"GOLDEN-NED."

Wairarapa Daily Times, Volume 4, Issue 1245, 2 December 1882, Page 2 (Supplement)

"GOLDEN-NED."

By" WW : '

The .over,arid ! the Christmas holidays had come and gono, In the clear light of a summer moon, the wooded hillside and the forest trees, the grassy slopes and -the .simmering,;Campaspe' River' lay ;befor,e us in a sweetness,of the most porfect calm and peacefulness that not the most beautiful landscape' can-wear, save in the. spiritualising light of a summer :moon.; I had strolled down to my neighbor's homestead; wherq indeed it was-almost my nightly .custom to stroll, and on his verandah we two. sat and smoked almost silence, A word or two or a sentence or ; two we had indeed exchanged a? to, the utility ; of break: ing up a bit of a, fallow, and ;as to what would-be the best crop io lead with in it, .but it was evident that John- Annersly's mind was not occupied with his or my farm. I had never seenJiim so abstracted during our ten years'acquaintance, ■My own thoughts were inclined to be of a meleanchply cast too, The night was so still that one could hear the rustle of a leaf, .and now then the. cautions, 'I sweesh" of a 'possum; but ever ail;anon.far pleasanter sounds reached us—the sound of merry children's voices^—from the; interior of the house; John Annersly's little ones, whom the busy and hfippy,mother was putting to bed, '

"If I, had married it might have been with me like that," I thought sadly; "1 might have felt little -clasping; arms around my neck, and heard sweet childish voices greeting me whon I came in from the field or the barn; but that-blessing is:not mine," for you see I was an.old bachelor,: , J, turned, my.,eyes'towards Annersly to' think, asl had always thought, what a grand' face he had and how full of, sweetness, and yet strength of . mind , was in every expressive line of his good countenance, John was, I daresay,' fifty, and his great beard was already thickly: grizzled, but his powerful frame was iu the very zenith of its strength, and I am surethat a stronger,mind .than my friend John's did not exist within a circuit of many hundreds,of miles. .

■ On this particular night, however,' thera, was a strange unusual melancholy ih.his face, - as it slightly bent and ■ caught a flood of moonlight from, under the vine leavesf of litho verandah, and his sad eyes rested on the distant ranges of Krewong. :"You are .silent , to-night, my friend,". I isaid at last. "I hope .there is nothing troubling you that I-may not know?" : . John took the pipe .from his • mouth ,aud' laid it on the bench beside him, There was

a rtpepW" panlso ere Replied for Mneijsly was a,thoughtful! and'npt'atimpul. siveman, When ke did'-s'peak itvwas witii a quick-decision as he turned tome. jj- " JariSen, old mate, I have beeirdreamlng of a far-baok-paafc-with•whioh you- have no-, thing to do. This ismi anniversary, and one moonlight as this is, Well, 1 have been con< sidering a-strange impulso'to visit the 1 scene of a .great former trouble, and I. have' determined to,gol ; Will you'como with me, my friend?" • ," 1 '

" You need hot ask the qiieabion, John, for you know, I will go where you please. Where are we to go? " Beyond Krewong," he replied, as he poihted'to the far-off'hills, 1 "You often wished you had been in the country soon enough to have seen the diggings. Well,, t.we will go.to the.placo.where I got the gold, \that.bonght:my.landj. and made .a house for my good wife and my dear ohildren. If. you ' have not seen a ■ living diggings, you shall! at least look upon a dead one." ' ■" It will be well, my friend," I answered.' ;" We can afford a holiday now," John continued; "the harvest is over; a plentiful one it- has been, all thanks to the Giver of all good-gifts," and the speaker- lifted his.hat lightly from his ample head, with its silverlined hair.' " There is no work pressing, and we can afford a week's - holiday. We shall go oil horseback and carry our swags, and camp out as in the old days, and I shall fancy •I am young again, and that I am going to Bee my brother: Ned." , I had :never heard Annersly allude to a brother .before,.but I noted a tremor in his voice as: he spoke the words, so l did not question him, A true friendship does not use the probe of the surgeon, but avails the moment, when the soothing balirimay be applied .to a wound,

