Untitled

Otago Witness, Issue 2604, 10 February 1904, Page 74

SHORT STORIES.

MONTOTH'S REPFNTAfCE.

By A. M. Andrews,

(For the Witness.)

There is a link in Nature's plan That binds the highest to th.c humblest man Though oft by Fats 'tis darkly hidden, It gleams at times— unsought, unbidden.

"Nae, nae, there'll never be a refusal at dny station o' mine. It's agen ma preenciples — ma fixed preenciples — to refuse food or shelter to any mon who may chance to ask for it, be he tramp or traveller "0" 0 "That's all very well, Monteith, but once "

"Once, I admit, ma preenciples were otherwise," replied the first speaker sadly ; "but the last time I refused I shall regret to ma deeing 'oor — aye, to ma deeing ,'oor ; but good-day, friends, good-day," and Kenneth Monteith, a tall, greytbearded, and somewhat hard-visaged . Scotchman, rode off abruptly from the company of some neighbouring squatters. For more than a quarter of a century ■Monteith had lived at Barcoo, where his _marked keenness in all matters involving Jeven the smallest pecuniary expenditure had obtained, for him the sobriquet of "Canny Ken." He had ridden in from his station, Glenrowan, to Barcoo, the shire town, to meet several landowners, who • ■wished by combined action to check what they deemed a growing evil.

"The number of tramps and swagmen constantly asking for relief is becoming an oppressive nuisance. Once it is known that we have all agreed to a general refusal the trouble will soon abate."

It was to tihis suggestion, that Monteith tad promptly objected. Yet only a few years before this incident there was no one In the whole district of Barcoo so well noted as Monteith for his extreme closeness and miserly disposition. It was, indeed, a waste of time for any unfortunate, needy tramp to ask for a night's shelter or a passing meal -at Glenrowan.

"Nae, nae, I never do it; it's agen ma fixed preenciples," was the stern reply in•variably made by Canny Ken.

Though admittedly the finest estate in the neighbourhood, Glenrowan had thus ac- ' quired a reputation in keeping with the characteristics of its owner. For years 'Monteith had resided there, with no com.panitinship save that of an aged housekeeper and gardener. Every season, however, saw a material increase in his bank .ibalance, and whenever opportunity offered ,4ie added to the already vast number of ■'tis, acres. Suddenly, he resolved on a Visit to his native clime, the Land o' the iiHeather. For the period of six months jihe left the care of his extensive properties to an agent, and from no previous or succeeding client had the said agent received 'such a number of cautious instructions — 'all illustrating Monteith's parsimonious methods. Great, therefore, was the sur•prise throughout Barcoo when Monteith -returned — no longer a bachelor, but accompanied by a young and winsome wife.

Under the direction of its new mistress, things at Glenrowan rapidly changed. The •niggard hand of its owner was no longer 'evident, for a liberal expenditure took the ■place of his former rigid economy. The .'.gloom and semi-solitude so long prevailing 'at the Glen now gave way to brightness 'and hospitality. The tact and amiable, 'eunny temperament of his wife had indeed ! effected a transformation in the character fend disposition of Canny Ken. Alas, the change was short -lived ! Ere little more „ithan a year had passed Monteith was a ywidower. In the first crushing grief of jhis bereavement he scarce gave a thought jto the living legacy — the baby boy and the tiny twins — left, when a week ,old, to his parental love and care. None ibut the bereaved man himself could gauge jjthie extent of his loss. All his long-pent-up (feelings had centred in his passionate affection for the fair young wife, the bonnie, lassie, who, by some strange ims>ujse in far-off Scotland, had given her .■life and happiness to his beeping. His [grief, though silent, was pathetic in its |antenseness ; the depth of his sorrow was jtoo great, too sacred to himself to be discussed with others. His old reserve of manner gradually returned, and many who .would have expressed their sympathy were repelled by the sternness he assumed.

"I will no have the wee things at Glenffowan till they are sturdy enough to run aboot," \ said Monteith to Dr FitzJames, 'one of the physicians, whose utmost skill •had failed to arrest the icy touch of Death from the loved mistress of the Glen.

"You can, make all suitable arrangements jfor thfinij doctor, better than I. It can Mje at your own place, or anywhere else, so -long as you see them daily. You are to 'provide the best possible attendance and supervision for them ; expense is not to be considered."

