Through Toil and Tribulation

by Guy Boothby

Through Toil and Tribulation

By Guy Boothby

What matters the sand or the whitening chalk,
The blighted herbage, the black'ning log,
The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,
Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?
That couch was rugged, those sextons rude,
Yet in spite of a leaden shroud we know
That the bravest and fairest are earthworms' food,
When they once have gone where we all must go.

We tarry yet, we are toiling still;
He is gone and he fares the best;
He fought against odds, he struggled up hill,
He has fairly earned his season of rest.
No tears are needed—fill out the wine,
Let the goblets clash and the grape juice flow.
Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine,
To a brave man gone where we all must go.

Adam Landsay Gordon.

I AM deeply desirous of inflicting pain on one person. If Barbara Grant Hinton is above ground, I pray of her to read this story and hate me the more for it.

I am perfectly aware that ninety-nine people out of every hundred will call me mad for attempting to hold a girl in England responsible for a lonely grave in the great desert of Australia, yet in spite of their opposition I contend that I am right. Judge therefore between us.

It was a bright gusty morning in February on which Dr. Godfrey Halkett saw Miss Hinton for the first time, and they met on the stairs of Hooker's Building, Little Primble Street, Birmingham. The one was on professional business, the other district-visiting.

Now Hooker's Building is a common lodging-house of the worst type, and Little Primble Street is unsavoury both in a moral and a sanitary sense. On reaching the sunshine on the third floor. Dr. Halkett saw that her eyes were large and gray, and that she had a pathetic trick of lifting them. So he said she was beautiful, and likened her illogically to St. Cecilia. She wore a neat tailor-made frock with a long boa of soft fur, and as she walked her bangles jingled musically.

Her poor were ungrateful; they could not appreciate frocks and gold bangles in other people; they wanted money and coals and a few more insignificant trifles of that kind.

Halkett's admiration grew, and it was unique in every way. She was comparatively rich, he was desperately poor, and, though the future in Harley Street was definitely arranged, in the present he had to content himself with two rooms over a pastrycook's shop in Bath Row. He was often very miserable, for poor folk are not lucrative patients, and board and lodging accounts nave to be paid regularly.

Then he fell in love and forgot all such minor matters.

After they had met half-a-dozen times, Miss Hinton wrote him a delicately-scented little note, inviting him in her mother's name to dinner. He furbished up his threadbare dress-suit and went.

During the evening she sang some pathetic German folk-songs, and he listened with his heart in his mouth, for he was passionately fond of music. He said her voice reminded him of his dead mother's, and her kindness completed the conquest her singing had begun.

He walked home, with the world in his watch-pocket, to the music of clarions and hautboys, and fell asleep with the refrain of her last song running in his ears:—

Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low.
And the flickering shadows softly come and go.
Though the heart be weary, sad the way and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song.

The week following she arranged a tea-meeting in the parish school-room on behalf of her mother's clothing club, and consulted him religiously on every item of the programme. He could not be expected to understand how dangerous she really was—his eyes warped his judgment.

They were to sing "I would that my love" together, and, after two rehearsals, he began to grasp what heaven really meant. The tea-meeting and concert were tremendous successes, and when young Dr. Halkett and "our" Miss Barbara finished their duet the applause was deafening.

The doctor made a pretty little speech at the end of the programme, attributing all the success of the entertainment to Miss Hinton.

At the churchyard gate, and just as the moon was peeping over the house-tops, Godfrey Halkett asked the girl if she would be his wife. She cried on his shoulder and timidly whispered "Yes!"

He asked if she would wait three years for him? She said she would wait a hundred! Next day he spent ten pounds out of his savings on a ring, and she gave him a gold locket, containing her photograph, in exchange.

The first month of their engagement was pure unalloyed bliss; then Halkett announced his intention of going to Australia, where there was more scope for a young man. She cried for two days after his decision was made public, and made him promise over and over again to be true to her, vowing that whatever happened she would follow him in three years.

He sailed in the Currajong from Tilbury, and Barbara and her mother went down to see him off.

It was a thick, drizzly, miserable day in May, and they were all very unhappy—his fiancée in particular. She brought all sorts of little knick-knacks to hang in his cabin, and cried incessantly as she put them up.

Then the bell sounded for friends to leave the ship, and they said good-bye behind the smoke-stack, Halkett watched the tender drop astern with tears streaming down his face.

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

On arrival in Adelaide he set to work. It was an uphill fight, but he was in love, and certain well-thumbed letters helped him to persevere. The gold on the locket round is neck began to tarnish, but little he cared for that—he said it was a sign of constancy.

At the end of the first year he was able to report that his prospects bad improved. Because he was so much in love he could not see that his sweetheart's letters had lost something of their old ring.

At the end of the second year, by dint of denying himself every luxury and putting by every halfpenny he could scrape together, he was able to purchase a small practice.

