CHAPTER IV.
AMY'S NEW HOME.
"I am afraid, Miss," said Tom Cross, for the voice was his, "that there are some of your boxes broke in the fall. Allan went off this morning early to fetch them here, and he says he is afraid there is some mischief done. You had better look and see, because if there is any little accident, Allan, who is the cleverest fellow with his hands of any one in the colony that has not been bred to the trade, will mend it for you. He has got a workshop and a forge, and many a pound he's saved his father and his neighhours too." Tom thought that unpacking and examining her boxes would give the poor girl something to do, and something think of besides her irreparable loss.
"What is the use of unpacking my things, when I do not know where I am to go or what I am to do? Oh I dear, dear papa, what is to become of me?"
"You may stop with us, and welcome," said Mrs. Lindsay, "till ye can hear from your friends, or for all your life, if it would be agreeable to yoursel'."
"If I had only been a little older," said Amy, "I might have been of some use. I could have done something, but I can do nothing."
"Oh, but you can learn," said Mrs. Lindsay. "Rome was not built in a day. No doubt in time you may come to be as handy as our Jessie."
Amy looked at the large, pleasant young woman of twenty-three, who, with an apron on, and her sleeves tucked up to her elbows, was busily engaged in making up bread—thing too important to be trusted to Judy—with her fair hair tanned and her comely features freckled by exposure to all sorts of weathers under an Australian sun, and she wondered if she ever could by Mrs. Lindsay's training grow to resemble her. It was so different a prospect from all that the author's daughter had thought of becoming, that what was meant for encouragement only saddened her. What would her papa have thought of her being domesticated with such a household
Allan had more observation than his mother, and understood more of Amy's feelings. He led her out of the house to have a look at the weather, which had changed from extreme heat to cold. A heavy shower or two had fallen through the night, and though it had not much effect in refreshing the pastures, the garden looked revived, and he took her through it.
"If anything ever vexes or troubles me," said he, "I always get best out of it when I am out of doors, and on horseback, so you must get Phemie's riding-skirt, and I'll mount you on Brownie, and show you the country. I don't know how it may look to your travelled eyes, but I think it a very fine country hereabouts."
"Yes, I like it very well. Dear papa said yesterday that every mile after we left the township brought us into prettier scenery, but—but—but—" and here the poor weary heart broke out afresh, "what is scenery to me now?"
"I wanted to ask you if you would like your poor father to be laid here;" said Allan. "It is thirty miles to the nearest churchyard, and that is a strange place to you. And if he was laid beside our poor Patrick, under that sheaoak and the three willows, this place would seem more like home to you. But it's for you to choose. We will do just as you like."
"Then I think I would like him to rest here, for it is not so much like taking him from me."
"But is there really nothing better for you to do than to stop with us, where we would make you welcome and do for you all that we can? But have you no friends?"
"No friends that care about me at all, and no money to take me to them if I had them," said Amy. "But I was going to learn; papa meant to train me to be a governess, so that I could make my own living; that is, after he found he was not strong, and I was getting on nicely; all the voyage out I read and studied with him every day; for he said he might not have so much time to give me afterwards; but it is all at an end now."
"You have been a good schools, I suppose," said Allan.
"No, very little at school. Mamma taught me while she was able, and then papa gave me lessons but I am only thirteen, and so little; no one would think I could teach till I grow bigger, and have forgotten half of what I have learned."
"You are only thirteen, and I suppose you know hundreds of things that I don't?" said Allan, "and I am nearly twenty, too old to go to school, and that is worse than being too young, for that gets better every day."
"Do your father and mother really offer to keep me here altogether " said Amy, doubtfully.
"Yes, really, and only too glad if you will accept the offer. Mrs. Hammond ought to have done it. It is the meanest and coldest thing I ever heard of a lady doing, to throw off he care of you, as she did, but never doubt your welcome at Branxholm."
"I is very good of your father and mother, it is very good of you, but—"
"I know it quite well," interrupted Allan, "our living is too rough; we are not fit people to associate with such a little lady as you are. Perhaps my father and mother are too old to change their ways, but for the rest of us, if you see anything that vexes or annoys you, just tell us. We would do better if we only knew how. And what you cannot amend, you must try to put up with."
"I will try," said Amy, "for you are all very good. Then I may unpack my things and see what is broken? for I am pretty sure there is something wrong. And as for the large case of books that was left in Adelaide to be fetched out by Mr. Hammond's drays, will you give them room here? Some of the books might be useful to you."