Recognising that this arrangement would conduce more to the well-doing of the children than any other, Dr FitzJames had assented. Thanks to his judicious and experienced methods, and his wise selection of an excellent nun«s, the twins thrived wonderfully ; while Monteith .visited them twice a week with unvarying punctuality. It was not until they had attained their eighth year that he arranged for their permanent residence at Glenrowan. When ■Ronald and Flossie — for thus the twins ■were named — returned to their father's home, they were handsome, bonnie children, and came as veritable sunbeams to brighten the dismal atmosphere of the old Glenrowan mansion. Since the death of his wife Monteith's energies were even more strenuously devoted to money-grasp-ing than in his earlier days, excepting where his children were concerned. Canny Ken held his "killer" fiimer than ever, and

studied, economic arrangements with almost scientific exactitude. Between Ronald and Flossie and the family of Dr FitzJames the closest friendship and affection naturally existed. Nellie FitzJames, the doctor's little daughter, always passed her school vacations with the twins at Glenrowan, and it was on one of these occasions that Monteith learned the life-lesson he was never to forget. He was slowly riding home from his weekly visit to the shire town. He was returning in a particularly morose humour ; owing to advice received of a decline of three halfpence per pound in the price of wool. This was direful news to Monteith. He was roughly calculating j how many hundred pounds' sterling he j would lose on his total clip, and wonder- | ing also what 'extra economies he could | effect among his employees to counter- j balance the loss. As he reached his avenue gate he observed some few yards ahead a swagman going slowly in the direction of the house. Evidently he was in quest of work. The pack and billy strapped to his shoulders and his slow, wearied pace proclaimed him a sundowner. "Stop, mon ! Come here !" shouted Monteith. "What may be your business at Glenrowan?" he asked roughly, as the man approached. '"To ask the boss for work of some kind." "Then yell no get it," answered Monteith curtly. "I am the station owner, and am engaging no fresh hands at the present." Keen disappointment was expressed in the stranger's face. For a moment he was silent. "I would not mind what it was," he urged pleadingly, "if I could only get work for a few weeks. lam not particular — I could turn my hand to almost anything, either with stock or tools." "I would no be eager to employ a man of your kind," returned Monteith testily. "When I engage a man I like to be sure that he is specially fitted for his line of work. I never trust a generally handy one, such as you cay you are. There's nae work J for you at 'Glenrowan, my fellow, so you had 1 better clear off." "I feel completely done up," said the stranger appealingly. "Could I stop tonight in one of your sheds? I'd be very thankful if I could get just a bit of bread and a small billy of tea. I'm quite tramped out " * i "You cannot," shouted Monteith sharply, "get either shelter or food here, j I told you to clear off ; it's not my practice to encourage loafers. As for being fagged out, the township is only two miles farther on. You can easily reach it before nightfall. I tell you, there's no food or shelter for your sort at Glenrowan." J The traveller turned a wide, searching I glance at Monteith — a glance of mingled j surprise and contempt. A feeling of deep ! bitterness surged through him. This was the result of two long days' fruitless tramp, to be ordered off and termed a loafer, where he had only respectfully sought employment. Between the man of vast wealth and possesrions and the needy applicant for work there was indeed a wide gulf. What could Monteith ever know of the dreary aching and exhaustion ; the sorelypressing pain of the homeless, hungry, and despondent tramp? Chilled and embittered, the swagman retraced his steps. | Outside the shady avenue was the hot, j dusty road. Two miles to the village ! Well, thank fate, he had still 5s in his pocket ; he could buy his supper and bed, and also food for some few days. But how his feet were aching ! They were swollen with long walking — he had tramped to Glenrowan so hopeful of getting tvork, and alas ! had met only failure. His feeling of utter weariness prompted him to sit there on the track and rest for half an hour ; but, no — on second thoughts he would still trudge along. 'For more than half a mile his road lay near the meadows of Glenrowan, separated only by a paling fence and trim hedge of hawthorn. The sound of children's laughter and joyous play i'ell on his ears. The twins, Ronald and Flossie, with little Nellie FitzJames, were rambling in the meadows, gathering flowers or chasing butterflies. The strains of their merry, youthful voices recalled distant memories to the mind of the weary tramp. He was st'll coinpaiatively young. To j a retrospective glance his own boyhood did not seem so far away. As h© walked on his thoughts went back to those days when | he also, with merry companions, played in j the summer field*. *~ But those fields were 'neath northern skies, vvhere, surely, hearts were warmer and held more feeling and fellow pity than he had met with in this j Australia. Across the hedge he could see j a fringe of young willow s, skirting the bank of the river. Lower down, v here the stream crossed the roadway, a substantial bridge had been erected. The sight of the Tsater gladdenad the tired swajman ; he' hurried on eagerly, thinking hen rc-ir falling | it would be to place his feet in tho cool j current. The childisn he could still see, though their voices were lost to him ; they ! were further away, chasing the light-winged i insects that led them hither and thither, but nearer and still nearer to the fringing willows. Reaching th? stream, he diank i eagerly, and then sat for rome time with his feet in the cool water. The children had passed from his attention, and all thoughts of the squatter's stern lefu^al were forgotten. Suddenly a piercing cry of "Help ! help ! oh, help, they arc drowning !"' rang out from the meadow. Darting up, he saw with horrified feeling that instead of three children there was only one, who now ran screaming along the bank, ! calling wildly for help. Hastily thi owing j off his coat, he plunged into the stream, j As the hedge-guarded fence was erected to ! the extreme point of the ba.nk, he rightly judged that to take the waterway would prove the quicker method of reaching the children, or, rather, the scene of their accident. After scrambling up the bank again, he had some distance to run before coming to the spot where the frightened girl now stood, crying bitterly, and poinl-