At the end of the third, and when he was doing well enough to risk matrimony, he received a letter announcing Mrs. Hinton's death.

Any other man would have found in this the direct hand of Providence, but he was differently constituted. Cabling his sympathies, he implored Barbara to come to him, and she replied announcing her departure.

No one will ever know how he struggled through the next six weeks. For my own part I believe he was mad. He sang the girl's praises all day long, and bored everyone with her photograph, saying, "That's the woman who waited three years for me. God bless her!"

Because she loved flowers he rented a charming house on North Terrace, overlooking the Botanical Gardens. He was able to afford a nice pair of greys and a victoria, so purchased them with a view to her comfort. He never thought of himself; everything was for her.

Then the Cuzco was signalled from Cape Borda, and he asked me to go down with him to meet her. I went against my better judgment.

Towards midday she steamed up to the anchorage, and we went off. I shall never forget that launch trip if I live to be a hundred. Halkett was thoroughly off his head. He laughed hysterically, he trembled, he did everything but behave like a rational being. When we got alongside he dashed up the gangway without waiting for me, so I let him gang his ain gait and made for the smoking-room.

Five minutes later someone clutched me by the arm. It was Halkett; his face was the colour of dirty zinc, his lips were bloodless, his eyes glared horribly.

"Good heavens, man!" I cried, "what on earth's the matter?"

"Come away," he answered, "come away from this accursed ship! Oh, man, man, take me away before I do something desperate!"

The ship's doctor and myself saw him down the gangway to the launch, and we steamed ashore.

I got him to the Pier Hotel, where he drank brandy enough to kill two men, and then said—

"I suppose your curiosity's at work?"

It was, but I didn't say so. I proposed a game of billiards instead.

"Confound your billiards!" he cried. "She's thrown me over, old man, thrown me over for a titled fop she's met on board. Ha, ha! isn't it funny? Isn't it good? And Jacob served seven years for Rachel and they seemed but a few days—but a few days, mark you, for he loved her. Do you understand me? You, there? For he loved her—ha, ha!—he loved her after working seven years for her—and she didn't jilt him."

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

I quote from the diary of a famous explorer:—

Friday, December 29th. Lat. —. Long. —.

Broke camp at daybreak. The black boy, Rocca, missing. Waited three hours, but no sign; must push on. Our party now reduced to Halkett, Berkley, Wiora and myself. All very hopeless. Still the awful desert, interminable sand, spinifex and blue sky. Not a vestige of herbage, or sign of water. Four days since we filled the leather water-bags, and now there is only one left. Heat at midday, 140°. Country very sparsely timbered with myall, casuarinas and white gums. Always spinifex.

Berkley very weak. Dr. Halkett anxious. The latter's tenderness is more than womanly. Camped at sundown—15 miles done. All very footsore.

Saturday, December 30th. Lat. —. Long. —.

Poor Berkley died an hour before dawn—unconscious for the last two hours—general weakness and failing powers. Another victim of this awful desert. Buried him m a sand-hill. God rest his soul! Broke camp at midday; water reduced to four pints, no sign of more. A few crows following us. Wiora knocked up; had to abandon him, poor fellow!

Sunday, December 31st Lat. —. Long. —.

New Year's Eve. God help us, we are in a piteous plight! Still the same sandy plains on all sides, the burning sun above and red-hot sand beneath. Only two pints of water left, and then—— Halkett still the same kind soul; the man's pluck is nothing short of marvellous. He told me his trouble to-day. What a place for confidences! At midday agreed to separate in search of water. Halkett goes north-west and I continue on in our present direction. Wonder if we are destined to meet again? A sad, sad New Year's Eve!

Monday, January 1st 18—. New Year's Day, Lat. —. Long. —.

Water at last. Thank God for all His mercies! The rescue party under the command of Whitmore found me before nine o'clock. They have been on our tracks since Saturday.

After filling the water-bags, we set out to find Halkett. We followed his tracks north-west and at nightfall came upon him lying beside a dry rock-hole and beneath a spreading Leichardt tree—he was unconscious. We did our best to revive him and ultimately succeeded. But he was a dying man and wandered in his talk, imagining himself at home.

Poor fellow!—poor Halkett!—the bravest, the most patient of our party!

Looking up at the stars, with his right hand clasping a locket he always wore, he whispered—

"Poor little Barbara, I wonder if she remembers!"

I tried to comfort him, but it was not needed. He seemed quite resigned, and only asked me to sing a song, a little ballad of which we were both very fond. It is well known, and the refrain runs

Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows softly come and go.
Though the heart be weary, sad the way and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song.

As I finished he said softly—

"It will soon be over now." A few moments later—"God bless you, dear old friend! Good-bye!"

He was silent for nearly five minutes, and then, with a little sigh, he said—

"Though the heart be weary—weary, Barbara; very—very—weary!"

He was dead!