"I don' think you know how ignorant I am," said Allan blushing. "I mean of books. I am afraid that your books would be too far on for me."
"Oh I surely not," said Amy, "you could teach yourself a great deal if you would take the trouble, and perhaps I could "—and she hesitated.
"Could you teach me?" said the young man, eagerly. "You cannot think how anxious I am to learn, but my father could no spare me, and with poor Patrick dying so young, I was doubly needed to help him. You don't think I am too old to begin at the beginning? I can read, of course, and write a little, but I am afraid that is about all I can do."
Allan did not speak or behave in any way like an uneducated man, such a one is seen in England. He had been educated by circumstances, and had naturally first-rate abilities, so that Amy was surprised a such a frank confession of ignorance.
"I am afraid I am only fit to help one who begins at the beginning," said she, "and if you will do your best to learn I will do all I can for you. I should be so happy if I thought I was of some use to anybody in he house. Then I may unpack my boxes and see if it is dear papa's desk that is broken?"
On looking into the trunk Amy discovered that the old desk was uninjured, but that her work-box had come off is hinges. "I know I did no pack things well, but I had no idea of the roads, and every thing seem out of place. Can you mend this?" and she brought the workbox to Allan.
He wondered at the exceedingly handsome though not new workbox: It was of rosewood beautifully inlaid and most thoroughly finished. In the centre was a silver name-plate with the initials E. D. curiously interwoven and surmounted by a small coronet.
"This is a splendid piece of workmanship," said Allan, "only the screws of the hinges have never been strong enough. I can mend it easily if I can get small enough screws, and I think I have some; if not, I will send to Adelaide for them. I hope this handsome box will stand the climate; it is very severe on such things."
"It has been to Madeira and back already," said Amy. "It was mamma's, and I love it for her sake."
"Then I must take great pains with it. Would you mind coming into my workshop with me to see if I have screws that will suit?" said Allan, who knew that Dr. Burton had arrived, and who wished to keep Amy a short time longer out of the chamber of death. "You look like a city girl; I suppose you never saw anything like this before. Here is my forge and anvil, and the bellows I made myself; not very handsome, but they answer the purpose—they get up the heat. And here is my carpenter's bench and tools; I am going to get a turning lathe, for it is a capital thing for many purposes. It is very useful to be able to shoe the horses, and do rough carpentering when we are so far from any township."
"I never saw anything at all like this," said Amy, looking with interest on the rough shed, which Allan had put up with his own hands, and which was hung round with old horseshoes and odd apparently useless pieces of iron, and piled up at one end with timber of various shapes and sizes.
"I dare say it looks very confused to you, but I could put my hand on anything that is here in the dark. 0h! here are the screws, I think hey will do. But you would see nothing like this in London, and that was your home always I suppose."
"I was born in London, and except for the voyage to Madeira and back again, and the voyage to Melbourne, and after that to Adelaide, I have never been out of London Oh! by-the-bye, we went to the seaside when the children were ill, and with mamma, too."
"But had you no country cousins, or uncles, or aunts, or grandparents, to visit," said Allan, who could not understand the fact of a person having no relatives, near or distant.
"No?" said Amy with a sigh; "you see mamma married twice, and all her friends were so displeased at her marrying papa, that they never spoke to her again. They took away her children from her, so that I never saw my brother and sister."
"You have a brother and sister, then," said Allan eagerly. "If they only knew you they would be glad to take care of you now that your poor father is gone. Blood is thicker than water, as we Scotch folk say."
"No," said Amy, "I don't think that they would. Papa wrote to them that mamma was ill, and then afterwards that mamma was dead, and they took no notice of the letter—not the slightest notice. I cannot write to them. I cannot ask anything from them. I would rather stay with you and your father and mother, who speak so kindly to me. Oh! I so often dream of that brother and sister, and try to make them like me and to be sorry about dear mamma, but it always fails—it always fails. Never even in my dreams have they given me a kind word. But don't speak about this to anybody. I tell you now because I cannot help it, and because my heart is full—too full," and the girl leaned on Allan's bench and wept.
The inquest resulted in a verdict of " Accidental death" Gerald Staunton was buried at the end of Hugh Lindsay's garden, and Amy settled herself as an inmate of that plain but hospitable home, and matters improved so much at Branxholm afar her arrival, and Amy became such a favourite with every one, that all the people of the district could never leave off wondering a Mrs. Hammond's extraordinary conduct and extraordinary blunder.