TILLY ADAMS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue VII, 14 February 1903, Page 470

TILLY ADAMS.

A SKETCH OF NEW ZEALAND LIFE.

By

CLEMENT KIRKBY.

Though it was a dull winter evening, with lowering clouds sending forth sweeping showers of rain every few minutes, the little Kaipara township was in a fever of excitement compared with the placid stagnation of its everyday existence. This was on account of the Oddfellows’ monthly dance being in full swing at the social hall of the district. All the dancing boys and girls were there from miles round, “taking the flure” with light hearts and light feet. Geoffrey Armitage leaned against the open doorway looking in at the gyrating forms, watching them moodily, with deep despondency in his heart. lie was a tall, fine looking young fellow, a gentleman born, one could see, though his clothes were shabby, and his handsome face was deeply tanned with the sun. His toil-worn hands showed the severity of his calling, which was that of a gum digger. He had that day ridden in from his distant gumfield, sold his scanty harvest, and to show his disgust at the small sum received had resolved to remain in the township till he had, as he expressed it, “blued the lot.” As he looked round the dingy room, with its evil-smelling kerosene lamps and tawdry decorations, a vision of the dainty ballroom in the old house at Home “floated in the river of his thoughts,” and for a few moments shame and remorse tugged at his heart. He revolted at the life his own reckless folly- had led him to. What a loathsome, horrible dream it all appeared to be. How was he to endure this life that after all was his own choice? Bahl he was only one of the many “black sheep” that drag out an existence on the dreary gumfields of New Zealand, cursed with the “curse of Reuben” till their lives’ end.

A voice broke in upon his musings, a racy, Irish voice, that of his chum, Desmond O’Hara, who had been helping him to sample the fusil oil and whisky mixture in the hotel over the way. “Faith, Jeff, it’s a fine lot of girls they are! An’ most of them crossed that foaming creek w'e passed this morning where we were bogged. Many a time I’ve seen them skipping like leprehauns over the stepping stones by the light of a twinkling lantern. Jerusalem! can’t that girl dance!” “Which girl! Dash it! you are always talking about girls, Des,” said his friend. “Begorra! I keep up the honour of my country, ye miserable Saxon. Man alive! look at that girl there; a look won’t blast you, but do your eyesight good. The red-headed one, Jeff. By my sowle, she’s a feather-weight!” Geofrey looked slowly' in the direction indicated by his excitable friend and said: “An every-day country girl. Still she is graceful. But,Desmond, most New Zealand girls can dance. Look at the Maoris.” “• >h, comparisons are odorous, Airs Malaprop says, but it’s a pleasure to look at her. She is a daisy'.” The girl in question was good to look at. Commonplace her face was, with a wide mouth, a turned up nose, and a red head; but her blue eyes were shining like stars, and her lissom figure iloated light as thistle down round the room. Her partner has a gossamer fairy- to deal with. You wouldn’t expect to find such a jewel in this place—the last the Almighty made. By' the powers! who is she, at all, at all?”

The dance came to an end, and Desmond O’Hara clutched a flying committeeman. “Please. Mr M.C., would you be so kind as to tell me who that young lady is? The one with the blue dress and the red —oh, murder! the auburn hair.”

The perspiring master of ceremonies looked surprised. “Don’t you know Tilly Adams when you sec her?” “Bedad my’ education’s been neglected, for I don’t. Who is Tilly Adams, that I should know her? Does she eome from the County Limerick?” “Well, her people keep the pub. over the road. But Tilly’s a bit of a charaoter in her way. Everyone on the Kaipara knows Tilly.” “ ’Twas her dancing attracted me,” ■aid Desmond.

“That’s nothing; it’s her riding. She rides like the devil. She’s a holy terror in the saddle. There ain’t a horse on the Kaipara that she won’t tackle. Though she’s only a kid, even the most vicious Maori weed has to knuckle down to Tilly. “She must be rather sudden ■” “You bet your bottom dollar. She hunts, rides races, went to Auckland last year, and ran away with most of the ladies’ prizes for contests at the Agricultural Show, has had the pluck to apply for a jockey’s license to ride at Ellerslie racecourse this season.” “Of course they refused her!” said Jeff. “Oh, yes, they had to, but my oath, she’s as fit as any jockey there; she tackled a pony as soon as her chubby hands could hold him. The saddling bell on race days was her favourite musie; since she could speak she has spent most of her life on horseback.” Here his tirade was interrupted by a square dance being announced, and away he rushed to attend to his duties. Geoffrey looked with slightly awakening interest for a while at the slim girl who was now floating in a figure of the lancers, and then, linking his arm in his Celtic friend’s, dragged him out of the building and across the road to the hotel, where they soon renewed their acquaintance with the flaming whisky and went to bed rather early, feeling slightly mixed. Jeff thought it must be time to get up when he was awakened by the next room door opening and shutting, and a querulous sleepy voice saying:

“Tilly, how late you are; everything in the house has been wrong without you. A lot of racing men came —wanted you—of course you knew they were coming.” ‘•'Don’t T>e cross, mother.” “Ah, well, they didn’t stop, as you were away. Did you see after the people’s rooms who were at the dance?” “Yes.” “Some gumdiggers came. I didn’t know where to put them when you were away. Go to bed, Tilly, don’t forget to call the girls up early.” “How is Shamrock, mother?” “Better, Fred said. See to him when you get up.” “There’s no ned to tell me that, ma. Shamrock is a pet. Good-night.” A soft, sleepy sigh, and then silence, and Geoffrey dozed off into dreamland again. Dim morning breaks, and once more Tilly’s voice is heard calling “Mary” and “Ada” and Jim,” while Jeff groans in spirit as he realises his aching head. “Confound the red-headed imp,” he mutters. “She runs the infernal show.” Later, when he rises (induced thereto by Desmond pulling him out of bed), as he brushes his hair vigorously, he happens to glance cut of the window, and there was Tilly again, but what a change! Her boots were unlaced and dirty, her ragged frock plastered with mud, a battered felt hat hid her face; but for a coil of red hair that fell to her waist, he would never have thought this was the dainty girl who had danced so gracefully last night. She stood up to her ankles in mud, with her arm across a blanketed horse—■ with her head against his shoulder she was coaxing him to drink at a trough close by. Geoffrey dropped the brush, and swung himself down the stairs to the bar. Here all was chaos, a dirty barman with unwashed glasses from the night before all around him, while the floor was being scrubbed by a brigandish-look-ing fellow in dungaree pants and a ragged shirt—a most uninviting place, but the young men wanted a spree, and any place was good enough so long as it sold the drink.

Days flew by, and their pockets grew light, but still they remained. A spirit more potent than bad whisky was at work, with Jeff the elixir of love, for Tilly’s bright eyes have taken him captive. The day after their arrival Tilly’s hunter Shamrock died. In the first shock of her grief she took no interest in anything (not even her horsey friends), but slouched round the house with swollen dyes and tired, listless feet. “I do believe,” her mother said, “Tilly would grieve less for my death than she does for that cranky little horse. She never took no interest in women’s amusements in her life, but now she is terrible broke up.” Geoffrey, however, by a few whispered words spoken at intervals, contrived to assure her Or his sympathy. One morning the “ronscabout” of the hotel came into the bar where Tilly was sitting with a pensive look on her face. “Miss Tilly, come out in the paddock,

there’s such a surprise there for you—” he paused, breathless. Tilly glaueed at him with lack-lustre eyes. “For me?” said she languidly. “For you —hurry up!” She slowly followed him, and saw a very game-looking little chestnut horse held by a boy, who on her arrival handed her an unsealed note. She opened it, and read: “Dear Tilly,— “I send you a present yon will like, this little gee-gee. He is the fastest little beggar on the Kaipara. Seems to me you’ve been looking peakey since Shamrock died. In return, let me see the same light in your eyes and colour in your cheeks that I did the first time I saw you, and no one will be better pleased than—Jeff.” Her face brightened as she looked at her present. Little did she know how the donor had cleared his pockets over the transaction. She laid her hand on the aninlal’s shining head. “ ’Twould be real mean to say I’d no use for him,” she said. “There ain’t no flies on him.” Then to the boy: “Mr Armitage is real good ” “Ain’t he a daisy, Till ?” said her brother Jack, who was standing by. “What will you call him? After the old un?” “Not Shamrock,” she said, with a quiver in her voice. “I couldn’t, but ” —a pause —“Erin.” Then, with a leap, she was astride on his back, and seizing the reins, with a touch of her knees, was off like the wind.