; T ing to the place where her companions had I ( fallen. > "Run !" said the stranger ; "run to the • house as quickly as yon can, and scream i your loudest for help. I will tiy to get L them out. I can dive if it is very deep." < "Flossie fell in first," sobbed Nellie, and '• Ronald jumped in to save her." ! j "Run, child, run as hard as you can," urged the man, and Nellie, n-eeding no s further admonition, started at fullest speed > for the house. ; The eddying bubbles on the surface , showed clearly where the children had gone i down ; but there was a strong underi current, and the stranger feared that the ; bodies might already be washed some yards . farther away. He remembered now, with a feeling of pleasure, the many swimming ; and diving contests he had taken part in during his boyhood. The knowledge and skill then gained gave him hope and confidence in the present -emergency. With a fervent, though unspoken, prayer, that ' Heaven would aid him in' his efforts to save • the children, he plunged in, diving vertically, and touching, but without sucoess, the gravelly bed of the river. Reaching tho surface, he swam a few strokes, and dived again, this time grasjjing the bodies, and di&covering that the hands of each child still held the other closely. It was clear that the drowning girl had clung to her brother with a desperate, death-tight clasp, rendering it impossible for him to save her, and thus both children had' gone helplessly under. It was only by exerting all his strength and skill that he succeeded in gradually raising the bodies and drawing them with I the current a little distance lower down, \ where the depth considerably decreased, j The bed of the river was, fortunately, firm, j but the bank overhung the stream, rising ; to a perpendicular height of mops than ! 2ft. It required the most strenuous effort \ on the part of the stranger (an effort, in ] fact, which was only rendered' possible oy j the excitement under which he laboured) j to lift the children irom the water and place them on the bank. He must attempt it, as no other help had yet arrived, the I homestead being over half a mile away. ! i Thank Heaven, he succeeded, though h.p ; scorce knew how. He had felt exhausted \ before ; now he had reason to rejoice ct , the full return of his strength. He had ". carefully laid the children in, the position which medical authorities state is most helpful to the restoration of the apprii rently drowned, and was bending over them, i doing his utmost to induce, respiration, ' . when a sudden dizziness seized him. He ' j swayed helplessly, feeling, at the same mo- ] I ment, a peculiar taste and strange choking i sensations surging through his throat and j mouth. Before he could raise his hand to , find the cause he had fallen unconscious ' j beside the rescued little on«s. the blood | .slowly oozing from his lips. Happily, Dr \ FitzJiim&s had just chanced to call at Glen- ! . rowan on a visit to the children^ He had j scarce dismounted when his little daughter j was seen running, screaming, towards \ the house. Some of the workmen were j already on the spot when Monteith and j the doctor came, breathless, to the scene, ; followed by the housekeeper and her assistants, bringing with them stretcher and j rugs. No one, of course, could tell exactly how long the children had been in the water, as their brave rescuer lay in&ensible beside them. "Good Heavens, Monteith !" exclaimed \ j the doctor, as he tooL. in all the circum- ! j stances, and felt the feeble pulsations of the unconscious stranger. "This poor fellow has saved your children's lives at great risk to his own ; he is in a critically low 1 state." The doctor's hopeful tone respecting the children had lifted a load of dread and j anxiety from Monteith. He now glanced , at the prostrate man over whom the doc- j tor was bending. As he glanced he stepped j back, amazed and conscious stricken. "Mv ' God!" he cried. "That man— and I—; T " j A 1 'Dc you know him?" asked the doctor, , his attention aroused by Monteith's voice and manner. * ; "It is not," said Monteith — -who had at least the merit of outspoken candour, even though it was self-condemning, — "it* 'is not twa hours since I refused "to give him either work, food, or shelter, and noo he " "And now," continued the doctor as Mon- | fceith's utterance failed him, "'he has volunI iarily risked his life to save your children." | The assistants meantime, under the docj tor's direction, had quickly removed the wet clothing from the children and wrapped them in rugs. This-, together ■Kith tihe friction, rightly applied, had alj ready brought about satisfactory evidence j of respiration. "Now get them to the stretcher quickly , home, and into hot baths. The bearers ' must return at once for this poor fellow," j said the doctor. "His internal injuries are I 1 serious. I-n ill stay with him." j J Monteith himself lifted Flossie, and more than ons tear fill on the child's fair face— j the face which, in its calmness, vpmmded him so vividly of her loved mother. With all possible haste the children were conveyed to the homestead, Monteith going j in advance to procure more carriers and a large stretcher for the injured man. During the interval of waiting, Dr Fitz- , James had given a little stimulant to the unconscious sufferer. The bleeding had ceased, and the stimulant seemed to have a reviving effect. There was a gradual re- i . turn of sensibility, and the patient raistd ' his eyes with a dazed, questioning look to j the doctor's face. ! 1 "Yes, we are doing all we can for you," r j said the doctor cheerfully. "Ah, here j they come. Now, we'll soon gei, you to a comfortable place. Thanks to you, my brave fellow, the children are saved." [ Very gently they lifted him to the , stretcher, where he lay motionless, and , breathing with difficulty, his face white : and deathlike. > Monteith stood at the avenue gate, wait- [ ing there the arrival of the carrying party . As they passed through, the suffering man

