Tom Gerrard. Becke Louis
hands together and said the Lord's Prayer, and then paused.
“Shall I say the extrack?”
“The extrack?”
“Yes, the extrack from the Catechism. Aunt Elizabeth composed some of it.”
“Oh! she composed some of it, did she? Yes, by all means say 'the extract.'”
The child closed her eyes again, and began very slowly:
“'Before I slumber, O Lord, I comment myself to Thy care and protection, however unworthy and thoughtless my conduct has been during the day now closed.'” (“That's Aunt Elizabeth,” muttered Gerrard under his breath.) “'I will try hard to hasten my rebellious spirit—no not hasten, but chasten—I always say that wrong, Uncle Tom—to reverently submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters: to regulate my conduc', and demean myself with all humility; to keep my hands from picking and stealing, to recollect that I may be called this night before, Thee to answer for my many sins and transgressions.' That's all Uncle Tom.”
Gerrard listened with the utmost gravity.
“That's all right, Mary; but I think it is a bit too long a prayer for very little girls. Now, by and by, I'll teach you a new prayer.”
“A new prayer! Oh, that will be nice! Sometimes Uncle Westonley let's me pray for Bunny.”
“Who is Bunny?”
“My native bear. I'll show him to you to-morrow. You see, when Uncle Westonley comes to see me at night, after Aunt Elizabeth has heard me say the Lord's Prayer, and the extrack, he lets me pray for Bunny because he is full of ticks, and Jim says hell die. I say 'dear God, don't let Bunny die, freshen and preserve him in Thy sight, and make him whole.' I got that out of a book, and Uncle Westonley says it will do very nicely.”
“Couldn't be better, little woman. I think it's a grand prayer.”
“But, Uncle Tom, Bunny has been sicker an' sicker, and won't eat anything but the very youngest, weeniest gum leaves, and Aunt Elizabeth says he's a hideous little beast. And Jim and me love him to death.”
“Don't worry about what Aunt Elizabeth says,” and Gerrard bent down and kissed her. “I'll try and cure Bunny for you. I know a heap of things about native bears and ticks, and know exactly what to do.”
The child smiled delightedly into his face,* “Oh! Uncle Tom, you are as kind as Uncle Westonley, good-night.”
“Good-night, little woman,” and then the man laid himself down upon the sandy ground beside her, with a certain resolve in his mind.
At six o'clock in the morning, he rode up to Marumbah Station with little Mary held in front of him. Mrs. Westonley, pale-faced, austere, and much agitated, met him as he dismounted.
“Oh, dear, Thomas! Just fancy you finding the child and bringing her home! I sent out Toby, the black boy, to look for her, and I suppose he is looking for her still—the naughty——”
“That's all right, Lizzie, don't get into a fluster,” said Gerrard placidly, as he dismounted and kissed his sister, “Toby did find her—that is, he found her and me comfortably camped for the night. He's coming along presently with my packhorse.”
Mrs. Westonley turned angrily upon the child, and was about to deliver a lecture, when her brother placed his hand upon her arm and drew her aside.
“Look here, Lizzie, I'm your guest, and I'm also your brother; but if you bully that unfortunate youngster, I'll just get into my saddle again, and ride off without putting my foot over your threshold.”
Mrs. Westonley's pale, clear-cut face flushed deeply. “I never expected such a remark as this from you, Thomas.”
“And I never expected that you would have treated your own sister's child as you have done,” was the stern reply; “I found her five miles from here, wandering alone. Have you no love or sympathy in your heart, or compassion for children, because you have none yourself?” and the grey eyes flashed.
Mrs. Westonley gazed at him in astonishment, and twined her hands together in mingled anger and fear that this brother—fifteen years younger than herself—should so dare to speak to her.
“The child is a great trial——”
“Aye, an 'incubus,' you call her, the poor little mite. But I hardly thought you read novels.”
“I read novels! Never! What do you mean?”
Gerrard drew her inside the house, and patted her cheek, ready to forgive.
“Oh, I did read a book somewhere about a stepmother or an aunt or something of the kind, who was always talking about some unfortunate child committed to her care, as an 'incubus.' Now, that's all I have to say. I love the kid already. She has Mary's eyes and Mary's voice, and, if you don't want her I do. When will breakfast be ready, old girl?”
“Eight o'clock,” said Mrs. Westonley faintly, wondering if she were awake or dreaming. Who but this handsome, sunburnt brother would dare to lecture her, and then wind up by addressing her as “old girl”!
CHAPTER II
When Captain Richard Gerrard—the father of Mrs. Westonley—came to Australia from India, he first settled in Gippsland, in Victoria. A retired military man, with ample means, he devoted himself successfully to pastoral pursuits, and soon took a leading part in the advancement of the colony. He had married the daughter of an English chaplain, by whom he had but one child—Elizabeth—and when she was but an infant of two years of age, Mrs. Gerrard died. For thirteen years her husband remained faithful to her memory, and then did what all his neighbours regarded as a very sensible thing—he married the daughter of a neighbouring squatter, and sent his child to England to be educated. His second wife was a beautiful, vigorous, and well-trained woman, mentally and physically, and although her parents were English, she was a native of the colony, and, naturally enough, took the deepest interest in all that concerned the station, the advancement of her husband's interests, and the colony in which she was born. Two children were born to them, a twin son and daughter, and as time went on, Captain Gerrard's station became one of the best in Victoria, and the “R over G” brand of cattle brought “top” prices in the Melbourne market.
After completing her education in England, Elizabeth Gerrard returned to Australia. She was a remarkably handsome girl, but cold, even to chilliness, in her manner, especially to her step-mother, for she had much resented her father's second marriage. The six years she had spent in England seemed to have entirely changed her character and disposition, and when soon after her return, Edward Westonley, a young squatter, who was the owner of Marumbah Downs, fell violently in love with her pink and white beauty, and she accepted him, even her father, although he loved her—was secretly pleased.
Marumbah Downs was over a hundred miles from Captain Gerrard's station, and there Westonley took his bride. He was a cheerful, somewhat careless man, very “horsey” in his tastes, and fond of good company. Both his father-in-law and Mrs. Gerrard liked him greatly, and the two children by the second marriage, Tom and Mary, gave him their affection the first time they saw him.
The boy Tom grew up like most Australian-born boys of his class of life and surroundings, and before he was twenty years of age, was managing one of his father's stations in Queensland, and managing it prosperously. Soon after he had taken charge, he heard from his father that his twin sister Mary was to be married to a local medical man—a Doctor Rayner, who had been her steady admirer since she was a girl of fifteen.
“It will be a very happy union,” wrote Captain Gerrard to his son, “of that I am certain, and although he's too