“No frills about Tilly,” said Jaek, delightedly. “She’s herself again. Ain’t she got ’ands?” When Armitage returned a short time after he was met by Mrs Adams with a beaming smile. “Oh, Mr Armitage, you’ve worked a miracle. The kid looks better already. Now, she says, she’ll sail in and train ” “Train? What for?” he asked. “To ride at Wolfe’s cireus. A handsome prize is offered for a hurdle race.” Geoffrey looked his disgust. “To ride in a eircus! Aren’t you afraid she’ll break her neek?” For answer Mrs Adams took him by the arm and drew him to the open door. “Look!” said she; “hurdle-raeing is a song and dance to that kid.” There was conscious pride in her voice, and, following her pointing finger, he obeyed, and saw Tilly galloping quickly towards the house. “She does indeed ride like the devil,” he thought. Her hair was standing on end, like flames, her limpid eyes were shining, and the glowing colour had returned to her pale cheeks. With a cry of pleasure she threw herself from the saddle, and shook hands vigorously with Armitage. “Thank you so much. Erin has made a new girl of me,” she says. Then, linking her arm in his, they go into the spacious dining-room together. “Is it true, Tilly, you are thinking of riding at Wolfe’s?” “Yes, I think I will. Wolfe says it’s a cake-walk for me. I don’t think it’s bluff, either,” she said, as they seated themselves in a corner of the deserted room. “But, Tilly ” “Now, don’t try to put me off, Jeff. The prim young lady is not in my line. I was born with a dash of the jockey in me. To me riding is as easy as falling off a log.” “Do you know, Tilly,” he said, “I want to ask you if you could ever care enough for me to give up this horseracing for my sake—to marry me and settle down? You do care for me, little girl?” “You know I like you, Jeff. But, still, you’re asking me to give up what’s the very life of me. I couldn’t give up riding altogether if His Majesty himself asked me. I never thought you cared about me like that.” “I was so poor,” he answered; “only a gumdigger. I was a black sheep at home, and my people fired me out, but they are relenting—now they writs hinting for me to return. You Sever answered iny question. Will you have me, dear ?” Sl’.e looked at him gravely, and said shyly: “First, I must ride this time. I have a good show to win. After that, perhaps. But, still, I hope they will never forgive you at home. What would your folks think if you brought home a young savage like me? Unsexed, the girls about here say I am. I can’t play or sing, or” —with a grimace — “do

drawn thread work. Jeff, think it over well. I love you, but I can only ride. I am as wild as a colt.** ‘‘But it’s a hunting shire where my; home is; you would shine,” Geoffrey said, kissing her pink cheek, and drawing her face close to his own. ‘‘l wish I was different for your sake, Jeff.” “WeU, if you must ride, Tilly, I suppose you must. I will go back to the camp in the morning. 11l write every day. When does this contest come off?” “The week after next. I’ll have-lots of time.” “As you are so set on it, I hope you’ll win, kiddie. But we’ll arrange matters when it’s over.” ‘Aly saddle girth broke just as I got to the last hurdle, hut I threw the saddle away and won easy. Wasn’t that rippin’?” Thus spoke the pretty horsebreaker to the assembled company in the bar at Adams’ Hotel. “Wolfe is dead gone on me. Said he’d give me a shop any day.” Sirs Adams looked amazed. “A shop,” she repeated. “Yes, mother —a billet. Wolfe is the boss. He runs the show. Look at my prize, a gold hunting watch. Where is Jeff? I thought he’d be here. I thought he’d be anxious to know how I made them sit up. I’m the j oiliest girl in New Zealand this blessed minute ” In like a tornado rushed her brother Jack. “A letter for you, Till. What a bonsing watch. Tilly, you’re a daisy. You can give them points when you blarmed well like.” His sister pocketed her letter with a blush — she knew the writing by this—then continued her conversation. “Queer cus, that Jeff,” said Jack presently, in a lull in the “horsey” dialogue. “He is a changeable beggar. He has given up his whare and gumdigging—gone home to inherit his landed estate. Bally old Ananias, I’m thinking.” A cold dew broke out on Tilly’s forehead as she listened. Could he have changed his mind? She grew distrait and silent, and as soon as possible slipped away to Erins stable, and, seating herself on the edge of the manger, opened her letter. This is what, with beating heart, she read: “Dear Tilly,—A letter from Home this morning has made me think seriously over our last conversation. They offer me forgiveness, the fatted calf, and all the rest of it. If I go back and face the music in the old land, I must go alone. I am a coward, and unstable to the end. The longing for home and my broad acres is too strong for me. I’m ashamed of myself, Tilly, though I care for you, I am weak. You could not help putting your first love between us, and thpugh it was only a horse, it has parted us. Good-bye. I am mean, I know; but in spite of my cowardice, I’m honest enough to own I’m not worthy of your true heart.—Geoffrey.”

As the letter dropped from Tilly’s hand, she leaned forward, and, pressing her face against Erin’s sleek shoulder, she battled with the knowledge that Geoffrey had, as she expressed jt, “slipped her up.” ,

In Auckland a year after, at the grand opening of Wolfe’s circus, on Boxing night, a “jockey act” by “La petite Tilburina” was recalled again and again, till breathless and exhausted the performer retired. First, a shining black mare had galloped, into the ring, followed by a Dresden china looking jockey, who from the centre of the building with one mad leap landed upon the horse’s back, and then, with folded arms, remained proudly erect while the beautiful steed tore round the ring. The “jockey act” done by a woman! It was the first time the sensation had. been attempted by one zt tlie gentler sex in New Zealand, and the applause rang Out. tumultuously. As the beautiful and daring girl essayed trick after trick it swelled into a furore. Then, with beaming smile and self-satisfied toss of her flaming head, she kissed her hands effusively to her audience as she rode out. Yes, Tilly had abided by her choice. Her worship of the fickle Jeff had been short and not sweet. Now the dream was forgotten, and with a brave horse under her, Tilly was herself again, with the courage and resolution of a brave man hidden in the breast of an apparently reckless devil-may-care slip of a girl.