i.' So.it was settled asJohn wished, and our trip seemed to me a long dream of enjoyment, ,-I-had come straight from' our dear "Vat orland "-Germany-to the land I had bought, and lived onto this day, and had. seen no- ' thing of the pleasant Arcadian life to which my:friend now introduced me,; < To.ride quietly along in the dewy morning when the' warm sun was only an yet beginning to steal along the tops of the. great tree? t to. listen in ,a,silent,raptureof enjoyment to the magpie's gurgling throatful of liquid song, as he staked among ,the, dewy grass or, hopped along the fallen tree; to mark the bright wings of-gay parrots flitting to-and fro among the arohing green of ,the branches over our hetids; to see the gleaming, creek as it .sparkled-under the newly arisen sun-rays, and inhale the odor of' newly baptised leaves and flowers and grass -surely all, this was a happiness to be remembered for the remainder of. a lifetime, even though it might never- be enjoyed again. And then at noon, when, having ridden ; many miles, we alighted near some clear, shadowed waterhole, and unsaddled our horses under the leafy shade of some monarch tree, how pleasant it was to unstrap our "swags" and make our tea, after the gathered leaves and dry sticks had boiled the " billyhow delightful when our meal was over, to lie on the grass and smoke our pipes, with the still branches over our heads, with the. blue patches of sky here and there peeping between the leaves; that was the pleasantest hour of the twenty-four to me; for, to tell you the truth, the nights we spent in the lonely forest with our blankets around us, and our saddles for pillows, were too weird and unearthly seeming to my unaccustomed senses,

It seemed awful to me to he alone in a great land, as it were, Tho pale stars that gleamed steadily through the dark branches of the tree under which we lay, the lonelysounding whisper of leaves' rustling in the warm night breeze, or the monotone of a distant mopoke, made the nights tho least enjoyable to me, It was not that my pillow of a saddle was hard, or that the grass from which my blanket alone separated me was an unaccustomed bed; it was the overpowering sense of an litter loneliness that made me so glad to welcome the "gladsome morning light. We reached our destination early in the, afternoon of the third day. The bush track that had led to it had grown so indistinct that I alone could never have traced it; but my friend knew every foot of the country, and the'rocks and old watercourses and great hills were as. so many landmarks to- point and dircot his way. At last he. turned, his horse towards' a mass of granite boulders that lay on a slight incline of grassy land, with old and young trees scattered among and around their grey Bides, and then he drew bridle and spoke. "This- is the spot, Jansen," he said ; " and there is the deserted diggings Mat was once callctf Bald Hill," He-pointed toward a long lino of upturned heaps of earth, so ' noarly.. covered with the vegetation of long years that it was only here and there that a bare patch of a whitish soil remained to tell of the labor of old, Over the mouths of the holes, too, from whence had been unearthed the hidden gold of ages, the long grass and young saplings clustered, and here and there the Sun gleamed on the water that filled some old excavation to the brim,

"Yes, my friend," John continued as wo alighted,those were once.the Bald.Hill diggings, and horo. where my feet are placed once stood our tent," I did .not answer him, for I saw that old memories were busy within the bosom of my friend; but as I turned to unsaddlo my horse I saw that we were not alone, for a gentleman; was lying on the grass at one side of a great rook,' with his olbow resting on a folded rug, and head resting on his hand, Ho appeared to have been startled by our approach, or perhaps by the sound of John's voice, for he started to his feet and stared first at John and then at me,

" I am afraid we have startled you, sir," I said to draw my friend's attention. .

• " I think I was dozing," he replied with a smile, "and it was Buch an unexpected event to meet human beings in this deserted spot that I was a little startled," ■ While he was speaking I was observing his appearanco. Ho seemed to bo a man of about forty, with a handsome sun-burned face, half covered with a heavy beard of a light brown color, His eyes were blue' and soft in expression, but nothing more of his face could be seen, for he wore a deep-brim-med summer hat, with .a white puggaree, twined around it, ■ His attire of light tweed setoff a tall and wbll-formed figure, .which years had not yet destroyed with any approach to corpulence, " A gentleman, evidently" was my mental conclusion, "and. one of means," for the horse he had ridden, and which was'cropping the grass at a little distance, was. a thoroughbred, and worth scores of pounds,

I saw that this stranger to us was closely scanning my friend John, and his next words explained the reason, "I gathered from the few. words I ever heard just now that you were on these diggings when they were in their prime, Was I mistaken, my good friend ?" "No, sir, you were not, "John replied, as ho deposited his saddle on the erassi" "I was here in '55, and was just telling Jansen that on this spot stood our tent. In truth, I have come on a sort of pilgrimage, for I felt a strange longing to look again on the old spot." "What a strange coincidence," the stem*, ger.said, as ho seated himself in the shadow of the boulder; "it was something,of-the same feeling that' brought the here to-day. I also was a digger on' Bald Hill in'ss." '■ John turned suddenly to the speaker with a melancholy pleasure in his good face. "Is ■it possible; sir?" he asked. "Do you remember Anything of the Annerslys? They were brothers and were tented here,"'.

