Harry Heathcote of Gangoil

a man of good presence, dark, and tall like Heathcote, but stoutly made, with a strongly marked face, given to frowning much when he was eager; bright-eyed, with a broad forehead⁠—certainly a man to be observed as far as his appearance was concerned. He was dressed much as a gentleman dresses in the country at home, and was therefore accounted to be a fop by Harry Heathcote, who was rarely seen abroad in other garb than that which has been described. Harry was an aristocrat, and hated such innovations in the bush as cloth coats and tweed trousers and neck-handkerchiefs.

Medlicot had been full of wrath against his neighbour all the morning. There had been a tone in Heathcote’s voice when he gave his parting warning as to the fire in Medlicot’s pipe which the sugar grower had felt to be intentionally insolent. Nothing had been said which could be openly resented, but offense had surely been intended; and then he had remembered that his mother had been already some months at the mill, and that no mark of neighbourly courtesy had been shown to her. The Heathcotes had, he thought, chosen to assume themselves to be superior to him and his, and to treat him as though he had been some labouring man who had saved money enough to purchase a bit of land for himself. He was, therefore, astonished to find the two young ladies sitting with his mother on the very day after such an interview as that of the preceding night.

“The leddies from Gangoil, Giles, have been guid enough to ride over and see me,” said his mother.

Medlicot, of course, shook hands with them, and expressed his sense of their kindness, but he did it awkwardly. He soon, however, declared his purpose of riding part of the way back with them.

“Mr. Heathcote must have been very wet last night,” he said, when they were on horseback, addressing himself to Kate Daly rather than to her sister.

“Indeed he was⁠—wet to the skin; were you not?”

“I saw him at about eleven, before the rain began. I was close home, and just escaped. He must have been under it all. Does he often go about the run in that way at night?”

“Only when he’s afraid of fires,” said Kate.

“Is there much to be afraid of? I don’t suppose that anybody can be so wicked as to wish to burn the grass.”

Then the ladies took upon themselves to explain. “The fires might be caused from negligence or trifling accidents, or might possibly come from the unaided heat of the sun; or there might be enemies.”

“My word, yes; enemies, rather!” said Jacko, who was riding close behind, and who had no idea of being kept out of the conversation merely because he was a servant.

Medlicot, turning round, looked at the lad, and asked who were the enemies.

“Free-selectors,” said Jacko.

“I’m a free-selector,” said Medlicot.

“Did not jist mean you,” said Jacko.

“Jacko, you’d better hold your tongue,” said Mrs. Heathcote.

“Hold my tongue! My word! Well, you go on.”

Medlicot came as far as the wool-shed, and then said that he would return. He had thoroughly enjoyed his ride. Kate Daly was bright and pretty and winning; and in the bush, when a man has not seen a lady perhaps for months, brightness and prettiness and winning ways have a double charm. To ride with fair women over turf, through a forest⁠—with a woman who may perhaps some day be wooed⁠—can be a matter of indifference only to a very lethargic man. Giles Medlicot was by no means lethargic. He owned to himself that though Heathcote was a pigheaded ass, the ladies were very nice, and he thought that the pigheaded ass in choosing one of them for himself had by no means taken the nicest.

“You’ll never find your way back,” said Kate, “if you’ve not been here before.”

“I never was here before, and I suppose I must find my way back.”

Then he was urged to come on and dine at Gangoil, with a promise that Jacko should return with him in the evening. But this he would not do. Heathcote was a pigheaded ass, who possibly regarded him as an incendiary simply because he had bought some land. This boy of Heathcote’s, whose services had been offered to him, had not scrupled to tell him to his face that he was to be regarded as an enemy. Much as he liked the company of Kate Daly, he could not go to the house of that stupid, arrogant, pigheaded young squatter.

“I’m not such a bad bushman but what I can find my way to the river,” he said.

“Find it blindful!” said Jacko, who did not relish the idea of going back to Medlicot’s Mill as guide to another man. There was a weakness in the idea that such aid could be necessary, which was revolting to Jacko’s sense of bush independence.

They were standing on their horses at the entrance to the wool-shed as they discussed the point, when suddenly Harry himself appeared out of the building. He came up and shook hands with Medlicot, with sufficient courtesy, but hardly with cordiality, and then asked his wife as to her ride.

“We have been very jolly, haven’t we, Kate? Of course it has been hot, but everything is not so frightfully parched as it was before the rain. As Mr. Medlicot has come back so far with us, we want him to come on and dine.”

“Pray do, Mr. Medlicot,” said Harry. But again the tone of his voice was not sufficiently hearty to satisfy the man who was invited.

“Thanks, no: I think I’ll hardly do that.⁠—Good night, Mrs. Heathcote; good night. Miss Daly;” and the two ladies immediately perceived that his voice, which had hitherto been pleasant in their ears, had ceased to be cordial.

“I am very glad he has gone back,” said Heathcote.

“Why do you say so, Harry? You are not given to be inhospitable, and why should you grudge me and Kate the rare pleasure of seeing