again looked up, this time with a strange, bewildered stare. Suddenly his eyes rested on the tall figure of Monteith. No sooner had they done so than the stranger, notwithstanding his weakness, made a resolute effort to raise himself.

"Stop ! stop ! mates," he begged feebly ; "for pity's sake stop ! Put me down," he entreated slowly. "I must walk to the village. There is no food or shelter for tramps here, and I am tired, mates — tired out. I must go. Put me down," he implored pathetically. "Mates, put me down."

Though his utterance was feeble, every word reached Monteith.

"Forgive me, friend, forgive me," he exclaimed in tones of deep remorse. "Let Glenrowan be your home as long as it is mine. My brave and noble fellow, lam your debtor for life. Not twa hours ago," continued Monteith bitterly, but candidlyaccusing himself to those around, "I ordered him off as a loafer."

Before Monteith's words were finished the stranger had again relapsed into unconsciousness. The effect of speaking had brought on a recurrence of hemorrhage, and with it a return of utter weakness and insensibility.

Dr FitzJames shook his head ominously. His professional eye recognised that the brave young rescuer was rapidly passing beyond the reach of human skill.

"Let us get him in as quickly as possible," he said.

_ Monteith led the way through the wide, richly-furnished hall into the gue^t chamber.

"Bring him in here," he ordered; "and, doctor, I implore you to do all that is possible. I will send for any other medical man you name, and for nurses too : only bring him back to health."

"It is useless— useless," replied the doctor sadly. "The poor fellow is sinking now. Besides other severe internal strain he has ruptured a blood-vessel. That, added to heart weakness, produced by exhaustion, leaves us no margin of hope." Outside the last rays of sunset were casting their mingled shadows. The reflection of softly blending gold and grey gleamed through the large window, and fell on the pillow of the dying man, lighting up every feature of the stil, white face, above which the damp yet curling brown hair clustered so thickly. Suddenly there came a faint convulsion, a slight quivering of the frame, a gasping for breath. It was only momentary. The lips relaxed in a strange, sweet smile, and the eyes lifted widely, with a wondrous brightness in their gaze. Just as suddenly they closed — never again to open, as death's ashen hue spread its fixed calmness over the features.

Thus, ere one question had been asked or answered as to who he was or whence he came, the stranger's spirit had passed into the voiceless depths of the eternal. Monteith had watched unremittingly beside the bed. Dr FitzJames had left the room at intervals to ace how the children were progressm-. Happily, they were fast recovering from the effects of their immersion. He had just returned to the chamber of the dying man when the end came. There Monteith still sat, his lips tightly drawn, his face haggard and grey-look-ing.

"Poor, brave fellow," said the doctor, deeply moved. "It is all over now."

Monteith rose. He leaned across the bed. Slowly, reverently, he placed his hand on the lifeless forehead. "Never again." he said solemnly, as his hand rested on the placid brow — "never again will a refusal pass my lips to any fellowcreature who may a&k assistance. So. hear me, God !" he added impressively, while tears of grief and self-reproach glistened 'neath his eyelids, and his tail figure swayed with emotion.

"Yes," said the doctor, taking his arm and gently leadin ghim away, "let the future make ?ome atonement for the past."

In Monteith's family vault there is a tombstone covering the grave of the stranger, and ben ring on it the story of his self-sacrincising heroism.

As the twins grew up, they evinced more and more die gentle, winsome disposition of their mother, and in his affection foi them Monteith realised each day with increasing force the lasting debt of gratitude to the unknown swagman, who, though considered only a tramp, had proved a hero.

Many 'have been the thoughtful and benevolent actions since performed by Monteith, not merely in" his own district, but extending for beyond. These actions are performed in the quietest manner — often, in fact, anonymously ; the recipients little dreaming that the pssistance so opportunely received is a silent but sincere testimony of Monteith's l'epentance.