i "I remember them well,'though I was not to say personally acquainted, I worked at

ho upper eni tjf the You jure the' elder, I think; thougli you are niuoh changed!"- " Twenty years' must, change any man, my dear sir," John said quibtly, as ho began to produce our lunoh from the swags, 7 -" and I doubt if,tho friends who knew you then would, recogniso you now. 11 \; is'trud, they would not."' I could have fancied from the huskiness withwhioh these few words were spoken that, the .stranger's eyes were dim; but I qould not sob his foj the broad hat'wto'j drioped between him and' tlie hot auri, '

"Do you - remember the'. younger 1 Annersly I" my friend' asked in a brokeh ' tone of voice," as he bent his eyes to the grass at his feet;; Golden Ned'. they used 1 to call .hirii?" . "I remember him well." And his sad fate

; The stranger hesitated. "Ithinkj must have lift before anything remarkable ■ happened," he replied at length. "To what'fate do you'allude ? He.was a rather odd fellow; washenotFTmeanQoldenNed.", ' , " He was one of the best fellows that . ever drewaGod-'given breath,"cned ! John, : "You knew little of my brother; sir, : or you would not think him anything but one of- the best and most intelligent lado ttiat ever blessed a mother's life and warmed a brother's heart I"

"I beg your pardon; I didnot meaffmy' words to imply anything but a boy's eccentricity," "I was too quick," my friend said in a subdued tone, "I should have 'recollected that no one could'possibly know Ned, 1 my : brother, as I knew him," , - ' .The stranger gentleman shared bur lunch,' and then we all three smoked in an apparently drowsy silence, That the drowsiness was, howevet, only apparent on the" part.'of 1 my two companions was evident to 'nib; I had lived a very quiet lifej and had.-a Ways been a. olose observer. A man who (locs uot 1 use his tongue much is almost certain to make a' double uae'of'his eyes arid ears.., : . So I observed that John'B eyes were wanderihg over every spot of the old lead'ahd up among the boulders to our right, while the 1 stranger's gaze scarcely evor left niy friend's countenance, I' did not wonder at that at all, for I have iiat for hours and watched' my' friend's face,; There was something'so.strorig' 'and grand ill it that apportion of its owh'good-1 ness seemed' to infuse itself'-into me as|l watched.' : ' i Once John gotu'p and stood'on the orest of : the rise behind 1 the rocks: he stood theye looking at something wo could not see,, arid; 1 then came back and reseated himself near us under the shadow.of the rock. !

t , "I promised .to tell my friend Jansc'n tile story of my young brother's lost life," ; lje began at last, " and to -'tell it to him on this spot, which was his last dwelling place on earth,' There was his bunk, here stood minb. I can almost fancy I can see the grass greener where the posts were; and it may bo so, for the decayed wood may have proved a rich manure,"

"And so you, sir, knew my brother;" John continued. "I do not mind your hearing the story of his short life;. there was not' in it one action lie' could blush to hear if he were alive and seated by my side at this moHe was the youngest, of four boys, and his mother's darling; but ut mother must' sooner or later occupy a second place in tho heart of even the most faithful'son." It was so in the case of our Ned, Before he was nineteen he was so devotedly attached to a fair girl that all the innate strength of his character was as instantly developed as you have seen a convolvulus unfold its fair heart to the first warm rays of morning, The girl's parents set their faces against our Ned, and indeed it seemed a'folly —perfect love between a maiden of sixteen and a 1 youth of scarce three years older; it would not have seemed so to them, doubtlesi, had our Ned been rich; but his only wealth was his youth and his purity of mind and heart; what did these weigh in the. r jscale where 'the weights were of-'gold and studded precious stones ? " Hitherto our Ned had been a joyous an|d happy lad, Now, all at once, he became a serious, sober man! 1 1 will go to Australia: 1 he said at once, 1 1 am a gentleman by birth and education; they canuot refuse mo Amja when I am richand his purpose never once wavered, ' | '

, "Of course I came with him to this lanjd of .his hopes and of gold, I bad always been our Ned's close friend, as the brother nearest his own age, and I could not dream of lettirjg the lad face the long, journey and the unknown life alotie, I was more 'than.five years his senior, too, and might hope to advise andihelp, when' advice and help were necessary, ' " Wo camo, and began our search for gojd on Barker's Creek, and when that diggitjg was worked out went to Oreswick. : Oneveijy gold field my young brother prospered, and I also because of him, This unvarying luck gained him the soubriquet of ' Golden Nedi,' and wherever- Ned stuck his pick into virgin soil the ground was rushed by miners, eag&r to share his certain success; but it was at Bald Hill, that we prospered,most, ! " Yon see that pile of stony stuff, on aliije between this and the top of that lightningriven tree? That that was our claim, Jansen. Do you remember .it?"' John had asked the question of the stranger, ] "I remember well," the gentlemen replidd' in a low voice. i

