Recollections of Geoffrey Hamlyn | Page 4

so, though it
don't much matter; I only know it was near the latter end of summer,
burning hot, with the bushfires raging like volcanoes on the ranges, and
the river reduced to a slender stream of water, almost lost upon the
broad white flats of quartz shingle. It was the end of February, I said,
when Major Buckley, Captain Brentwood (formerly of the Artillery),
and I, Geoffry Hamlyn, sat together over our wine in the veranda at
Baroona, gazing sleepily on the grey plains that rolled away east and
north-east towards the sea.
We had sat silent for some time, too lazy to speak, almost to think. The
beautiful flower-garden which lay before us, sloping towards the river,
looked rather brown and sere, after the hot winds, although the
orange-trees were still green enough, and vast clusters of purple grapes
were ripening rapidly among the yellowing vine-leaves. On the whole,
however, the garden was but a poor subject of contemplation for one
who remembered it in all its full November beauty, and so my eye
travelled away to the left, to a broad paddock of yellow grass which
bounded the garden on that side, and there I watched an old horse
feeding.
A very old horse indeed, a horse which seemed to have reached the
utmost bounds of equine existence. And yet such a beautiful beast.
Even as I looked some wild young colts were let out of the stockyard,
and came galloping and whinnying towards him, and then it was a sight
to see the old fellow as he trotted towards them, with his nose in the air,
and his tail arched, throwing his legs out before him with the ease and
grace of a four-year-old, and making me regret that he wasn't my
property and ten years younger;--altogether, even then, one of the finest
horses of his class I had ever seen, and suddenly a thought came over
me, and I grew animated.
"Major Buckley," I said, "what horse is that?"
"What horse is that?" repeated the major very slowly. "Why, my good
fellow, old Widderin, to be sure."
"Bless me!" I said; "You don't mean to say that that old horse is alive
still?"
"He looks like it," said the major. "He'd carry you a mile or two, yet."

"I thought he had died while I was in England," I said. "Ah, major, that
horse's history would be worth writing."
"If you began," answered the major, "to write the history of the horse,
you must write also the history of every body who was concerned in
those circumstances which caused Sam to take a certain famous ride
upon him. And you would find that the history of the horse would be
reduced into very small compass, and that the rest of your book would
assume proportions too vast for the human intellect to grasp."
"How so?" I said.
He entered into certain details, which I will not give. "You would
have," he said, "to begin at the end of the last century, and bring one
gradually on to the present time. Good heavens! just consider."
"I think you exaggerate," I said.
"Not at all," he answered. "You must begin the histories of the Buckley
and Thornton families in the last generation. The Brentwoods also,
must not be omitted,--why there's work for several years. What do you
say, Brentwood?"
"The work of a life-time;" said the captain.
"But suppose I were to write a simple narrative of the principal events
in the histories of the three families, which no one is more able to do
than myself, seeing that nothing important has ever happened without
my hearing of it,--how, I say, would you like that?"
"If it amused you to write it, I am sure it would amuse us to read it,"
said the major.
"But you are rather old to turn author," said Captain Brentwood; "you'll
make a failure of it; in fact, you'll never get through with it."
I replied not, but went into my bedroom, and returning with a thick roll
of papers threw it on the floor--as on the stage the honest notary throws
down the long-lost will,--and there I stood for a moment with my arms
folded, eyeing Brentwood triumphantly.
"It is already done, captain," I said. "There it lies."
The captain lit a cigar, and said nothing; but the major said, "Good
gracious me! and when was this done?"
"Partly here, and partly in England. I propose to read it aloud to you, if
it will not bore you."
"A really excellent idea," said the major. "My dear!"--this last was
addressed to a figure which was now seen approaching us up a long

vista of trellised vines. A tall figure dressed in grey. The figure, one
could see as she came nearer, of