can that be true 1 " There is some terrible mystery in it all. But it is false. Allan (durst could never have had a hand in such a deed. And yet how he has altered, Mr Northcote ; i? you know anything more, for God's sake don't keep it back. It's on his account that I have principally come out." " No ; 1 am not keeping anything from yon,'' said Mr Northcote. "I heard a man mention the name of the diggings, as I was waiting on the railway platform for the train the last time I was in Melbourne. I asked him if he knew of any one of the name of Allan Hurst. He said that ho was a man that every one feared and detested, and that he waa going to the bad as fast as he could go. The train was just starting, however, and I had to let the matter drop. But, believe me, Philip, there's nothing like going and getting to the bottom of the mystery yourself. Queer stories go about these diggings, and many a time a man has been accused and taken up for something, and he the wrong one altogether ; and some of them have found it no easy matter to prove their own identity." Philip scarcely heard him. " Tf Grace would only give him up, it would end it all ; but it's a most incomprehensible thing to me how she can go on caring for a fellow who has behaved as he has done. I know what I should have done in her place years ago — " He stopped, for he caught Ruth's eye fixed upon him with a strangely reproachful look, that he could but half understand. "Miss Northcote, you do not agree with me ? " he said. "No, I do not," said Ruth, quickly. "You have condemned poor Mr Hurst almost unheard. You do not know that he deserves it. He may need pity far more than blame." " And my sister, Miss Northcote, what of her \ Is she not in far more need of mty ? She is helpless. Allan Hurst is not.*' Mr Northcote, who had been casting longing glances at his book, slyly opened it when he saw that Philip was otherwise engaged, and Ruth was not looking, and was soon deep in its contents. " He has no one but himself to blame. Grace knows i hat, and is it not very hard for her I Seven years is a long time to try a girl's love and patience, don't you think so?" "I do not know. I think it is," said Ruth, colouring. " Your sister must be very good and kind." "Thank you," said Philip, earnestly. "She is both." Ruth was silent. Mr Northcote looked up quickly. " I hope you'll excuse me reading, Philip," he said. " Ruth, my dear, you can go down to the cabin and bring up these views of Earle, and show them to Mr Deane. I shall only finish this chapter— it is not long," and he turned over a few dozen leaves ; but as the end seemed as far off as ever, he, turned hastily to the beginning again. " Do not let me interrupt your reading, Mr Northcote," said Philip, who thought to himself, as Ruth came up again with the views in her hand, that the old gentleman could finish as many chapters as he chose on the proposed terms.