"And the men who worked the next claim?" ; 1 ."Sandes and Stokers," j "It was, I see your memory is as faithful as my own, sir. Well, here it Was thit we were so successful as to warrant my 1 brother iu returning home to ask for tl|e hautl of the girl he loved. 1 "In one thing alone had our Neil andjl ever disagreed- 1 -alas I that we had disagreed in that—he would neither sell his gold nor trust it to the escort. There were no banlis in those days, and the poor lad was so terrified at the idea of losing the. price of his darling's hand that he would hot part from his shining metal, but hid it away in secret' places of the locality, of which even I, his brother, was in ignorance. That unhappy determination was the ruin of our 'Golden Ned's' future.

Everything was prepared; wewere leay- : ing for England on' the 1 following morning, How well I can recall it all 1 The very faces of the friendly miners, as they came arouijd and cheered us as we left our claim 'for 'the last time, appear so near to my mental eye that I feel as if they were yet .before 'me, One face has haunted me since, but it was not the face of a friend, It was the black .countenance of an aboriginal, for we had many visitors of the native race in tho&e early days of the diggings," . .My friend paused here,, and I saw that he was greatly overcome, for he bent his face to his hands, As for the strange gentleman,: I could almost have declared that the deep eyes, still bent upon my friend John,, were glittering with moisture, ' , "I loved him so,!' my poor friend wenton,. and rejoiced so much in his accomplished future that the blow fell upon me. heavily. In, the.early morping Ned went out, as;l, knew, to get his gold, for he had told me, : "' l l will tell you now, old fellow,' lie orietl, and there was such a happiness irradiating i his handsome young face as I have never forgotten, ' For I am going to get it, I have buried the gold under .the. big boulder, John, If you had known you would not have 1 slept well,. You would have been fancying that I might have been watched, and all sorts of nonsense; but I took care, No one knows of my plant, unless it be one or two of the whipsnakes that sun themselves on the old rock, or a cockatoo that I once saw watching me from the branch of an old gum-tree 1 •' : "He slapped me on the shoulder as he

iWentotlt,' my darling brother/ anil had seen. , his Moo for the last time']" .' '-'Here poor JoKn? liid; tis- faoe' again, f,«id, could not continue for some seconds, when he raised his head and went on, , ,;.''.ThereisUttlemoreJnpw-Ned did not return. The conveyance" all my preparations weremade, but my young brother did not come, I waited a little, for lthought hisplant might be more diffibult to unearth than I expected; and, besides, I did iot warl to lei'the friends' who w'ere'waiting 'to''see lis off know.in'what a strarig'e place my brother had hidden his'gold; biitafclast I mounted the rise behind where* we sit; J and foundth6;rock known as the big boulder: I' did not' find 'Golden ; Ned;' but I' found ,out all I ever: saw of hitti since;" and my friend paused again. '' /" What 'diiyptt' find ?"■ the strange'gentleman asked insri eager voice. 1 "t found 'a pool of'almost warmblood; l and many tufts of bright- Hair that I knew was my brother's'. I also found a tomahawk: stained with blood;and - thetomahawk'was recognised by the''men'who rushed to, my wild summons as one seen on .the previous day in the'pdssessionoftheVery blabkfellow i whose face hid' made so deep an impression : on'me'inthokd," ■' ' • ■■;'■' V' ■■

" And you'saw or' heard; no more of your Golden Ned?" The question was again the stranger's. i ' "No, there was a rooted h6lo under the rook, but'the gold waa gone,' andwS traced the''blood 1 all the way dowii to the deep, I waterhole. We 'dragged the hiile foi days'; 1 and older residents told us that- we might 1 know 'twere in vain; sincenri'th'e cievices -of' that far down rocky bbt'tbh a' dozen bodies might be secure from the grip of the grappling iron; yet we hadho doubt that'ourlw lay there, that he had been watched ; by 'the treacherous 1 black, 1 and' niurderfcd' for Hi s! gold," • - i; '■" !j " Cotrie;" siid my poor friend when he'had finished- his sad tale, 1 ' 1 come and see the! spot where''my'^oprWothbr' w(iS"this l itiuliy rdbbed of hia 'pteciolia yoiiiig life ;" arid lie 1 rose to hiYfe'et, followed By by the 1 stranger and myself;' We rcaiched', the ■ crest of the riae, 1 arid tin>the ; other neared'a hu£e' bouldet of'granite; whose-thickly-stttdddd' i specks ! of mica,'scintillated'like diamonds |n ; the 'midnight, and againsfc'whtae'grey sides' the leaves of'an old drooping box-tree rustled 1 sadly, The grass was long in the Shadow if 1 thisTo'ck ; and having'heard the sad story,' the stone seemed to me as a hujje inonumeiit marking the spot of a grave; 1 ■ "• 1:! j " There' the gold was buried j there lay the pool of blood; and' there & the waterhole down below in whose cold, dark depths lie tlio bonea of my murdered brother Ned j'" and wheil he hitd spoken John leaned his arm against the'rook, and laid' his face - civ his arm. ' ' ' "' ; ' I. | ! What could I say or do to comfort so great a sorrow as this? I was always a helpless man under such circumstances," and tile strange gentleman was before rae ; for whAt could he mean by placing his hand on my friend's broad 1 shoulder, except to attemptja comfort in which iny awkward tongue would surely have failed ? But I thought I wis dreaming when I heard from that strangers lips the single word he first uttered, and with such an intonation of the deepest afifebtion as might have' issued from a loving woman's lips. J "Johnl" it was ho said, "John, look up." ' ■ , • • I ■

My friend started, and 'as his tear-damp fade was turned toward the stranger'his arm fell from the rook. The gentleniah had removed his hat,- aud a soft sweet smile Beemed to change the whole expression of his countenance, "Do you not know me; John? It is twenty years truly, but you will 'know m!e yet, John, of that I am sure," • "Is it; good and merciful God !■ is it my brother Ned ?" he cried, i • ■' " "It- ia indeed your brother Ned, my Joliti, and all so unworthy of so faithful a-loveds' yoursand the brothers were.' clasped irfstantly in each other's arms, I went back to the camping place, feeling such a choking in my throat I had never felt before, ' .j • The brpthers returned: in-, about half-an-hour, and-'the mistake was' explained to me by " Golden Ned" himself, ivhile theiiappy' John busied himself in saddling the horses, only stopping nOw aid then to look at his loving btother, and assure himself he was not dreaming, This was how the mistaken impression;of.Ned's death was left.on the Bald Hill diggings. , , " I went up to unearth my gold, as .John hastoldyou," hesaid, "and as I was removing the soil a slight sound startled me, as any slight .sound will startle the man who' digs for .buried treasures, Turning round quickly I had just time to bound to my feet and grapple with the blackfellow that was alt my baok with ai uplifted tomahawk in his right hand, . ' The natives are not• a dl■ race df men, and I was a scientific wrestler and pugilist ; in less time than I take in telling you of it I had dashed him to the ground, and in falling, his head struck so violently against the rook' that lie-lay as a dead man on thij ground, and I saw-the blood pouring from a great gash near his temple-it was the -black man's blood my brother saw, and concluded to be mine.

"I thought I had. killed the man, and )a horror indescribable came over me; T knew that there were & goodly, number of natives' camped in the neighborhood, and I dreaded their revenge on tne white man, should .tliey discover what' I had done, 'but more by'far I dreaded the dark future that lay before me' with the death of a human being lying heavy on my heart, '

"It was on the impulse of the moment 1 that I gathered up,my gold and'fled, after throwing the black's body into the pool, I fell iu with a conveyance as soon as I reached the main road, and in forty-eight hours I was' a passenger by the ship Balmain for London, I wrote to John, direoting to the General Post Office, Melbourne, but'it seems he' never called there; believing me dead.'--"I need not say much more, my friend Jansen, I told my Anna all the story, and we were wed with the consent of all (for was I not rich f) and then l came here to 100k 1 for my brother John, who had never written a line home since I had parted from him," " How could I Write to break our mother'shearfc with tidings of her darling's cruel death ?" John interrupted, ' "I know'now,"-:'continued Ned, "and I could hear no tidings of'you, my brother; the result was, however, that I purchased property here, and to-night you will rest at Golden Station, and see my dear wife and happy children. See, the sun gets low. Let us mount and'go ; may God bless you, John, for- your faithful remembrance of your Ned 1 Here, on the spot where wo-parted,. give me your hand j.'.fte ■ tvill now part no more until one of'us is ferried over the dark river,' 1 and the brothers clasped hands with that grasp that speaks from heart to heart. The farms on the Campaspe were sold, and my friend'Johti and I have takeii land from. "Golden Ned," I havenohomestead'onmy •land; 'for -my home is- at John's, orat his brother's, and I am as perfectly: happy as a mere mortal may hope to be. •I do not miss the children I have never- had, for John's children are mine, and I know I am beloved far.mor'e than my deserts.- Such is my story of . "Golden Ned,"—The Herald, Melbourne,